“Showtime, Special Agent Dow,” he announced.
Nick swung his long legs out of the car and she turned to look over her shoulder to see what he saw. The man they’d been getting leg cramps for these past five hours was here and apparently entering his apartment building.
As she hurried out, Charley switched on her walkie-talkie. She needed to alert the others. “Suspect in view. All units converge. Converge,” she repeated with urgency.
They came at him from all sides. Men and women, all wearing FBI jackets, swarmed around the tall, thin man, announcing their presence with shouts and warnings.
Clearly confused and frightened, Milton Hines didn’t know where to look first. The paper bag with his groceries slipped from his hands and met the cracked concrete beneath his feet with a crash. Broken eggs ran together with the newly liberated mayonnaise, cradled by shards of glass. At the sight of the revolvers all aimed toward him, Milton raised his trembling hands above his head.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” he begged. “I didn’t do anything.” He looked right at Charley as he repeated, “I didn’t do anything.”
Charley sidestepped the oozing mess on the ground, her eyes never leaving his face. “Well, then you won’t mind coming with us for a little talk.”
Milton lowered a hand to push his glasses up on his nose, then quickly raised it again, afraid of what the special agents around him might do. His breathing became labored and his brown eyes all but bugged out of his head.
Afraid to make eye contract with the woman he’d just spoken to, he looked at the man next to her. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“I don’t know,” Nick said evenly. “Do you?”
“I didn’t do anything.” This time, Milton ended his statement with a sob.
Nick turned Milton around and snapped handcuffs on his wrists while reciting his rights to him. Satisfied that the handcuffs were secure after giving them a tug, Nick ushered the man into a waiting vehicle at the curb.
“If you didn’t do anything,” Nick qualified, “then you won’t need a lawyer.” Protecting the man’s head as he pushed him in all the way, Nick gave him a smile that had no humor behind it. “Just consider this a little joyride.”
Charley’s heart was pounding. The man in the back seat looked close enough to their sketch to have posed for it.
TEN HOURS LATER, they were forced to let the near-hysterical man go. Nick was the one who came to break the news to her. After interrogating Hines for several hours, Charley was taking a break. She’d just gotten water from the water cooler when Nick found her.
Milton Hines was not their man.
Charley crushed the paper cup in her hand, tossing it into the wastepaper basket with a hiss of disgust. “Looks like we have to replace his eggs and mayo jar.” Frustration echoed in her voice. “Damn it, Hines looked just like the guy in the sketch.”
Nick was as disappointed as she was. “Yeah, I know. But he has airtight alibis for at least two of the murders. We just finished checking them out. Hines was in Phoenix when Rita Daly was killed and he was involved in a traffic accident in Indio about an hour before the M.E. says the dental hygienist was murdered. Indio’s near Palm Springs,” he commented. “That’s over a hundred and fifty miles from the scene of the crime. Hines would have never been able to make the drive in time.”
“I’m a native, I know where Indio is,” Charley snapped. Frustration got the better of her and she kicked the bottom of her chair. The next moment, she flushed, embarrassed at the momentary break. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m so tired of getting my hopes up and then watching them be dashed again.”
She wasn’t saying anything the rest of them didn’t feel, Nick thought. They were all getting pretty burned-out, putting in time after hours, all hoping that the extra push would yield the desired results. Every one of them felt as if they were on borrowed time. Someone else’s borrowed time. And if they didn’t find the killer soon, another body was going to turn up. Maybe even this Sunday.
But the other side of it was jumping on someone for the sake of having someone to hang the crimes on. That got them nowhere. And it didn’t stop the killer. “Better dashing your hopes than sending an innocent man away.”
Her eyes narrowed. The past few hours, her patience had been growing shorter and shorter, in direct contrast to her temper, which became more explosive by the second. “Are you lecturing me?”
“Just pointing out the obvious, Special Agent,” Nick told her wearily. He paused, studying her. The added stake she had in this was making her edgier than the rest of them. Mentally, he cut her some slack. “Want to apologize again?”
She frowned, knowing he was right. She had to get a grip on herself, otherwise she was going to unravel. But that didn’t change the way she felt right at this moment. Angry at an unfair world. “No.”
Nick took her answer in stride. She was burned out. They all were. “It’s Friday, Charley. I suggest you go home. Everyone else has.”
She knew it was the hour and the situation, but she resented him standing there, telling her what he thought was best for her. “Everyone else’s sister wasn’t murdered by a serial killer.”
“If you expect me to argue with that, I’m going to have to disappoint you. But I am going to say that you should give yourself a break.” He nodded at all the files on her desk. It looked as if she was conducting a paper drive. “Go home, Special Agent Dow. You’re not going to find anything in all that tonight.”
Stubborn to the last breath, Charley dug in. “You never know.”
Nick sighed, surrendering. The woman gave new meaning to the word pigheaded. But he was too tired to argue and he knew better than to try to haul her away physically. He straightened, moving back from her desk. “Well, I’m going home.”
“Fine.” Moving her mug to the far corner of her desk, she sat down. “Why don’t you try unpacking something when you get there? Maybe stay awhile.”
