by Carsen Taite
Claire reached for the phone and looked at the screen as she spoke. “One from each murder scene. Tucked away in the pockets of the murdered women, like little tokens the killer wanted us to find.” Claire looked back up at her. “I answered you, now it’s your turn. Are they yours?”
Riley sank onto the couch. “Yes.” Her brain started churning, trying to process exactly what it meant that her sketches had shown up at murder scenes. Had she just made tea for the woman who was about to arrest her? She wanted to make a strong declaration, but instead she barely managed a whispered response. “I didn’t kill those women.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“We’ve had a squad car watching your house. You didn’t leave all day. Whoever killed the woman we found tonight did it a few hours ago, and I don’t have any doubt it’s the same person that killed the others.”
Riley set aside her anger about being watched for a second and focused on the big picture. “Then why are you here?”
“Because I had to know if you were the artist behind the sketches. Don’t you see? These killings are tied to you somehow.”
“Wait.” Riley struggled to follow, fighting sleepy brain and an already confusing mix of detail. “I thought you said you know I didn’t do it.”
“No, but someone did, and I’m thinking you have a clue even if you don’t know what it is. Did you give these sketches to someone?”
What Claire said made sense, but Riley didn’t have any ideas that might help. “I didn’t, but I did have a sketchbook go missing. I was looking for it last week. The gallery wanted some of my early sketches. I thought I’d misplaced the sketchbook, but it looks like whoever did this, has it.”
Claire nodded. “Try to remember the last time you had it. Was it here or maybe you left it somewhere when you were out drawing with the group?”
Riley tried to focus, but her mind was a jumbled mix of thoughts and feelings, not leaving much room for memories to surface. “I don’t remember.” A flash of a recollection surfaced. “No, wait. I did have it with me when we were at Old Red a month or so ago. Wait. Let me see your phone again.”
Claire handed it over and Riley stared at the images, drawings she’d sketched under a sunny Dallas sky, surrounded by friends. She flicked through the photos, stopping at the one of her drawing of Old Red, and a sick knot twisted her insides. She pointed at the screen. “This is the last sketch I drew in that sketchbook. I remember filling the pages and switching to another book that day. I stowed this one in my bag, but I don’t have any recollection of what I did with it after that. I went looking for it when I signed on with the Lofton Gallery, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“When were you at Old Red? Who else was there?”
“I can get the exact date. And I’m sure Buster has a list of who was there. He keeps track of that kind of stuff. Do you think someone else in the group took my notebook? But wouldn’t that mean…”
Claire shook her head. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. I’m just trying to cover all the bases. I’ll talk to Buster. It would be best if you didn’t tell anyone what I’ve told you.”
“Am I one of the bases?” Riley asked. “Or have you finally come to the conclusion I’m not a criminal?”
“I’m not going to lie. You’ve been a person of interest. Can you blame me? You were at or nearby the first two murder scenes. The victims had sketches on them. And…”
Riley waited a moment, but Claire didn’t finish her sentence, so she finished it for her. “And my father is a convicted murderer.”
“I’d be lying if I said his past didn’t factor into the equation.” Claire looked pained. “We’ve had a car parked at his place as well as yours.”
“And?”
“Have you talked to him today?”
Riley heard Morgan Bradley’s voice in her head, telling her not to talk to Claire, that all she cared about was making her case. She didn’t have anything to hide, but did Frank? She settled on asking a question of her own. “Why?”
Claire grimaced like she was trying to decide if she should answer, but Riley waited her out. Finally, Claire said, “He hasn’t been home for hours. If you know where he is you could provide him with an alibi.”
“Why would my father kill these women, and even if he did, why would he leave my drawings at the scene of a crime? It doesn’t make sense.” She watched Claire’s face for her reaction and was rewarded with a nod.
“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.” Claire picked up her teacup and took a deep drink. “None of this makes sense, but the more clues I can eliminate the better equipped I’ll be to find the truth. Part of my job is asking hard questions, but I get how invasive and annoying it can be. Hell, I was about to storm the Lofton when they reopen tomorrow and demand to see your work so I could tell if it matched the sketches we found.”
Riley took a moment to consider Claire’s words. She sounded perfectly reasonable, and her expression and tone were earnest and respectful. It was Claire’s job to find the truth, and Riley’s gut told her that was all Claire was trying to do. Maybe it was time to set aside her naturally suspicious thoughts and give Claire the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t know anything about where my father was today or pretty much any day. But when it comes to my work, there’s no need to storm the gallery. I would’ve shown it to you if you’d told me why you needed to see it.”
Claire’s face softened into a smile. “I know that’s right. I apologize for not being direct with you. I really would like to see your work, and not just because of this case.”
“Well, I’ll be at the gallery tomorrow going over some plans for the installation. Care to join me?”
“I’d love to,” Claire said without a moment’s hesitation. “Full disclosure, I’ll be looking for clues. There’s clearly some connection between your sketches and the killer’s choice of locations to dump the bodies.”
