Reclaim My Life

by Cheryl Norman

  If Ian was in custody, from whom was Sunny hiding?

  Wil straddled the wooden chair backwards and crossed his arms over the back. Ian Davis gave him a sullen look from behind a can of Mountain Dew. The guy stuck to his crazy story that he—not Sunny—was the victim in her disappearance. He also had strong alibis for both homicides. He’d been working at the college data center.

  “But what does Sunny have to gain by killing you or setting you up? She’s the one with the trust fund.”

  Ian seemed to have a ready answer for all their questions, which only raised Wil’s suspicions. “I told you, I don’t know about any stinking trust fund. If she has one, it’s news to me.”

  “You two have been married how long?”

  “I married her a year ago. We just celebrated our anniversary.” He slouched back in his chair and harrumphed. “That’s a joke. Legally, we aren’t even married.”

  Wil masked his surprise at this bit of news, but Ian was clever. He could be playing them. “You aren’t legally married?”

  “I’m not legally married to Sonya Leigh Duncan, because Sonya Leigh Duncan died thirty years ago.”

  “Sunny used an alias? Why would she do that?”

  “That’s what I been trying to tell you yo-yos. I found several fake identities. She thought by deleting her files, I couldn’t access them. But I know my way around a hard drive.”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Wil motioned for Brady to join him outside the interrogation room. After they closed the door, Wil flipped through the file until he came to Jamie’s report. “Here it is. Jamie couldn’t find anything on a Sonya Leigh Duncan, but she searched for living persons.”

  “I’ll get Jamie to check out the deceased Sonya Leigh Duncan.”

  “You can reach her in the field. She has her laptop.”

  “If Jamie checks it out, are you buying his story?”

  “I’m keeping an open mind, Brady. There was always something a bit too slick about Sunny Davis. Could be one of those ‘black widows.’ Let’s ask him about life insurance policies.”

  Brady left to call Jamie, and Wil returned to the interview room. Ian had emptied his soft drink and crushed the can with both hands. He looked up when they entered the room, and held up the can. “You guys recycle?”

  Recycle? Most savvy suspects wouldn’t accept a drink or smoke, knowing the police might use it to check DNA. Could Ian be clueless, or very, very confident?

  “Yeah. I’ll take it.” Wil relieved him of the can. “Before we continue, would you like another soda or anything to eat?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Brady slipped back into the room, giving Wil a single nod. So Ian told the truth about Sunny’s alias. Excitement filled Wil’s gut, the same sensation he had when working puzzles and was closing in on a solution. Was he?

  Reclaiming his chair, he met Ian’s gaze. “Did you and Sunny buy life insurance?”

  “Not that I know of. She might have forged my name on some, but I couldn’t afford anything but the bare minimum of car insurance.”

  “Tell us everything you learned about Sunny from her computer that convinced you she wants you dead.”

  “I’m not convinced she wants to kill me, just to set me up to take a fall. I think she had me in mind for a patsy all along.”

  Ian was a consummate actor. Or genuine heartache and anger burned within him. Wil needed to know more before he formed any theories. “So tell us what you uncovered about her.”

  “You’re not going to believe it. I hardly believe it myself.”

  “Just tell us, Ian.”

  “She goes on lots of trips. She said she was going to Boston to visit her mother, and I believed her. Then last weekend after she left, I booted up her laptop to run defrag. She knew about it. In fact, she asked me to pull maintenance on it because her CPU had been sluggish. Anyway, before I had a chance to start defrag, she got one of those popup IMs.”

  “Instant messages?” Brady asked.

  “Yeah. It verified a funds transfer. A large funds transfer.”

  “How large?” Wil asked.

  “Twenty grand. That struck me odd, so I did some checking into her deleted e-mails. Found out my dear sweet wife has a secret life. She does freelance jobs for thousands of dollars, which is how she affords the travel and the fancy car. I didn’t see anything about a trust fund. Furthermore, when I tried to locate her mother in Boston, there was no mother. No Duncans with a daughter named Sonya Leigh. That’s when I took apart her hard drive.”

  “Freelance? Doing what?”

