by Rick Murcer
Sophie raised her hands. “Hey, that apple didn’t fall far from the tree. She didn’t need my encouragement.”
Manny looked at his shirt, then back to Jen, and then grinned. “All right. Got me. But when you least expect it . . .”
She took two steps and hugged him again. “Thanks for bringing me, dad. I did need this.”
“You’re welcome, baby, but you ain’t out of the woods.”
“I know, you can ground me on the ship or something. Okay. Gotta go change, then we’re doing lunch.”
She rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Sophie and he stood staring to where Jen had just disappeared.
“Talk about zero to sixty in five seconds,” said Manny.
“Yeah, no shit. I’m going to need a nap. Still, it might be fun to have one of my own, one of these days.”
“Oh, they’re more than fun, especially the changing diapers part.”
“Ew. Forgot about that. Can I get one about Jen’s age?”
“Not one of your own.”
“Figures,” she sighed.
Sophie looked at the files stacked on the table. “Any luck?”
Manny rubbed his face with both hands and turned to the files. “Maybe. It’s mostly what we thought, but something seems off. I was just about to check the CSI report.”
“Like what?”
“You sure you want to see this?”
“Hell no, but let’s do it.”
He flipped Richardson’s file open and heard Sophie catch her breath.
She turned away and covered her mouth. “My God, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
He shook his head. “I wish it was a joke.”
Sophie straightened the teal sash that matched her one-piece swimsuit, stood tall, and turned back to Manny. “Okay, boss. I think I’m ready for the rest.”
“All right. Take a look at this shot of Richardson’s chest, then look at the one on the thigh. I want you to look at the edges of each cut. See that?”
Sophie bent closer. She took the magnifying glass off the table and focused it on the spot where Manny was pointing.
“The first cut is a little deeper, and it looks like it could have a serrated edge.” said Manny.
“So? I mean there are lots of sharp knives out there with that kind of edge.”
“Granted. Now look at this one.”
“Yeah, I see . . . oh, damn . . . it’s different. No serrated edge, and it doesn’t go as deep.”
“Why in the hell would the killer use two knives?”
“I’m not sure. Hang tight, I need to check the CSI report for two things,” said Manny.
Leafing through the paperwork, he stopped at the CSI description and read the first page. As he got halfway down the yellow form, he swore.
“Shit. I was afraid of this.”
“You know, Williams, it’s never good when you say something like that. I don’t want to ask, but afraid of what?”
“The time of death was about 1:30 a.m. But the report says, and was confirmed, that he died after the cutting.”
“Yeah, I follow so far.”
According to cell phone records, Richardson called one of his security staff just before midnight to talk about some details for their next stint on Ocean Duchess.”
“Okay. I get that too.”
“Given the amount of flesh removed and the precision of each cut, do you think one person could do that in a maximum of ninety minutes?”
“I don’t know. I have never carved anyone like that . . . but you’re making me nervous. You don’t ask questions if you don’t know the answers.”
“The way the lab rats can tell if the skinning was antemortem is by how fast the flesh decays when it’s removed from the body. The changes are microscopic at first, then it increases rapidly. Most of this flesh came off at relatively the same time. If you combine that with the differences in the blades, and how deep some of the cuts were versus the others . . .”
Sophie shook her head slowly and then hugged herself. Manny saw her shiver.
“Are you saying there are two killers? You know, Manny, that sounds crazy.”
“I know what it sounds like. There’s one more thing. Remember when Chloe said the ouroboros could represent male and female at the same time?”
Sophie nodded.
“What if the symbol had a dual meaning, like a man and a woman?”
“You can’t tell that, right? A man and a woman?”
“I’ll let you know,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “But there’s no doubt in my mind. There are two killers.”
Chapter-17
Chloe clicked off her phone after leaving a second message for her Mum. Ireland was five hours ahead of EST, so she was probably preparing dinner for her guests at the B&B. Or maybe she was sitting out on the beach of Galway Bay with Meav, trying to make sense of Kathryn’s death. They could even be draining a bottle of Ireland’s famous whiskey. Who could blame them? She wanted them to do whatever it took to cope, to get their minds around Kathryn’s death.
She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Making sense of murder was a real trick, now wasn’t it? An impossible one, if you asked her, especially for those left behind.
She set the phone on the oak dresser and scowled. The persistent echo of her mother’s words kept coming back to Chloe.
The constable said it was one of the worst things he’d ever seen . . .
What could be that awful? She knew a thing or two about awful, had seen it up close— and not just as a special agent in the Terrorist Division. Being assigned to Corner’s group hadn’t been a picnic; far from it. Her first go around was dealing with Argyle, and the Murder Club in Lansing hadn’t been for the faint of heart. On top of all of the violence that led to one emotional drain after another, of course, was Manny Williams. She wasn’t sure what had been harder to figure out: the psychos or Manny. Right now, her vote was the latter.
She looked at her watch. She had about twenty-five minutes to take a shower, get dressed, and go to Corner’s room to see if the files had come in from the locals in Ohio and Illinois.