“The murders are taking place somewhere else then?” Riley asked. She wasn’t sure why it mattered to her, but now that she was close to this case, she wanted to know every detail.
“It’s not entirely clear yet. But back to your sketches. I don’t suppose you remember what else was in the missing sketchbook.”
“I don’t.” In response to Claire’s look of disappointment, Riley added, “But I could review our meet-up schedule for the past few months and get pretty close. I’ll bring a list when I meet you at the gallery tomorrow.”
“That would be great.” Claire stood. “What time should I meet you there?”
Riley cursed her clumsy wording that had apparently given Claire the impression it was time for her to go. Setting aside the reason for Claire’s visit, she’d enjoyed Claire’s company and wished they were two people having tea, discussing their days without a murder in the mix. She wanted to extend an invitation to stay, but Claire was working and no matter how much she’d allowed herself to lapse into a feeling of comfort, this visit had been professional, not personal. “The gallery opens at noon. Let’s meet then.”
“That sounds perfect.” Claire met her eyes, and for a moment they were locked in a visual embrace, trepidatious and tender, neither seeming to want to let go. Riley held her breath, wondering what it meant and allowing hope to enter in.
Chapter Fifteen
Claire rolled over in bed and slapped the nightstand until she found her buzzing phone. Through barely open eyelids, she read the screen. Seven a.m. She supposed she should be grateful for the three hours of sleep she’d had, but it was too damn early to think of anything but coffee. She sat up in bed and opened the text that had roused her from her slumber. It was from Nick, who’d apparently been busy since she’d left him at the scene the night before.
Campus cops confirmed vic ID. Leah Tosca. Parents out of country. Have a call in to roommate. Interviews lined up with Warren and Jensen this morning. Want me to drive?
She typed back. Nice try. I’ll pick you up at 8:30.
Next up, coffee
. Claire ground the beans and measured enough scoops for her to be able to take an extra mug for Nick. The act reminded her of Riley making tea for them the night before, and she allowed herself a few moments of reflection. She’d shown up at Riley’s last night under the guise of performing her duty as a cop, but she could’ve asked Riley to come to the station to meet with her and Nick to look at the sketches, instead of showing up, late at night and unannounced. To her credit, she hadn’t lied to Nick about where she was going, but she had pulled rank and told him to stay at the scene and oversee the collection of evidence while she acted on impulses that were entirely unrelated to duty and fully focused on the opportunity to see Riley under better circumstances than the way they’d parted at Mia’s the last time they’d met.
On a personal level, she had no regrets. Riley had been more relaxed and open, and Claire hadn’t wanted to leave the easy comfort they’d managed to find after all their initial encounters had been full of agitation and acrimony. For a few moments, the ugliness that had brought them together faded away, and Claire imagined what life would be like if she had an intelligent and creative woman like Riley to come home to at the end of the day.
The coffee maker dinged, and she dismissed her dreamy thoughts. Riley wasn’t her girlfriend. Up until yesterday, she’d been a person of interest in a murder case, and but for these murders, they might have never met. The truth was harsh, and Claire wished it were different, but she had to keep her focus on this case and set aside anything that might distract her from her job.
An hour later, she pulled up to the curb outside of Nick’s house. She texted him to say she was waiting outside and took advantage of the wait to check her growing email inbox. When she heard a rap on the window, she looked up to see Nick’s wife, Cheryl, standing beside her car, and she motioned for her to open the door.
“Hi, Claire,” Cheryl said. “Nick had a wardrobe malfunction—he told me not to tell you that—but he’ll be right out.”
“Let me guess, he wound up wearing his breakfast.”
“Yes, but if you tell him I told you, I’ll deny it with my last breath.” Cheryl pointed into the car and, at Claire’s nod, slid into the passenger’s seat. “Actually, I came out because I wanted to invite you to dinner tonight. You two have been working round the clock and so have I. We all deserve to relax and share a good meal and a bottle of wine, don’t you think?”
The offer was tempting. Claire had been their guest several times before and the three of them always had a good time, sharing food and stories about their work in a mutual effort to burn off steam from their high stress jobs. “I’d love to, really, but this case is blowing up. We’ve got a full day, and I have a feeling we’re headed for double overtime.”
“Fine, we’ll skip the wine, but you’ve got to eat. If you want to, you can bounce ideas off me, but I haven’t seen Nick in a while, and if you’re working, he’s working. So, work here tonight, and do us both a favor.”
“I can’t argue with that logic,” Claire said.
“What logic is that?” Nick asked, appearing at the car window. “Claire, are you trying to steal my wife?”
“Caught me.” She held up her hands, wrists together. “Seriously, you better get in the car before I race off with her.”
Cheryl laughed and traded places with Nick, but before Claire could drive away, she said, “I’m holding you to your promise.”
“What was that all about?” Nick asked as Claire pulled away from the curb.
“Your wife just ordered us to a working dinner at your place tonight. There might be wine. Damn, I hope there’s wine.”
Nick sighed. “Resisting Cheryl is futile when she has her mind set on something.” He gave her the address for their first stop. “You learn anything else from Flynn last night?”