  “At first, I thought she was a hooker, but no hooker I ever heard of makes that kind of cash. Then I thought maybe she deals drugs because there was mention of shipments and delivery. But it’s not drugs she buys—it’s weapons. Not large arms deals, just the occasional untraceable weapon for the occasional crime.”

  Like the twenty-two found dismantled and tossed into the Suwannee? “Do you have this hard drive that you could show us these files?”

  “What would that prove? I could’ve planted it there. That’s what she’ll say—”

  “She’s missing, Ian. She’s not saying anything.”

  “That’s part of her plan. She wants me to be under suspicion for her disappearance. Then you’ll make the logical leap to those two women who were murdered—”

  “I don’t follow you. Why would we suspect you of those homicides?” Brady asked.

  “This is the part you’re really not going to believe, but I think Sunny shot those two women. She’s a killer, I tell you. She carries a case of guns in the trunk of that Lexus of hers.”

  Wil agreed. He wasn’t going to believe the woman drove with an arsenal in her trunk. “How did you find this out?”

  “She rides her bike to work, so I had plenty of opportunities to search her car.” He seemed embarrassed at the admission. “Not that I did, at least not until this week. She has a false bottom in the trunk. After I figured out how to remove it, I found the guns, all neatly packed in foam casing.”

  Still, Ian could be describing his own arsenal. “Those two women were her friends. Why would she kill either one?”

  “Sunny—or whoever in hell she is—has no friends. She butters you up and uses you, then discards you when she’s through.” Bitterness laced his speech. “Or maybe she just puts a bullet in you.”

  Wil kept a noncommittal tone to his voice he didn’t feel. Something in Ian’s story piqued his subconscious. Excitement buzzed through his nerve endings. “Tell us how she arranged these gun deals.”

  “It’s mostly in code, which is why it took me time to crack. Sometimes the deals are in chats, which for some reason she recorded. Some are e-mails. Again, she saves them all in a phony file marked ‘Deleted Files.’ I guess she never thought I would peek. She has about a dozen false identities, depending on who she’s interacting with.”

  “I’ll repeat my question. Do you have this hard drive to show us?”

  Ian shook his head before Wil finished asking. “She grabbed the laptop and took it with her when she”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—”disappeared.”

  Wil sighed, unable to mask his disappointment. How convenient. “Well, there’s no way to check out your story unless we know the details.”

  “What details do you need?”

  “For starters, what are some of these false identities she uses?”

  “I remember most of them because I tried to trace them. All I checked out were dead people, usually children. Sonya Leigh Duncan, you know about. That’s fake. Then there’s Rita Redoso, who’s buried in New Mexico. Starr Webster turned out to be buried in Hannibal, Missouri. Morgan O’Hare, buried in Pocatello, Idaho. Melissa Hewitt, buried in—”

  Every nerve in Wil’s body jumped to attention. “Did you say Morgan O’Hare?”

  The twenty-two was purchased two years ago by someone in Texas, a Morgan O’Hare.

  Morgan O’Hare died at the age of six about twenty years ago and is burie
d in Idaho.

  Wil contained his impulse to run and call Ronda Lou. Ian may have discovered that Sunny Davis was the real Morgan O’Hare. Or Ian could be the real gun dealer and playing them. He needed more before he’d know how to proceed.

  “Yeah, that’s the one she uses in her weapons trade.” Ian gave a sarcastic laugh. “I was married to her for a year and never suspected a thing.”

  “What else can you tell us?”

  “She has a code name that she uses for her deals that take her out of town—”

  “Tell us about those transactions.” Wil needed to keep an open mind. Although he found the idea of the diminutive blonde as a killer preposterous, he had to admit she would fit Ronda Lou’s profile. Neither Cathleen Hodges nor Kris Knight would’ve given a second thought to going anywhere with Sunny. Elizabeth, either, for that matter. A chill chased down his spine just from thinking of such a possibility. Sunny was smart, and certainly would’ve known something about forensics.

  “God knows what she does. I found references to targets, timetables, deliveries, packages—that sort of thing. Everything vague.”

