Kiss Me, Kill Me lk-2

by Allison Brennan

  Lucy hadn’t had enough faith in her analysis to follow up on her theory, but Sean didn’t doubt it. Lucy thought the killer was a woman.

  And Sean suspected Wade Barnett knew who it was.

  Plunkett ran through the rules with Sean about prisoner interaction, but Sean was only half listening. By the time they reached a private room-the type where lawyers met with their clients-Sean had his game plan set. He wasn’t surprised that Plunkett stayed in the room.

  Wade Barnett didn’t smile when Sean entered. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Sean Rogan, private investigator. Kirsten Benton is my cousin.”

  There was partial recognition in Barnett’s eyes, and Sean added, “You know her as Ashleigh.”

  Barnett closed his eyes. “I didn’t know Dennis was keeping her.”

  “I believe you.”

  Barnett looked at him. “Why? No one has believed a word I’ve said.”

  “That happens when you lie to the cops. If they find out, they don’t believe anything else you say.” Sean had some experience with that principle. “I’m going to tell you what I think. You correct me. I need answers, and I need them now-because Kirsten is in danger.”

  He seemed surprised. “But-”

  “Yes, a priest found her and took her to the hospital, and I found your brother’s apartment and know she was well taken care of. Except that she has a serious infection and is still unconscious.”

  “I took her in as soon as I found out, believe me-”

  “You didn’t take her to the hospital, but I’m going to overlook that. I think, when the FBI and NYPD came to talk to you about the murders of four women you had sex with, you panicked. You knew Alanna had been killed. But I don’t think you put the others together. There wasn’t much press on Erica Ripley’s murder, and it wasn’t until after New Year’s that the press dubbed the killer the Cinderella Strangler.

  “You ran the Party Girl website through an offshore company that hosted it for you. When the police talked to you Thursday morning, you finally put the murders together. But it wasn’t just because you had sex with those four women. It was because you thought you’d be liable for their deaths because they were all members of the Party Girl website. You thought someone was using your site to target their victims. So you paid to have the site taken down.

  “Fortunately, my partner and I are smarter than you, and we retrieved cached data and rebuilt the whole enchilada.” Sean watched Barnett’s face register complete surprise.

  Sean continued. “You probably started thinking Thursday night that you personally knew these victims. There were nine hundred sixty-one female profiles on Party Girl. What are the odds that four who live in New York would be killed? What are the odds that you would have slept with all four women?”

  Sean leaned forward. “That’s when you tracked down your brother Dennis. I don’t know if you thought he was killing them, or-”

  “Stay away from my brother,” Wade said. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “That’s what my girlfriend said. But the police are interviewing him right now. You want to know why?”

  “Dennis would not survive in prison. How could they? He didn’t kill anyone!”

  “And neither did you. A fifth victim turned up last night.”

  Wade’s entire body sagged. “What?”

  “Sierra Hinkle. And my partner already checked-she wasn’t on the Party Girl site under any name. Did you know her?”

  “No.”

  “She was a waitress in Brooklyn.”

  “I didn’t know her.”

  Sean took Sierra Hinkle’s picture out of his pocket and showed Barnett, just to be certain.

  “I’ve never seen her.”

  “Do you want to know why she was killed?”

  “You’re going to tell me either way.”

  “Because you’re in prison. That’s not what your ex-girlfriend wanted.”

  “You’re insane. Alanna’s dead.”

  “She wasn’t your only girlfriend. Think back. A woman you dated who didn’t take it well when you broke it off. Someone who has been in and out of your life, probably for many years.” Sean thought back to what Lucy had said about Dennis and Wade’s relationship, and how Wade protected his younger brother. “She didn’t like Dennis, was probably mean to him, but never around you because she knew you wouldn’t put up with it. Dennis would not have liked her.”

  “Dennis liked all my girlfriends,” Wade said. But he was thinking.

  Sean tried a different tactic. “You lost your license, but this is New York. Why have Dennis drive you to all the parties?”