His referring to Riley by her last name only was jarring, like she was still a suspect instead of someone who might be able to assist their investigation. She’d texted Nick when she’d left Riley’s to let him know that Riley had confirmed the sketches were hers, but she hadn’t told him anything else about their conversation. Reviewing it in her head now, she realized there wasn’t much to tell. Telling Nick about her growing attraction for Riley was a no-go, and it didn’t have anything to do with the case. She did a mental run-through of everything they’d discussed. “I asked her about her father, who showed up at his place around midnight, by the way. She hasn’t had much contact with him since he was released.”
“And you believe her?”
His question didn’t have any tone, but it put Claire on the defensive, nonetheless. “I do. Besides, it doesn’t make sense that her father would kill these women and slip a sketch his daughter drew into their pockets,” she said, echoing Riley’s statement from last night. “What would be the point?”
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “But I’m not sure there’s a point to any of these killings.”
“There is, but we’re going to have to dig deeper to find it. Any news from Reyes about the dog hairs you snagged from Buster’s dog?”
“Darcy has been exonerated. The hairs don’t match. Buster did send over the list of all the locations for the Eastside Sketchers for the past six months along with which members were at each meet-up. Warren and Jensen were at all of them, along with Buster and Natalie. The other members were hit and miss.”
“Okay.” Claire wasn’t sure what conclusions to draw and decided to mull over the information for now, since they had arrived at Warren Spencer’s house in east Dallas, a modest ranch-style brick house with several large trees in the front yard. The trees reminded her of her promise to get a yard service over to her parents’ house, and she took a moment to send a quick text to a yard service while Nick reviewed his notes. “Tell me what you know about Mr. Spencer.”
“Not much. He’s a retired commercial architect. Does some consulting on the side. Buster said he happened upon their group one day and thought it would be cool to draw something other than building plans. He’s been joining their meet-ups for a few months.”
Claire made a mental note to ask Riley her own impression of Warren when she saw her later, and she realized the anticipation of seeing her again had her a bit distracted. “Why don’t you take the lead on this one,” she said.
“You got it.”
They walked to the door and Nick rang the bell. A couple of minutes later, a handsome older man answered the door. “Mr. Spencer?” At his nod, Nick introduced himself and Claire. “May we come in?”
“Of course, but please call me Warren.” Warren stepped back and ushered them in and led them into the living area. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything?”
“We’re good,” Nick said. “We just have a few questions.”
“About those girls, right. Buster said you’ve been talking to everyone.”
Claire ground her teeth at the word “girls,” but decided if she could forgive her father for the oversight, she could forgive this guy who looked to be about the same age. She listened while Nick went through the litany of questions they’d asked the other members of the Eastside Sketchers, growing bored when they got the same answers. Didn’t see anything unusual, didn’t notice anyone acting strangely, didn’t know jack. She distracted herself by looking around the room, her gaze settling on a grouping of framed photos on the end table a few feet away.
“That’s my daughter,” Warren said. “On her wedding day. Sixteen years ago.”
Claire experienced a twinge of embarrassment at having been caught spying—the being caught part—but she decided to go all in. She picked up the photo and stared at the wedding party. A handsome groom, a beautiful bride, flanked by Warren and another woman. Claire pointed at the photo. “Is this your wife?”
“Yes. She died earlier this year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. She had cancer and she was in a lot of pain. She’s with her other loved ones now.” Despite his assurances, his eyes welled up with tears.
; Claire nodded, hoping they could get out of there before she stepped in any other emotional landmines. Thankfully, Nick piped up to say they should get going. When they were back out in the car, he gave her a hard time. “Way to pick on the old man and make him cry.”
“I know. Couldn’t feel worse.” She drove to the end of the street. “That was a bust. Where are we headed next?”
Nick directed her to an address farther north, close to White Rock Lake. The apartment complex backed up to one of the parks close to the lake and provided easy access to pedestrian and cycling trails. They were on their way to the building when a cyclist rode up to them, stopped, and removed his helmet.
“Let me guess, you’re the detectives.” the cyclist said, running a hand through his thick, wavy dark hair.
Claire couldn’t help but return his infectious smile, and she stuck out her hand. “And here we thought we were the detectives. I’m Claire Hanlon and this is my partner, Nick Redding. And you must be Jensen Pierce.”
“I am.” He shook her hand and Nick’s. “Sorry, I’m late. I decided to get in a quick ride but blew a tire halfway through and had to borrow a tube to get back on the road.” He lifted his bike with one hand and pointed to the building with the other. “Let’s go inside.”
She and Nick followed him into a small studio apartment. Jensen placed his bike on the wall mount and hung his helmet on the handlebars.
“I’m having a protein shake. Can I get either of you anything?”
“We’re good,” Claire said. “We won’t keep you long. We just have a few questions.”
Jensen grimaced. “Buster said you’d be calling. Are you close to catching the crazy stalker who’s killing these women? Rumor has it the latest one goes to Richards.”