One day I was going to have to return all of these calls. But I knew most of them were from people who wanted to check on me, and I didn’t really want to talk about things. Talking would get me nowhere. No, I wanted to figure out who had done this. I wanted Riley to be okay. I wanted my life to go back to the way it was before all of this had happened.
“We made a pretty good team in there, Gabby.”
Parker’s statement pulled me out of my drowning thoughts. “What?” Certainly I hadn’t heard him correctly.
He grinned. “We worked well together.”
“If I remember correctly, when we worked together in the past, we got along like cats and dogs. When we dated too.”
“Maybe we’re both growing up, Gabby. Maybe we’re both growing up.”
I stared at his profile a moment. What had gotten into him?
I looked away. I didn’t want to know, I decided. I just didn’t want to know.
CHAPTER 17
The next day, when the morning sun was still low in the sky and before rush hour traffic hit at full force, I stopped by the hospital. The first thing I noticed when I walked in the ICU was that Riley’s gangbanger neighbor was gone. The area had been cleared, and it looked like no one had ever been there.
Nurse Kellie must have seen me staring at the empty bed. She paused beside me, a clipboard in hand.
“He was sent to the Step Down Unit last night.” She nodded toward the vacant area. “Looks like he’s going to be fine.”
The Step Down Unit. That meant Iceman—or whatever his real name was—was getting better, that he was on the road to recovery. The good news was that the man was far away from Riley now, and all of the man’s little “the gang’s all here” friends wouldn’t have access to the ICU anymore.
But an unexpected emotion rose in me, jetting to the surface with such force that I nearly choked. I let out a cough, trying to cover my reaction. The emotion took me a moment to identify. Was it . . . anger?
That was it. I was angry. Angry that a man who was a criminal, who’d taken the lives of others, was recovering, and my fiancé wasn’t. In the very least, the man had possibly done drugs, stolen, and who knew what else?
I knew life wasn’t fair. I didn’t wear rose-colored glasses. But Riley was a good man, even if he was living some kind of secret life that I didn’t know about.
I shook my head. No, it wasn’t a secret life. But Riley had a secret named Juliette Barnes.
I remembered Parker’s warning about tunnel vision. I had to keep myself in check. Certainly there were possibilities I wasn’t considering.
But I couldn’t think of a single one at the moment.
I nodded at the nurse, realizing I’d been scowling at the empty bed. “Any updates on Riley?” I changed the subject.
She pressed her lips together, grimness coming over her features. “No updates. He’s still hanging on.”
Thanks to those machines, I thought. Without them . . . his life on this earth would be over. Too bad I didn’t have the same confidence in Dr. Moreno.
“Take care, Ms. St. Claire.” She hurried off.
I wanted to ask God some really hard questions. How could He heal a criminal, yet leave Riley’s life on the line? Where was the fairness in that? I thought God was a God of justice. It seemed like the ultimate wrong had been done, though.
I lowered myself in the chair beside Riley, staring at that handsome face that had once been so full of life. I remembered how his blue eyes could sparkle with amusement or how they could see right into my soul. His eyes had been intelligent and compassionate and had shown so much about both his thoughts and his heart.
Riley and I had come far in our relationship. In the beginning, I’d thought that Riley was just using me to earn him points on his Sunday school records. But I’d discovered he was sincere. I’d learned the story about his past, about what he’d gone through to come back to his relationship with God. I knew his faith was more than superficial.
Riley had believed in me when other people didn’t. He’d loved me in my unlovable times, sticking with me until I realized that my life without God was empty.
But suddenly, life with God was feeling pretty empty too. I didn’t want to admit it. Did good Christians dare say or think things like that? I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be stronger, just like everyone thought I was. But I wasn’t.
I was mad at God. And I had no idea what to do about it.
“I could really use one of our talks right now,” I mumbled, squeezing Riley’s hand. My voice cracked. “You’re going to come out of this. Right? You just need a little more time for things to heal inside that brain of yours.”
Silence answered. Instead, I heard the beeping of the heart monitor. The sound of the breathing machine filling and expelling air. The patter of nurses in the background.
But not Riley.
I stayed with him a few more minutes. I thought I’d pulled myself together. I hadn’t cried in a few days. But, as I sat beside him now, the tears wanted to fall.
I was Gabby St. Claire. I was funny and sarcastic and strong.
But right now, I felt like none of those things.
I kissed Riley’s forehead and started toward the door. I had more to do today. Even though life felt like it was on hold, some parts had to go on.
I stepped into the waiting room, half expecting to see Riley’s parents . . . at least his dad. But he wasn’t there. I’d heard that Mrs. Thomas was doing better and had been moved into a regular room.
I still had mixed feelings on whether or not I should check on her. On one hand, it seemed like the right thing to do. On the other hand, my presence might raise her blood pressure again. The last thing I wanted was to send her into another heart attack. Enough lives had already been destroyed throughout this tragedy. I didn’t want any more grief.
As I was about to get on the elevator, my cellphone rang. I recognized the number as America Live, a radio talk show hosted by my neighbor Bill McCormick. Why in the world were they calling me?
