“You said the first thing you noticed about her was the tilt of her head?”
“Yes. Can I go now?”
“One more question: where were you last night until the wee hours this morning?”
His cheeks puffed and he blew out the air. “Last night, I had a beer with a friend, over at his place. In the wee hours I would have been sleeping next to my wife.”
Madison asked for his friend’s name and made a note of his alibi. But without anything substantive to hold him any longer, Madison had Terry show Erik out. Terry returned to the room.
“What are you thinking?” Terry asked.
“I think that she was placed in that chair after death, but not long after.”
“Based on?”
“Richards estimated that she had died likely between twelve and eighteen hours prior. She was in full rigor.”
“Right. It’s twelve hours to set, twelve in, and twelve to come out.”
“Rigor starts setting in between two to six hours after death. We found her at noon.”
“Okay. So, the time of death would be between six last night and midnight.”
“That’s quite the time span, but she was likely placed in the wheelchair within a couple hours of death…for her neck to settle forward,” Madison said.
“Richards will be able to confirm the position she died in with lividity.”
“We’re looking for someone who took that chair anytime from eight last night until two this morning.”
“Not that this helps us. A hospital is a somewhat public place, Maddy. People can come and go. Do you really think those nurses would notice someone leaving with the chair? They could just think they were taking it out to help someone from their car.”
She hated to admit that he had a point.
“What do you suggest for our next step?” Terry asked.
Her gaze caught the clock: 4:00 PM. “Call Erik’s friend, confirm what Erik told us. Then your next step will be to speak with the picketers.”
“Me? And what are you going to be doing?” He crossed his arms.
“I have an appointment.”
“But you’re in the middle of a case.”
His statement would normally make her think twice about leaving, but this time she waved a hand over her head on her way to the door. “Tell me how you make out.”
He mumbled something. She wasn’t going to let it deter her. When she was held captive by the Russians, she had also promised to take care of herself if she survived the whole ordeal. That included seeing a psychiatrist.
-
Chapter 6
ALL TERRY WANTED TO DO was go home to Annabelle. With the baby due any day, it was taking a lot out of her, rallying her fears to the forefront, reawakening the possibility that their son could be born with spina bifida. He did his best to placate her, telling her everything would be all right until he went hoarse. But it didn’t seem his words were getting through. She had this image in her mind of everything going sideways, and her viewpoint made him face the possible reality that their son wouldn’t be born healthy.
Terry wasn’t worried about changes to his own life. He was concerned with the quality of his son’s, the tribulations he’d undergo, the teasing he’d receive from other children. He’d never fit in, no matter how marvelous he was. His peers would see only his disability.
Every parent wanted to bring a child into the world and have them be loved by everyone. But, sadly, humanity hadn’t evolved to the level of accepting differences, despite the claims to the contrary. Instead of embracing uniqueness, those who were different were persecuted.
He parked at the curb. The scene had been cleared and the protesters had already moved in. There were six of them—four women and two men. They stopped jostling their signs when he walked toward them.
Badge held up, he said, “Stiles PD. I have some questions.”
A brunette came closer to him, distinguishing herself as the leader. “My name’s Janis. We stand in defense of saving lives.” She waved her sign up and down, antagonizing the rest to follow her lead.
They must have thought he was there to remove them from the city’s property. He could have shown them a photo of the dead woman, but he’d try things another way first. “Are you familiar with an older woman who protested here?”
The chanting stopped, and the rest of the crowd gathered closer behind Janis.
“Faye!” This came from a man standing in the back. He was well over six feet tall with a scrawny frame and greasy hair. He wore jean shorts and a white T-shirt with an image of a fetus encased in a heart. Above the graphic was CHOOSE LIFE.
“We all knew her,” Janis said.
Maybe he’d be home to Annabelle sooner than he thought. “Do you know her last name?”
Janis was shaking her head. “We are friends here for a shared purpose, but we don’t get into one another’s business.”
“Did Faye protest on a regular basis?” He remembered what the nurse had said but wanted to hear if Janis’s answer matched.
“She did, but we haven’t seen her in a while. We have talked about her and thought that maybe she had died. Wait a minute—” her gaze drifted to his badge “—something did happen to her, didn’t it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. A woman was found dead here this morning. Her identity still needs to be confirmed.” It was time to bring out the photograph. He extended it to Janis.
She hesitated, then took it and looked at the image. “Oh my God.” Her sign slipped to the ground. She covered her mouth and spun to face the group.
The guy with the printed T-shirt analyzed Terry, his gaze taking him in from his shoes to his eyes.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Terry asked.
The guy shook his head. “I’m just in shock.”
“What’s your name?”
“Craig.”
“Well, Craig, how well did you know Faye?”
Craig’s face scrunched up in disgust. “I don’t have a grandma fetish, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yet, it’s funny how you went right there.” No reaction. Terry’s implication soared right over the guy’s head. Craig wasn’t too bright.