  Brady glanced at Wil, then leaned across the table close to Ian. Brady wasn’t buying it, judging from his body language. “And you can’t remember the code name she used?”

  Ian propped his chin atop his steepled fingers and closed his eyes. “Conagher, Connor … Conger. That’s it. Conger.”

  “Conger? Jesus Christ!” Wil toppled his chair rushing from the room.

  Whether Ian told the truth or an elaborate and convoluted tale, one thing was certain. Either Sunny or Ian was the hired assassin Cory said was looking for Sofia Desalvo. Wil rushed past dispatch, barged past Zelda, and banged open his office door.

  Elizabeth was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Zelda covered the telephone receiver with her hand and stopped him. He prayed she’d tell him something good—such as Elizabeth had gone to the vending machine for a Coke. Instead, Zelda handed him a message slip. “She’s gone to pick up that woman who was reported missing.”

  He scanned the message, and his blood froze. He struggled to catch his breath. Elizabeth had gone to meet Sunny more than thirty minutes ago.

  Charging out the private entrance, he searched the parking lot in the frantic hope that he’d see the Chevy S-10 pickup. No such luck. His pulse thundered in his ears. He squeezed the doorjamb until his fingers screamed in pain.

  “Holy hell, Elizabeth, what have you done? And where are you now?”

  Wil rushed inside and alerted dispatch, issuing an APB on the Chevy S-10. It’s all he knew to do except pray. And pray he did, that by some miracle Elizabeth could outsmart the hit woman.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Sunny said. “Take me to my place. I’ll pick up my car and drive myself to Jacksonville.”

  Still stopped for the flagger, Elizabeth glanced down at Sunny. “But you said Ian took the keys.”

  “Oh, right.” Sunny’s tone was odd, not at all that of the terrified victim rescued at the Nite Owl. “I forgot. Well, there’s an extra set at the apartment. You can turn right on Osceola and cut through campus.”

  If she returned to the station without Sunny but unharmed, Wilson would forgive her for disobeying his instructions. But he’d be happier if she brought in the witness against Ian. “You need to press charges against Ian before you leave town, Sunny. That’s kidnapping and attempted murder.”

  “What do you know about kidnapping and attempted murder? It’s my word against his.”

  Elizabeth inched up in traffic, the flagger finally turning his Stop sign to Slow. “My brother was kidnapped once and almost killed. I know the charges can stick if the victim testifies.”

  “Well, I guess the secret is in not letting the victim live to testify.”

  “What?” She turned to Sunny, who now held a pistol pointed at Elizabeth’s side. She blinked, but the horrible scene remained. Did Sunny plan to shoot Ian? Why point the weapon at her? “What are you doing with that gun?”

  “Turn right on Osceola.” Sunny’s eyes turned to blocks of ice, her lips thinned to a tight, bloodless line.

  Outside the weather was balmy, but chills besieged Elizabeth’s body. She trembled and shook. When she spoke, her teeth chattered. “For God’s sakes, Sunny, put that thing away.”

  “I said turn right.”

  Elizabeth turned.

  Sunny said, “You know, you are the toughest girl I’ve had to track down. You never slipped up, not one time—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, give me a break. We both know Elizabeth Stevens is an alias that the Feds gave you when they relocated you.”

  Dear God, now what? Was Sunny working for Sullivan? Had she discovered her identity and turned her in? Fear choked Elizabeth, making breathing more and more difficult. But self-preservation kicked in, and she forced a laugh. “You clearly have me confused with someone else—”

  “Nice try, but you can give up the act. I’m onto you.” She craned her neck to see over the dash. “Turn left on Second and cut over to Main. We’re going for a ride out west.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll shoot you. Don’t think I won’t.”

  One look into Sunny’s chilling blue eyes removed all doubt. This crazy woman had no qualms about killing her or anyone else. “You killed Cathleen and Kris, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t do confessions.”

  Maybe not, but she hadn’t denied killing them. Bile rose in Elizabeth’s throat. They’d been mistaken for her and murdered for it. In Sunny’s search for her “target,” she’d simply used the process of elimination. “I—I have to pull over. I’m going to be sick.”