“Better get moving girl, the boss hates late,” she sighed.
She stripped off her blouse and slacks, tossed her bra and panties on the floor, and headed to the bathroom, stopping to catch her reflection in the full-length mirror on the way. She’d always stayed in shape. But since the age of thirteen, she had been curvy like her mum, and no amount of dieting or workouts was going to change the contour of her hips or reduce her ample bust. There were ways to hide her “resources,” but lately she found herself caring less about hiding them and more about showing them. Maybe she did have that internal clock thing ticking, or maybe it had a hell of a lot more to do with Detective Williams.
She looked at the mirror again. “I wonder how he’d keep that Boy Scout thing together if he saw me like this?”
The pounding on the door made her jump. She reached for the robe on the bed, pulled the Glock .40 out of its holster, and moved cautiously to the door, adhering to an old law enforcement saying: Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after me.
A quick look through the peephole had her wondering why he was knocking on her door instead of Josh’s. The smallish young man dressed in the courier’s uniform seemed a little nervous.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss . . . er, Agent Franson. Agent Corner wasn’t in his room, and there was a note attached to his door that said to bring these packages to you. Are you Agent Franson?”
“I am.” She opened the dead bolt; the silver, six-inch security chain stayed fastened.
“Slide the packages through here.”
“I’m sorry, Agent, but they won’t fit.”
Chloe had to agree. She released the chain and swung the door open, her Glock in clear sight for the young courier to see. He noticed and swallowed hard.
“Can . . .can I get you to sign here plea
se?”
She did.
He handed her the packages and hurried down the hall.
She closed the door, grinning. Maybe he’d never seen a real gun before, or maybe he thought she was nuts. Either way worked for her.
After placing the packages on the table, she put her weapon away and continued to the shower, then stopped. She was curious about the files. Even though there was probably nothing that could help, you never knew. She looked at the clock on the nightstand and decided she could be a couple minutes late after all.
Chloe tore the zip tab off of the first package from Ohio, opened the file, and leafed through the pictures and a couple of reports. One was from the CSI and the next from the detective assigned to the case. She did a double take as she recognized the investigator’s signature.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said out loud.
On a hunch, she tore open the second package and went straight to the detective’s signature on the final report. Incredibly, the name of the detective on the file from Columbus, Ohio, dated two years prior to the one from Chicago, was identical.
She reached for the phone to call Josh and got his voice mail. She then checked her contacts and called Manny.
“Chloe?”
“Manny, you’ve got to see this. What room are you in?”
“Room 546. Why? See what?”
“I’ll be right down. You’re going to want to see this.”
Chapter-18
Turning the corner, she eased off the accelerator and bridled down her Camaro. It purred like a kitten, and she loved the implication. Controlled, but oh so dangerous. Like her.
She brushed back her long hair just as she reached the middle of the block and the house where they’d spent the last four years came into view. It was her dream home, the one you never want to leave: 3,500 square feet of heaven. The stucco style had always been her favorite; she loved how the red-tiled roof played against the creamy exterior. And what of the memories? The smell of a swordfish steak floating up from the grill on the huge deck just to the left of the pool. The midnight swims that led to unbelievable sex with her husband, which no doubt had thrilled the neighbors a time or two. But no more. Those things would remain memories, forever. Her hands squeezed the leather steering wheel.
She parked in front of the three-car garage, grabbed her small travel case, and headed to the side door. She passed the red and lavender penta bushes, emanating their very special aroma, and saw several butterflies and two hummingbirds enjoying them. Her anger rose to the next level. After today, this scene wouldn’t be part of her life either.
Grasping the handle of the heavy, mahogany door, she pushed inside and was abruptly engulfed in her husband’s strong arms. He kissed her with real hunger and cupped her breast.
“Got time for a man in need?”
“Damn. You scared me, and maybe. What are you doing out here?”
“I needed to get the knife sharpener.”
She gazed into his big, brown eyes, and it was all she could do to stay focused on the moment. He must have seen her troubled look.
“What’s wrong?”
“Let’s just say I’m not home for lunch.”
“Why are you here then? Are you going to take care of me?” he laughed.
“That’s exactly right. I’m going to take care of you just like you deserve.”
“Oh. That has promise. Let me get you a sandwich first.”
“Thank you, darling. You are such a gentleman. I’ll never forget that, but I think I’ll need to go alone from here on out.” She pulled the .32 Beretta Tomcat from her purse and shot him in the chest three times.
Her husband, her lover, her confidant, fell to the concrete on top of her small suitcase, dead in seconds. The surprised look on his face was one for the ages. “At least I didn’t mess up that pretty mug of yours, sweetheart,” she cooed. “I am sorry, and I’ll miss you, but there’s just not enough money for both of us, baby. I hope you understand.”
She jerked the case out from under him, reached into his pocket, took both cell phones, and stuffed them in her bag.
After one final look, she gave him a quick kiss goodbye, feeling less than she thought she would.
Walking through the side door, she revved up the Boss, waved at her Camaro, and sped off, hair blowing in the wind.