Familiar anxiety began to tingle the surface of my skin. I licked my lips before answering. I fully expected to hear one of Bill’s assistants. Instead, I heard Bill. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
“Gabby?”
“It’s me. What’s going on?”
“Listen, there’s something I need to tell you. Something important. You in a good place right now?”
I didn’t ask him if he meant physically or emotionally or spiritually. Instead, I said, “I’m ready.” I braced myself.
“I’ve already talked to the police about this, just to let you know. Ever since that whole Milton Jones thing went down in the area, I’ve been getting phone calls from people claiming to be Jones.”
Jones had left me a couple of cryptic messages over the airwaves as a means of threatening Riley and me. It didn’t surprise me that there were sickos out there getting a kick out of doing the same thing. Some people were just twisted. They’d do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame.
“What’s all of this have to do with me?”
“We just got another phone call from someone claiming to be Jones.”
“Another fake? What did the person say this time?”
“A couple of things this caller mentioned sent up red flags. That’s why I’m taking this one more seriously.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Your time is coming.’”
Against my better instincts, I shivered. “I’m still not sure why you’re calling. Why does that raise a red flag? Anyone could have gotten a quote like that from their favorite horror movie.”
“Then he said you should have left a note for the owner of that black Mercedes. They’re not going to be happy about what happened to their headlight in the parking garage.”
***
I went directly from the hospital to the police station where Adams worked. The officer behind the front desk—a forty-something female with dark hair pulled back
into a tight bun—might have sensed my agitation, but she still moved in slow motion. Or maybe I was impatient.
Just as she was hanging up the phone and telling me that the detective wasn’t in, Adams walked in the door and I forgot about the irritating woman behind the desk.
“I need to talk to you,” I started, falling into step beside him.
He glanced down at me, not slowing. “Is it Riley? Is he okay?”
His question threw me off for a minute. “He’s . . . I don’t know. He’s not okay. He’s the same. It’s about something else.” I tried to brush off a mix of being flustered and frustrated, a combination I affectionately called “flusterated.”
He nodded toward the door in the distance. “Come to my office. I only have a few minutes, though.”
“Because you’re so busy with this case?” I scrambled to keep up with him.
He stopped and stared at me a moment. “I wish this was my only case, Gabby, and that I could pour all of my time into it. The reality of being a detective, and you know this, is that cases continue to get piled on you. I have no social life, and I hardly get any sleep. I still don’t give each case the time I wish I could.”
“I know you’re working hard,” I conceded. I knew that being a detective wasn’t an easy life. But most of the guys who did this job lived to arrest the bad guys. Adams was no different. He worked hard, he was determined, but he was also tired and stretched too thin.
He unlocked the door by punching in some numbers on the keypad there and pointed me to his desk. I’d been here before. I knew where it was.
I’d even been here enough times that I recognized some officers and raised my chin to them in a casual hello. The fact was, I should be working with these guys. I had for a whole month before I’d lost my job with the medical examiner. Not that I was bitter or anything.
I sat across from Adams. He stared at me a moment, his eyes sagging with exhaustion. He laced his fingers together and rested them across his stomach. “What’s going on, Gabby?”
“Milton Jones called America Live and left me another message. He’s still alive.” I figured Adams already knew that information, but I wanted to watch his reaction.
He stared at me another moment, said nothing, then scooted closer to his desk. “We have no proof it was Jones who called the station, Gabby.”
His words were calm and even. His gaze was steady and level. But—and maybe I was imagining this—I thought I saw admiration in his gaze.
“He knew about the Mercedes in the parking garage,” I insisted.
“The shooter knew about the car. The shooter could be pretending to be Jones. He could have called the radio station, hoping to bolster your assumptions. He could have been hoping to either feed people’s fears that Jones is still alive or buy himself more time to get away by planting a red herring. Most likely, this person who shot at you yesterday is playing games.”
“It’s a pretty serious game they’re playing.”
“I won’t argue with that. Shooting in a public place is serious, to say the least. Most likely, this person is the same one who shot Riley. That makes him deadly.”
“But it doesn’t make him Jones?” I frowned. Why did I keep coming back to Jones?
“Jones is dead. You saw it. I saw it. We both know it.”
“He could have survived.”
“He didn’t.”
“There’s no body,” I continued.
“I understand your apprehension. And you should be apprehensive. Someone shot at you yesterday. Someone put your fiancé in the hospital. But to think these cases are related isn’t necessarily correct.”
“It isn’t necessarily incorrect either.” I shook my head. “Okay, another question. Were there any stolen cars around the Elizabeth River around the time Jones was shot?”
He stared at me. “You think he climbed out of the river, stole a car, and drove away?”
I kept my chin up. “It’s an angle that’s worth considering.”
“If it will make you feel better, I’ll check with the Chesapeake police and see what’s been reported.”
“How about Garrett Mercer? Did you check him out yet?”