  “I live on the Upper West Side. Most of the parties aren’t walking distance. I don’t take the subway, and I don’t care to walk to Brooklyn. Cabs are unreliable.”

  Sean hesitated. “Did Dennis take you to all the parties? Was he at the Haunted House where Alanna was killed?”

  Wade thought about it. “No. He wasn’t. That was the night before Halloween. Dennis gets scared easily.”

  Sean knew exactly who the Cinderella Strangler was.

  Lucy stared at the photocopy of the drawing that portrayed a mean-looking Dennis Barnett with Alanna the night she was killed. Suzanne and Panetta had pushed, but he never looked like this. But it was him; there was no doubt.

  Suzanne said, “I don’t know what to think.”

  “He could be lying. We need to push him on the last murder,” Panetta said. “He could have killed Hinkle to get his brother out of prison. Did it the same way because he’d watched his brother kill four other girls.”

  “No,” Lucy said. “Dennis didn’t kill anyone.”

  Panetta rubbed the back of his neck. “Ms. Kincaid, I appreciate your help, but all the evidence points to Wade Barnett and Dennis Barnett working together.”

  Suzanne said, “It seems so, but there’s really only one way to know for certain. We interview Kirsten Benton.”

  “She’s still unconscious,” Lucy said.

  “What did the doctor say about her prognosis?”

  “They’re changing her medication and he’s optimistic.”

  Panetta said, “We keep both of them in lockup until we can talk to her.”

  “We have no reason to hold Dennis,” Suzanne said.

  “We have a witness.”

  “We’ll need her to view a lineup.”

  Lucy only half listened to the conversation. “Suzanne, do you have the original drawing?”

  “It’s in the evidence room at my headquarters.”

  “Was it done in pencil?”

  “Um, charcoal is pencil, right?”

  “Charcoal was in the lungs of the first victim. Charcoal and gum.” Lucy pulled out her phone and did a quick search. Suzanne rose from her chair and paced, her hands rubbing the back of her neck. “Gum is a component of charcoal pencils used for drawings.”

  “That’s it,” Suzanne said. “That’s the personal connection. I didn’t see it before, but it makes complete sense. The final piece of the puzzle.”

  “What is?” Panetta asked.

  “That drawing-the artist is Whitney Morrissey. She was at the Haunted House party in Harlem. She’s Alanna Andrews’s cousin.”

  “Hold it,” Panetta said. “Are you saying a woman killed these girls?”

  Lucy nodded. “It fits everything I said before.”

  “But what you said also fits Dennis Barnett.”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t jealous of Wade’s girlfriends. He cared about Alanna in particular, and he saved Kirsten. Go ask him about Whitney.”

  Suzanne walked into holding and saw Dennis Barnett in the corner, terrified. She told the guard to get him out.

  He leaned toward her and said, “I don’t like it here.”

  “I have one more question. Do you know Whitney Morrissey?”

  Dennis wrinkled his nose. “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “She’s one of Wade’s girlfriends. She doesn’t like me.”


  “Is your brother still dating her?”

  “No. Wade heard her say mean things about me. He broke up with her. Then he met Alanna and was happy.”

  “Did Whitney do anything to Wade? Threaten him?”

  Dennis shook his head. “She told him she was going to kill herself. But she didn’t. She called him all the time. He changed his number. Then she came to Charlie’s apartment for Wade’s birthday in September and made Charlie so mad that he took away the CJB grant he’d given her.”

  “Grant?”

  “For art. Charlie says ’cause we have a lot of money we need to give a lot of it away. I never knew our dad because I was a baby when he died, but he loved art so Charlie gives money to artists.”

  Dennis glanced back at the holding cell. “Please don’t make me go back in there.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m going to have a police officer take you home. But Dennis, no matter what, don’t leave your house until you hear from me, okay?”

  He crossed his heart with his index finger. “I promise.”

  THIRTY

  “Tell your boyfriend to stay far away from me,” Suzanne said to Lucy as they pulled up in front of Whitney Morrissey’s Brooklyn apartment.