He laughed shortly. He’d already decided to settle in for the long run. She’d made his mind up for him. But he knew better than to say that to her. “I’ll give it some thought. G’night.”
Charley looked down at the files on her desk. Or pretended to. “G’night.”
The sound of his fading footsteps left her with an incredible sense of longing. Of sadness. She felt alone and it wasn’t anything he’d said or done. She’d never shake the feeling of being in isolation until she solved this thing. Until she had the killer in her sights and made him confess.
Charley realized that she was clenching her hands. With effort, she forced herself to relax. But inside, the frustration continued.
They were going around in circles. In giant, pointless circles.
The killer had to be out there somewhere. Why hadn’t anyone seen him? Why hadn’t at least one of those calls panned out?
Her throat felt dry. She picked up her mug, thinking to get a cup of coffee. But as she lifted it, the sheet of paper it had been sitting on caught her eye. She had inadvertently moved the mug onto one of the sketches of the serial killer. The mug had formed a ring where it had made contact. Right over the serial killer’s eye. It looked like half of a monocle.
A wave of recognition passed over her, only to be gone the next second. It teased her brain.
That looked like…
Stifling a sudden shiver, telling herself she was out of her mind, Charley grabbed a pen and began to trace the wet ring, giving it substance. Drawing in a small bridge over the man’s nose, she made another ring over his other eye, giving him a pair of glasses.
Looking at the results, her heart tightened in her chest.
Quickly, like a woman possessed, she moved the pen up and down, drawing in longer hair. When she was finished, her mouth was completely dry.
She was looking at a sketch of Alice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THIS WAS CRAZY.
It had to be some kind of mistake. After all, it was just a rough sketch, nothing more. And the drawing
was based on details given to them by a homeless man who regularly conversed with an imaginary man called Jonesy.
Charley picked up the sketch and looked at it intently. How accurate could the drawing really be? And yet she couldn’t let this go. What if she was right?
She took out her cell phone, then put it away, squelching her impulse. She wasn’t going to call Nick and tell him about this. More than likely, he’d either laugh himself sick or tell her that she needed an extended vacation. In her present mood, she’d be inclined to take his head clean off. If it wasn’t Alice, Charley didn’t want to embarrass the woman or herself in front of her partner.
Charley stared at the sketch and the changes she’d just made. Damn, but it looked just like Alice. Or someone related to the woman. Could Alice have a brother, a cousin? Could she possibly be protecting that brother or cousin? As the A.D.’s secretary, the woman was privy to information the public didn’t have. She was in a position to know the task force’s every move. That way, she could help whoever was doing this stay one step ahead of being apprehended.
This was insane. This was Alice. Alice, who was afraid of her own shadow. Alice, who had confided that she feared she’d be the next victim.
And yet…
An even more insane thought hit her.
What if the killer was Alice?
The more she struggled with the sketch, the more Charley knew she was right. Alice Sullivan, with her narrow, gaunt features, had the kind of face that could go either way. And she was always wearing those high-necked blouses and turtleneck sweaters. Even in the summer, Alice always looked formal, was always covered up. In the four years that Alice had been in their department, Charley couldn’t remember ever seeing the woman wearing any other style. Was she dressed like that to hide an Adam’s apple?
Alice? A man?
It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.
“You’re getting carried away, Charley,” she muttered to herself.
But Charley rose to her feet and went for her purse. Only one way to put this to rest. To move on to something else if she was wrong.
She had to confront Alice, or whoever the hell had actually been working in their department these past four years.
ALICE SULLIVAN LIVED on the opposite outskirts of Santa Ana in a house that had been new more than a hundred years ago, when the city was just beginning to grow.
With the shadows of night around it, the elegant building looked as if it had fallen on hard times. The white paint had surrendered its battle against the sun and was buckling and peeling in too many places to count, even by the faint illumination cast by the streetlamp.
Arriving on Alice’s street, Charley almost turned around. This was crazy. And if she was right, she could wait until morning. Tomorrow was only Saturday. Sunday would still be a day away.
But something, maybe dogged instincts, maybe the desire to find out that she was wrong, drove her on.
Pulling her car up to the curb, she turned off the engine and got out.
The lawn was immaculate, she noticed. Not a single weed or dandelion poked its head up amid the blades of green. It made her wonder why the house wasn’t freshly painted. Given Alice’s nature, it didn’t add up.
Neither did thinking that Alice had something to do with the serial murders, and yet here she was at the woman’s home.
Let’s get this over with.
Going up the four steps, she paused on the front porch and then pressed the doorbell. She heard nothing. Was it broken? Trying it again, she listened intently and still heard nothing.
She knocked next. Her knuckles had hardly left the wood when the door opened.
Alice had on a long, flowing yellow silk robe, tightly tied at her waist. With one hand, she clutched at her throat, gathering the material closely to her. Utter surprise had her eyes all but bugging out.
“Charlotte, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Perfectly made-up eyebrows drew together in consternation. “Especially not at this hour. Is anything wrong?”