Adams looked away for a minute. Was that a sign that he was about to tell me a half-truth? “We talked to Mercer. I did hear that he’d confronted Riley. But we have no reason to believe he’d shoot Riley.”
“I’d just met with him before I was shot at in the parking garage. He knew where I’d be.”
“You need to trust me to do this job, Gabby.”
I kept going. “How about the license plate I got off that car in the parking garage?”
“It was stolen. We’re still trying to track down more details on who might have stolen it, but, for now, we’ve got nothing.” He studied me for a minute before finally asking, “Are you still looking for another position in forensics, even? Or are you content with crime scene cleaning?”
I shrugged, realizing how disappointed I truly was that I hadn’t been offered the job. “I had an interview. They chose someone with more education.” It pained me to say the words.
He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should think about getting your master’s then.”
He had a good point, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it at the moment. “Right now, I’m just thinking about Riley.”
One of his eyebrows arched. “You’re thinking about Jones.”
“Maybe I am.” I must be way too easy to read. “But I’m thinking about Jones in connection to Riley.”
“Maybe you’re focusing on the wrong person.”
“Why do people keep saying that?” I tried to bite my tongue, but I couldn’t. He was used to my candor anyway. “Maybe you’re the one with the wrong focus, Detective. Maybe you’re so determined that Jones is dead, that you can’t see the truth before your eyes.”
“Maybe you’re only seeing what you want to see,” he countered.
I stared at Adams, trying to figure out how to redirect my questions. “Is there anything you want to tell me about Jones?” I waited for him to admit that he may not be dead, that he may have snatched someone else.
Instead, Adams shook his head. “No. Like I just said. He’s dead.”
I continued to stare. I hated the fact that I couldn’t let on that I knew about Juliette Barnes. I wanted to say her name so badly. But I’d be breaking my promise to Parker if I did, and then he’d never trust me again.
Finally, I nodded and started to rise. I guessed there was nothing else I could do here.
“Since you’re here, there is one more thing I can tell you, Gabby.”
Hope surged in me, and I sat back down. “Okay. I’ll take what I can get.”
“We’re closing in on a suspect in Riley’s assault.”
“You waited this long to tell me?”
His lip twitched. “I could hardly get a word in.”
I couldn’t even argue with that. “Who? Who is it?”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you yet. But the evidence is mounting. We’re hoping to go to the D.A. and present our case soon. If so, we’ll make an arrest and press charges.”
“Not even a hint of who this person might be?”
“I can say this. Information you gave us helped lead us to this person.”
“But I haven’t given you any information.” Had I?
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Oh, but you have.”
***
Of course, for the rest of the day, I was thinking about what kind of information I might have given Adams. I kept coming up blank.
Who could it be? Garrett Mercer? Todd Harrison? Milton Jones? Someone not even on my radar?
Though I’d been avoiding my apartment, I stopped back by there to regroup. I flipped on the news, heated up some lasagna, and poured a glass of water.
As a story about an approaching hurricane filled the airwaves, I sat down and nibbled on my food, not really having an appetite, but knowing I needed to keep my energy up.
&nbs
p; I kept thinking about what Clarice had said. She’d overheard Jones talking about ice cream and money. I wasn’t sure how far the information on ice cream would get me. Most likely nowhere.
The money, though, was bugging me. If someone had left Jones money and he still had access to it, there was no limit to what he could do.
I needed to put this theory about Jones to rest, once and for all.
I’d encountered a man named Freddy Mansfield last time I’d been investigating Jones. Freddy owned an online auction that sold memorabilia commemorating killers. It was a sick business, and I thought Freddy Mansfield was a sick man for engaging in that kind of company. But maybe Freddy had some answers for me now. He had, after all, corresponded with Jones when the man had been in prison.
What if Jones had contacted Freddy about selling some of his stuff? It could mean a major profit for both of them. I’d seen it firsthand that people were willing to pay big bucks for those types of things.
There was one other fact lingering in the back of my mind. Jones always killed his victims on the sixth day. Juliette had been taken two days ago—and that was an approximate time. Her neighbor had said he hadn’t seen her in a while.
That meant my time was ticking away.
I abandoned my pasta and went to sit at my computer. I did a search on Freddy’s site to see what new items he had up for auction. He had some sick stuff. He had autographed pictures, hair samples, a straw supposedly used by a serial killer. Every time I thought of his business, I felt sick to my stomach. This stuff should be illegal.
Then I saw a photo. Of Jones beside his accomplice, The Godmother. That had to be taken just in the past couple of weeks. Until then, he was in jail and would have been wearing his jail uniform. Besides, based on the wrinkles around his eyes and his thinning hair, this wasn’t an old photo. Even if Jones and his accomplice had known each other before he’d been arrested, this wasn’t a picture from that time.
How had Freddy Mansfield gotten ahold of that? It looked like I needed to talk to him again. I also checked the rest of his site and found a wig that he claimed was Jones’. Funny because it looked an awful lot like the wig Jones was wearing when he met me at a house, pretending to be the homeowner.
To Love, Honor, and Perish Page 14