  Suzanne had wanted to throttle Sean for talking to Wade Barnett, but then she’d have to take on a battle with the Washington Field Office and her liaison with Rikers. That her suspect wasn’t guilty meant squat-Sean had interfered with a federal murder investigation and was still in hot water with her.

  “He’s at the hospital with Kirsten and her mother,” Lucy said.

  “Tell me you didn’t know what he was up to,” Suzanne growled.

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’ll call you up when we secure the apartment.”

  Suzanne met Panetta outside the building. He said, “She’s either not in the apartment or not answering the door. I have officers at each exit.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Two NYPD officers followed Suzanne and Panetta up the stairs to Whitney Morrissey’s loft apartment. Suzanne knocked on the door. “Whitney, it’s Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI. Remember me? We need to talk.” She waited. “Whitney, open the door.”

  There were no sounds of movement, but they proceeded with caution. Panetta nodded to the officer to unlock the door with the master key they’d retrieved from the property manager. It worked one lock, but not the other.

  “She has to make this difficult,” Panetta mumbled and called the locksmith waiting downstairs.

  Five minutes later, they were inside Whitney’s apartment.

  The officers searched the two-room apartment and quickly ascertained that Whitney wasn’t inside.

  The living area was as Suzanne remembered it: bright, airy, with art everywhere. She put on gloves and walked through, not seeing anything that struck her as odd. Whitney’s art was truly exceptional. She stopped in front of a large, incredibly detailed charcoal drawing of a street scene: a row of town houses on a tree-lined street, people walking, a hot-dog vendor on the corner.

  What had been the tipping point in her obsession with Wade Barnett, turning her from stalker to killer? That he was sleeping with other women? That his brother had pulled her art grant? Or that Barnett was sleeping with her cousin, Alanna?

  “Suzanne.” Panetta motioned for her to come into the bedroom.

  She stopped in the doorway. She couldn’t speak. She’d never seen anything like this-no level of obsession came even close.

  One wall was covered with corkboard on which hundreds of drawings were pinned. But it was the subject matter that was so disturbing: image after image of Wade Barnett and Whitney Morrissey.

  Most of the drawings were of Wade. Some were just his face; others looked almost like photographs, with Wade sitting in a coffee shop by the window, the perspective from across the street. Or Wade at Yankee Stadium cheering. Or Wade at a party. There were other people in the pictures as well, but they were indistinct compared to Wade, who seemed to have a light shining on him.

  Then there were the drawings of Wade and Whitney, most of them highly erotic. Suzanne would have admired the level of attention and detail if the whole scene weren’t so deeply disturbing.

  His face was everywhere, in all sizes. On every wall and surface. She looked around the room, and noticed something painted on the ceiling. She walked over to the bed and looked up. Whitney had painted a portrait of Wade Barnett over her bed.

  Calling Whitney Morrissey sick seemed both obvious and a gross understatement.

  “We need to call in my ERT unit,” Suzanne said. “They’re waiting outside.”

  “And you should probably call in Ms. Kincaid,” Panetta said, looking at Whitney’s slanted art desk. He’d turned on the small lamp that cast a bright light over the surface.

  A sketchbook was open to the first page: a familiar image, not just because it was Wade, but because it was Wade and Alanna at the Yankees game, the same photo that had been published in the newspaper. Except for one stark difference.

  Alanna’s features had been exaggerated to the point of being monstrous. Her large eyes were made larger and off-center; her long nose had been drawn longer, with a hook at the end; the hand that had rested on Wade’s shoulder had grown warts and hairs. Her hair, which had been blown out by the wind, was now snakes, all looking to attack Wade. Every detail was so perfect, yet grotesquely twisted.

  “There’s more,” Panetta said, turning the page. It was Erica Ripley, behind the counter where she worked, talking to Wade. Out of her mouth flowed bile that dripped onto the counter.