  “Vomit inside your redneck truck. You aren’t pulling over till I say so. Now turn.”

  Gagging, she turned right onto Main and headed out of town. Maybe she should throw up in the truck, hurl all over Sunny. It would serve her right, the murdering fiend. Elizabeth held no hope of getting away from her killer. Instead of making her throw up, the realization calmed her. She had an edge now. She had nothing to lose. All she had to do was use her brain. The worst that could happen? Sunny would kill her; she planned to do that, anyway.

  Elizabeth feigned her way into whining mode. “Please, Sunny, tell me why you’re doing this. I don’t want to die.” She exaggerated her pitiful wailing, but the sentiment was real. She didn’t want to die!

  “Oh, please. For the money, of course. Do you have any idea how much I make as a freelance … cleanup person?”

  “Is cleanup person a euphemism for contract killer?”

  “I told you, I don’t do confessions.”

  “So the parents in Boston and the trust fund—”

  “I haven’t seen my ol’ man since I was eight. And my mother? She died of an overdose while turning tricks. Sorry to destroy your illusions, but honestly, Liz, you’re too gullible.”

  As if she needed reminding of her poor judgment of character. She turned up the whining, hoping Sunny would grow overconfident of her position. “So why me? What have I done?”

  Sunny twisted her position, gripping the pistol with both hands. “I want to collect the second half of my fee. My client wants you taken care of. ‘Why’ isn’t my business.”

  “How can you be sure you have the right person?”

  Sunny’s words confirmed her worst fears. “Process of elimination.”

  Slowing, Elizabeth swerved around a huge tree that blocked half the highway near the Hurricane Lantern parking lot. “You can sit up now. There’re no other cars on the road, and we’ve left town.”

  Sunny took a confirming peek, then pushed herself up in the seat, the pistol never wavering from its aim at Elizabeth’s side. “Okay, just head for the first trailhead in the forest.”

  Road debris slowed their progress, which suited her fine. She wasn’t in any hurry to meet her death. If only she had a way to signal Wilson, to let him know her whereabouts. Even if she
did, would he have time to rescue her? She had to try. Think!

  “What’s at the first trailhead?”

  “That’s where I’ll be leaving you. I’ll bike to my car, which is hidden farther up the road. You couldn’t drive a car with an automatic transmission like everyone else, could you? Otherwise, I could’ve driven away in this and dumped it.”

  “Like you did Cathleen’s van and Kris’s car?”

  Sunny seemed to ignore that. “God, this road’s a mess. I thought I’d be clear of this shit hole town long before now.”

  She’d never seen this side of Sunny, such cold callousness. She’d thought they were friends. What signs had she missed or ignored? What defective gene had robbed her of good judgment when it came to people’s character? “Sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

  “Well, you have. Who’d believe that a fat chick like you ever looked like that hot-looking brunette I’ve been hunting? You’re good—I’ll hand you that.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “Save it. I know who you are. As soon as my spyware picked up multiple visits to courier-journal.com.”

  Damn. She’d thought Ian might have installed spyware. “How did you—”

  “In an e-mail, dumbass. You never suspected a thing.”

  “You’re so right about that,” she murmured.

  Ahead in the road, a small pine tree blocked part of the pavement. On either side loomed large, solid live oaks. In a split second, Elizabeth remembered two important items. First, her Chevy S-10 came with a satellite-linked road service device. She’d paid the monthly subscription but never used the service. Would it work after the hurricane? If so, it could notify authorities of her location.

  Second, she remembered turning off the passenger-side air bag when Harold had ridden in the cab holding Sophie in his lap. However, she had no recollection of turning it back on. Could she deliberately crash the truck and injure Sunny without killing herself? The gun might go off in the impact, but it was a chance she had to take.

  She downshifted as if slowing for the road obstacle. At the last second, she stomped the accelerator and rammed the live oak with the passenger side, crashing through the downed pine tree and catapulting Sunny into the dash. Right before impact, Elizabeth let go of the steering wheel and covered her face with both hands.