Terry’s mind slipped to thoughts of his son again. His boy would be brilliant. God, he couldn’t wait to meet the little fella. Sometimes it was hard to reel in the emotions while eagerly anticipating his arrival into the world. He could already see him graduating high school, even college, and falling in love and getting married. His envisioning always stopped there. Beyond that, he and Annabelle would probably be in a nursing home having their diapers changed. Why was life such a circle?
He mentally shook himself back to the investigation. “Did family drop her off? Did she walk? Did she take public transportation?”
“She walked, I think.”
“She must not have lived too far away, then?” It was a reach. It was possible she took public transportation to one of the plazas across the street and walked from there.
“Not sure, but I think so.”
“Think so, what? She walked or lived close-by?” Terry asked to clarify.
“Both.”
Janis rejoined them. Her cheeks were stained with tears as she handed the photo back to Terry. “Faye walked. She loved getting fresh air. That’s what she said anyway.”
Terry nodded. “One more question. Do any of you know why Faye protested?”
Janis was chewing on her bottom lip. “I do.”
-
Chapter 7
PH.D. TABITHA CONNOR GESTURED TOWARD the sofa. She was the perfect image of a psychiatrist with her straight posture, chignon, and thin frame. Her eyes were intelligent, too—knowing.
After Madison was freed of the Russians, she had been ordered by her superiors to see a shrink. Her resistance h
adn’t mattered. The fact that shrinks were for other people, not her, hadn’t mattered. Dr. Connor had refused to be manipulated, even by the former chief.
But somewhere along the line, things had changed. Madison now came to see Dr. Connor willingly. It was at the urging of a few people, including her younger sister, Chelsea. For being six years her junior, Chelsea was like a surrogate mother. They got along better than Madison did with their mother.
Madison settled onto the sofa in Dr. Connor’s office, the one she now found comforting and familiar. She grabbed a throw pillow and placed it on her lap. She pinched one corner.
“The last time you were here we talked about these events you continue to experience,” Dr. Connor said.
Dr. Connor called flashbacks and nightmares events as opposed to episodes because she found the terminology friendlier.
“Have you experienced any more since your last visit?” Dr. Connor’s pen was poised over her notepad.
Madison’s natural inclination was to refuse acknowledging what had happened earlier in the day, how the brief recollection had hit her out of nowhere, how it had affected her viscerally. Maybe it was brought on by the fact that she was coming here this afternoon. She remained hesitant about speaking her feelings out loud, even to Dr. Connor. She might not be a stranger anymore, but she was another individual. And verbalizing emotions made them real. They were easier to ignore when they remained unsaid.
“I sense that you did have an event.”
“I did,” Madison said.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I have a choice?” She attempted to smile but wasn’t sure it showed.
“You always have a choice, Madison. But I assume you continue coming here for a reason.”
And they both were aware of what that reason was: being held hostage by members of the Russian Mafia, having a revolver pressed to her temple, and almost being raped three months ago. The whole thing had changed her perceptions of life, of herself, and of her limitations. And it brought up a lot of unresolved anger.
Before all this, she had been strong-willed, determined, and unstoppable. Now, she was at the mercy of flashbacks that would catapult her back in time at any given moment. And they were so clear they encompassed all five senses. She heard the Russians’ voices. She felt the pressure of the gun’s barrel against her head. She smelled and tasted her own blood.
“Madison?”
She slowly lifted her eyes to meet the doctor’s. “I had a brief event this afternoon.” She paused to build her strength. “It went back to when Anatolli had the revolver to my head.”
“Ah, yes, Russian roulette?” she confirmed.
“Yes, without the Russian part.” Her saliva thickened to paste.
“We simply call it roulette when we play. The Russian part would be redundant.” Sergey paces the room. She catches the flicker in his eyes. “Anatolli’s going to pull the trigger. If you live, we will take our time with you. If you die…” He shrugs. “Well, I suppose, game over.”
Both men laugh.
The chills came over her in a flash. She rubbed her arms, the hairs standing on end.
Dr. Connor scribbled something in her notebook. “And how did this make you feel?”
“Cold.”
“Did you just have another event?”
Madison shook her head.
Dr. Connor angled her head to the left. “This only works if you’re honest with me.”
The doctor held the eye contact. Madison looked away first.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Share with me.”
Madison slid her hands up and down her arms vigorously as she explained. The movement sounded like two sheets of sandpaper rubbing together. “This afternoon, it was, ‘On the count of three, pull the trigger.’” Her heart palpitated.
“What is it about those words that strike you?”
Dr. Connor was all about hidden messages and subtext. They had discussed this before. According to her, emotions came up when they were ready to be addressed.
Madison took a guess. “I was given to the count of three to live?”
Dr. Connor uncrossed her legs but remained settled with her back against her chair. “Are you sure that’s all?”