  Suzanne had seen a lot of tragedy in the ten years she’d been an FBI agent. She’d even seen a dead body when she was a kid, something that had had a lasting impact on her. But somehow, the twisted art of Whitney Morrissey disturbed her on a far deeper level. Blood, violence, murder-Suzanne understood the basic dark side of human nature. But the vicious mind of an obsessed killer who used her talent to distort reality into something so perverse it became a scene from a horror movie? Suzanne was unusually shaken.

  She and Panetta stepped out of Whitney’s bedroom and already she breathed easier. She called Andie, her head ERT. “We’re ready for your team, and Lucy Kincaid.”

  Sean talked to the NYPD guard at length before he was comfortable enough to leave Kirsten under his watch.

  Evelyn and Trey were taking turns sitting with her. She’d responded to the new antibiotics, awakening for the first time since she’d been admitted right after Evelyn arrived. Now the doctors were scheduling surgery to repair the damage to her feet and remove glass and rocks that had become embedded under her skin. Kirsten would be moving to a private room tonight.

  Sean stepped into the room and told Evelyn he was leaving, but that the guard would be on the door until Whitney Morrissey was arrested.

  Evelyn rose, tears in her eyes, and hugged him. “Thank you, Sean.”

  “You should thank Trey. He’s the one who went from hospital to hospital until he found her.”

  “I’m just so happy to have her back. I’m going to take her back to California. New start. Go to college. Try and get my life together so Kirsten can have her own life, too.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Sean was about to leave when he saw Trey sitting in a plastic chair in the hall, his head in his hands. Sean sat next to him, put a hand on one shoulder. “You’re tired. Maybe you should go back to the motel and sleep a couple hours.”

  He shook his head. “I just don’t know what to do now. I love her. I don’t want to go back to the way it was.”

  “It’ll never be the way it was.” Sean wasn’t one to be giving advice-until Lucy, he’d never gotten past the superficial stage in any relationship. But if he had learned anything in the six weeks he and Lucy had been together, it was that he’d become a better person. He needed Lucy, and he’d do whatever it took to make her happy.

  “We’ve all made mistakes, but what matters is who you are inside. You’re a good man, Trey.”
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  Evelyn stepped out and waved to Trey. “She’s awake again and wants to see you.”

  Trey rubbed his wet eyes and smiled. “Thank you, Sean.” He followed Evelyn back into Kirsten’s room.

  Sean wished he could be more elated at the good news that Kirsten was alive and would survive her ordeal, but he knew she was going to have a long, tough road ahead of her. Physically, she’d heal. But the emotional and psychological damage of her online activities, coupled with finding her friend dead and being the target of a serial killer-those would take much longer to fade.

  But Kirsten was safe, and Sean took heart in that.

  He left the hospital and drove to Whitney Morrissey’s Brooklyn apartment, where the police were serving their warrant. Lucy had sent him a message thirty minutes ago that Whitney was gone, but that there was ample evidence of her guilt.

  He pulled up behind an NYPD police car and parked. He was stopped by a patrolman as he tried to walk down the sidewalk, and waved to Suzanne, who was standing in front of Morrissey’s building. She pretended to ignore him.

  Sean knew she was furious with him for talking to Wade Barnett, but they’d saved time in getting the information, and he hadn’t screwed up her investigation. However, he decided not to mention that to her because it would probably irritate her even more.

  He didn’t see Lucy. “Officer, I’m expected,” he said.

  The cop didn’t budge. “Sure.”

  “Agent Madeaux and Detective Panetta.”

  The officer looked over his shoulder. “They’re in conference. You can wait.”

  Fortunately, it had stopped raining, but it was cold and everything was wet.

  He walked a few feet away and called Suzanne with his cell. He watched her look at her phone, then across the street at him, then pocket it.

  He hung up and dialed again. On the third try, she answered, her eyes on him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No you’re not.”

  “Okay, I’m not sorry. But let me through anyway.”

  “I don’t know how Lucy puts up with you. You’re really annoying.”