Chapter-19
Haley Rose leaned against him, and it was all he could do to not move away. He hated anyone touching him, no matter the reason or the person, unless the touching was the way he wanted it. She probably felt safe, protected from the stress of the last two days when she stood this close to him. He never understood that. Touching, for him, had never been a safe, warm-and-fuzzy thing; especially from the man he called Father.
His lips grew tight as he recalled those times in his life. He couldn’t help it; the past rushed him, suddenly, fiercely.
The affections his father had called “touching” were straight from some true-crime magazine. What had been done to him and how his father had terrified his mother were forever etched in Argyle’s memories, when he allowed them to surface. And that laugh . . .
He flicked the past away like an annoying gnat.
The thing was, shit happened to everyone. It was how you handled the experiences of life that separated the masses from men like him. He used it to fuel his future while most used it to seal their fate in the ordinary, the mundane. He recognized his ability to handle the shit in his life as another trait of greatness.
“Thank you for walking with me, Fredrick,” said Haley Rose. “I’m still trying to get my mind around the whole of the day and what’s happened to poor Kathryn.”
“Always my pleasure, Ms. Franson. I can’t think of a place I’d rather be.”
Well, there are a couple other places, and I wonder what you’d think if you could see them.
“How kind of you to say so.”
“How is young Meav faring this afternoon?”
“She’s taken another sedative, and she seems to be doing better. I still wonder if she’ll ever not see the wicked painting of Kathryn when she thinks of her best friend.”
Hell to her, heaven to me.
“She’ll make it through. Like you’ve said, the young can be resilient that way,” soothed Argyle.”
They sat on the bench in the gazebo and watched the waves prance quietly to the shore. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the ocean hypnotizing her. She was unwinding and finding solace in the setting. Good for him.
He clasped her hand. “So, what did the Detectives Shannon and Harris have to say?”
“Oh. The usual, I guess. They wanted to know if I knew of any enemies that Kathryn might’ve had. Any bad breakups, crazy boyfriends. Did she ever speak of anyone following her around or a coworker that was a little too friendly? I told them that, although she was a beautiful young woman, she was very shy and didn’t do that well around men.”
I think she did quite well.
“So nothing suspicious going on with her?”
“No, not really. Meav did mention that a week or so ago, they both had a pint or two too many of Guinness at the club. She thought they were being followed back to Kathryn’s apartment. She said they kept hearing noises, but they laughed it off as part of the state they were in. Maybe they should have taken it more seriously.”
They’d both been mine for the taking, but that would not have gone well for what’s next.
“Indeed. That could have been something.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thanks for listening to me. Good on you; it’s been awhile since I’ve had someone to talk to.”
“I assure you the privilege is mine.”
Haley Rose leaned close and kissed him on the cheek. He wondered if his rage might explode on the spot. No one had kissed him like that for thirty years. He hated it. Such tenderness was a complete waste, but she’d learn soon enough.
“I laughed at Shannon when he’d asked about you,” she said.
�
�He asked about me? How interesting. What did he want to know?”
“Oh, if I could account for your whereabouts, things like that. He was so serious that I couldn’t help but laugh. I told him he was dancing on the wrong floor with that one.”
He smiled. “Thank you. I’m sure that Detective Shannon was just doing his job.”
“That’s what he said.”
He’s even smarter than I gave him credit for; this might be better than I had first thought.
“Well, it’s time to feed my other guest. I have something very special in mind for him.”
The first real breeze of the evening freshened, and the scent of the ocean was strong as she stood, pulling him to his feet. Her jade eyes sparkled as she moved her hair from her forehead, not releasing his hand, and led him to the back door of the B&B.
Haley Rose Franson, I can’t wait to show you my version of special.
Chapter-20
Detective Shannon looked at the paperwork on his desk and rolled his eyes. There was nothing worse than getting behind on the fuel that ran the bureaucracy of Gardaí. He’d pawned off as much as could on Paddie, but the man had planned to see the Galway Bay United soccer game tonight, and he’d already left with a grin and a wave. Tomorrow was another day, however, and they’d get to most of it.
He drummed his stout fingers on the desk and contemplated how much more of the backlog he’d dare finish before he went home to his chocolate Lab, Shelby. She worked the pet door out to his small backyard just fine, but she always had an indignant look when he got home after 6:30. There were nights that a pissing and moaning wife would have given him a better greeting.
It’d been a long day, for more than one reason. He hadn’t even had lunch, and the accompanying headache verified that fact. Nothing to eat, Kathryn O’Malley’s body, and a note saying “MORE TO COME.” Maybe a headache was the least of his concerns.
Glancing down at the open file, he saw Mary Wiggins’s preliminary report and pulled it out for the third time.
Cause of death for Kathryn was a broken neck, but she’d suffered amazing damage after she died. Even then, there were very few postmortem clues other than the sexual assault information. The killer had been extremely careful, was very organized, and knew police procedure. Shannon bit the inside of his cheek. “No shit, Sherlock,” he whispered.