Looking at Alice, hearing her voice, reinforced all of Charley’s doubts. Of course Alice wasn’t the one she was looking for. She was too timid, too feminine, too everything. This was all wrong. Her mind had slipped a gear, that was the problem.
But she was here—she might as well stay for a few moments. Maybe look around to lay any last residual doubts to rest.
Charley did her best to appear contrite and tired. And play on Alice’s sympathies. “Nothing’s wrong, Alice, I just needed to talk to someone.”
“And you picked me?” Alice’s face lit up, making Charley feel that much more guilty about the thoughts she’d been entertaining. Alice opened the door wide. “Come in, come in, please.” She shut the door and then flipped the lock. “It’s not a safe neighborhood after dark,” she explained, coming away from the door. “I must say, I’m very flattered you came to me. I would have thought you might have turned to Agent Brannigan. Or your ex-partner, Ben.”
Charley was startled. How would Alice know about her visits to Ben? But then, she and Ben had been close the years they’d worked together. She supposed guessing that she might want to seek him out wasn’t really much of a stretch.
“No,” Charley said, “this is girl stuff.”
“Ah, girl stuff.” Alice smiled. “Would you like some tea?”
Tea didn’t even come in last on her top-ten list. It was something she faced only when she was sick, and only as a last resort. But she forced a smile to her lips. “Tea would be very nice.”
Alice nodded, gathering together the folds of her flowing robe in order to move faster. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“You have a lovely home,” Charley told her as Alice left the room.
“Thank you,” she responded from the hallway. “I’ve grown used to it.”
What an odd thing to say, Charley thought. The moment Alice was gone, Charley immediately crossed to the only place in the room that might have held anything of interest. Against the far wall Alice had an enclosed oak bookcase. From the looks of it, it was old and had probably once cost a great deal. There were nicks and chips along some of the shelves. An attempt to negate the effects had been made by applying layer upon layer of lemon-scented furniture polish.
Losing no time, Charley opened the glass doors. The shelves were packed with books, arranged by topic and then placed by size. There were drawers beneath the shelves. She tried the center one and found it locked. So were the two that flanked it.
With an impatient hiss, Charley took something out of her pocket and began to pick the center lock. It went against every rule in the book. If she found something, she would have to lie about how she discovered it in court. But that was a step she would cross when she came to it. If she came to it.
Right now, she needed to find evidence that would either put this to rest, or tie Alice to the murders.
Charley’s head swam. She felt as if she’d just taken a half-gainer into the deep end of the pool. Holding her breath, she opened the drawer, prepared to be disappointed.
Not prepared to find what she did.
There was a tray inside the drawer. A long, white tray with small compartments separating each item it held from the others.
There were thirteen crosses in the tray. Thirteen, because Rita Daly’s cross had been lost.
As her heart thundered in her chest in triple time, Charley’s fingers felt icy cold as she picked up the cross in the first compartment. The cross that was an exact duplicate of her own.
She knew what she would find even before she turned it around. Her breath lodged in her throat. The inscription read To Cris. Love, Mom.
The sudden crash nearly made her drop the cross. Her eyes darted to the doorway. Alice had dropped the tray containing the teapot and cups. Her face was a contorted mask of rage and fury.
The image of a harpy flashed across Charley’s mind as the woman flew toward her from across the room.
“You shouldn’t have done that!”
Alice shouted. Her voice had lowered into a rumble of malice. “But then, you’re a whore just like they were. Why would I have expected anything different from you?”
Charley quickly drew her gun. Though prepared, she didn’t expect Alice to come charging at her. The woman ducked her head and aimed at her legs like a lineman making a game-winning tackle. Charley went down. Her gun flew from her hands.
Alice was on top of her, pinning down her hands and legs with surprising force. Then, unable to hold that position, Alice grabbed her little pinkie and twisted it in the opposite direction until Charley felt as if there were stars circling her head. Pain went shooting up her arm into her shoulder and neck. It took everything not to cry out in anguish.
“You taught me this move, remember?” Alice taunted. “To protect myself against the serial killer.” She laughed as she said it.
The next moment, Alice jerked her up to her feet, twisting her arm behind her back. Charley had started to turn when the other woman slammed her head against the wall, knocking the wind out of her. It took everything she had to remain conscious.
Grabbing the handcuffs from Charley’s belt, Alice quickly snapped them on her wrists. “Those were all very handy little self-defense tips, Charlotte. I don’t know if I ever properly thanked you.” Alice smirked as she spun her around to face her.
“You can thank me by letting me go.”
“Sorry, not an option.” Alice’s eyes almost glittered as they looked down at her.
“Didn’t think so,” Charley murmured, doing her best not to let the woman see that she was really worried. No one knew she was here and she was powerless at the moment. She’d been in better positions. “Then you are behind this? Behind the murders?”
“Behind it, in front of it, any position you like,” Alice boasted.
The woman was crazy. Certifiably crazy. “Why?” Charley demanded, anger giving her strength. “Why did you kill them? Why did you kill my sister?”
Sundays Are for Murder Page 24