“I think so.”
“Countdowns can also represent goals needing to be achieved or things to be accomplished. Look beyond the obvious, Madison. Could it be the pressure you place on yourself to have all the answers? To solve every murder brought your way? What were you dealing with when this memory arose?”
Madison gave the question consideration. “I was thinking about Constantine Romanov.”
The man who almost raped and killed me…
“What about Constantine?”
The rage firing through her system was unavoidable. It came without invitation; it came without hesitation. It was raw, instinctual. “I was trying to solve that cold case for years, and I finally had the man behind that murder and several others.” She paused. Emotion was churning through her and changing its face so quickly it was hard to adjust from one moment to the next. Guilt and remorse were trying to bury themselves deep in her soul. “If I had just let it go…”
Dr. Connor gave it a few beats, letting Madison’s words hang before she spoke. “You still blame yourself.”
Madison blinked back the tears. If therapy was supposed to be good for her, why did she always feel worse when she left? Stranger still was that she kept returning.
“Of course, I do. I had him. He was in custody.” Madison paused, daring Connor to object, to interject that she hadn’t been the one guarding the man’s hospital room when he’d escaped. “This is all on me, but so help me God, that man will pay for what he did.” The anger was back, superseding any sadness or self-flagellation. She looked Dr. Connor in the eye. “I swear to you as long as Constantine Romanov roams this planet as a free man, I will never rest. I will be his stalker, his shadow, his bump in the night. If it’s the last thing I do, he will pay for his crimes.”
“Including what he did to you?”
Madison couldn’t bring herself to answer. All those lives lost because she had kept prying. But what other choice did she have? She needed to find out who was behind the murders and make them stop.
“You are always concerned about other people, Maddy. Constantine almost raped you, and he would have succeeded if—”
“But he didn’t, did he?” she challenged, wishing she could just forget it all.
-
Chapter 8
MADISON HAD LEFT DR. CONNOR’S office angry and determined. And full of self-doubt. Did she even possess the ability to take down Constantine? He could be anywhere in the world. She had no doubt he was laughing over her incompetence.
She had considered showing up at Terry’s house to ask how he had made out with the protesters, but she needed some time alone. Instead, she had left him a voice mail, picked up a bottle of wine, and headed home.
There were three things she could rely on to improve her mood—a glass of red, Hershey’s fur, and a Hershey’s bar. The wine was on the coffee table in front of her. Her chocolate lab was on the couch beside her. The bar was already in her stomach.
She rubbed Hershey’s head, her mind far away.
From Dr. Connor’s office to home, Madison had recalled the age-old advice to dig two graves when setting out for revenge. It was a warning pulled from the recesses of her mind. What it meant was unmistakable, but she was inclined to ignore the advice.
Constantine probably existed under an alias, but she would find him. Or it might be easier to let him come to her. It had worked before.
In the dim light coming through the windows, she makes out his silhouette on her couch.
“How nice of you to join me, Detective. I’ve been waiting all night.”
She reaches
to her waist and draws her gun.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He turns on the light on the side table next to him, leaving Madison’s eyes to adjust to the brightness. When they do, she sees that Constantine is holding Hershey under his right arm. “We’ve been waiting for you. Why don’t you put the gun down?” He puts his hands on both sides of the dog’s head, staring down into his eyes. “Cute dog you have here. But I’ve never seen the purpose of dogs. It would only take one twist and your little hush puppy would be in doggie heaven.”
Her heart raced. Her breathing was shallow. She sank her fingers into Hershey’s fur as the flashback hurtled forward at lightning speed.
Constantine finds the base of her shirt and rips the material up her torso until she lies exposed, her breasts screened off only by her bra.
Her stomach roils as his hands wrap around her and unclasp her bra. “I should just strangle you with this.”
Shivers trickled through her, shaking her frame.
She hated what he had done to her. He might not have raped her body, but he had violated her, nonetheless. He had left her powerless and waiting. He would surely be sent back to kill her, but she refused to live looking over her shoulder. She would not allow the Russians to wield that much control. It was bad enough the memories haunted her as waking nightmares.
Madison rubbed Hershey’s head again and then leaned over to kiss him. She barely escaped the slip of his tongue and she laughed. Oh, to be a dog. They had no concerns. Every second was the dawn of a new adventure. When they were tired, they slept. When they were hungry, they ate. When they wanted to play, they played. It was such a simple existence.
She gulped down a mouthful of wine and set the glass back on the table.
It had happened right here, three months ago.
If not for her quick maneuver and trigger finger, things would have ended differently. She swallowed. She wanted to forget all of it but kept remembering—the humiliation, the vulnerability, the regret. She should have shot him to kill, but she had wanted him to pay for his crimes. She had been naive. If a man like that walked away, he disappeared into the wind.
Deadly Impulse Page 3