Carnal Vengeance

by Marilyn Campbell

  A faint knock interrupted her analysis. Assuming it was David, returning for some reason, she opened the door... then wished she hadn't. The visitor was Bobbi Renquist, in her drab, IRS agent persona.

  Looking meek and a little frightened, Bobbi asked, "May I come in please?"

  Holly considered the possibility that this woman could be a murderess, but Bobbi stepped inside before Holly could think of how to turn her away. "It's very late," she said, rather than what she was thinking.

  "I know. I've been waiting for you to come home all evening."

  Holly cocked her head at her. "Why—Wait a minute. How did you get up here without the guard calling me?" She felt her fingers growing cold again.

  Bobbi's brown-eyed gaze skittered away as she spoke. "I showed the guard my ID and he let me pass."

  "Oh, that's great. So now he'll think I'm being investigated by the IRS."

  "Better that than the FBI."

  Holly crossed her arms protectively. "What do you mean?"

  Bobbi sighed. "Please. Can we sit down? I'm here as a friend, I swear."

  Holly motioned her toward the couch and sat stiffly on a chair opposite her.

  "Where were you last night?" Bobbi asked quietly.

  "I was in Maryland all weekend, with a friend."

  "Good. I was certain it couldn't be you."

  Holly knew exactly what she meant, but asked anyway. "I couldn't be what?"

  Bobbi narrowed her eyes in confusion. "Why, the killer of course. Surely you heard the news about Billy O'Day."

  "I heard, but I haven't decided what to do about it yet."

  Bobbi gasped. "Dear god. You can't be thinking of actually doing something about it. You mustn't. We could all end up being investigated. Things could come out that have nothing to do with the murders. I—I could lose my job."

  "Two men have been murdered. I can't just pretend that I don't know they had something in common."

  "Yes, you can," Bobbi said, nervousness making her voice crack. "Rachel is on the case. She'll handle everything without any of us being implicated. All she wants us to do is make sure we have alibis, just in case the worst happens and someone makes the connection. That was one of the reasons I came to see you. But since you were with a friend, you're covered."

  "And everyone else?" Holly asked warily.

  Bobbi picked at something on her skirt and answered without looking up. "Rachel said everyone else is taken care of."

  "But you're not so sure, are you?" Holly ventured. "Do you think Rachel killed them?"

  Bobbi's head snapped up. "Rachel? Heavens no. She and I have been friends since high school. She would never do anything to jeopardize the rest of us, no matter what she says when she's... not feeling well."

  Holly had to find out what the woman thought. "Then who?"

  Bobbi frowned. "I shouldn't say it. Rachel said she didn't do it, and I should believe her, but it's just that she's so blinded by her."

  Holly waited, sensing that Bobbi wanted to share her opinion, despite her hesitancy.

  "I think it's that bitch. If she could kill her own husbands, Ziegler and O'Day would be nothing to her."

  "Erica?"

  "Of course, Erica. She's mean and vicious and has no conscience. For some reason, Rachel is too infatuated to see her for what she really is."

  Holly's brain was frantically assimilating all the different hints Bobbi was dropping. "You mean Rachel and Erica..."

  Bobbi nodded. "Please don't think badly of Rachel. We each have different ways of coping with what happened to us. Rachel happens to prefer the company of women to men. But Erica, that's a different story. She doesn't have feelings for either sex. She just does whatever will most benefit Erica."

  "Are you suggesting that Erica not only killed her husbands, but also Ziegler and O'Day, and Rachel would protect her?"

  "Rachel would do anything for Erica."

  "Even murder?"

  "No!" Bobbi exclaimed. "Rachel wouldn't kill someone any more than you or I, or Cheryl or April, for that matter. Except in the line of duty, of course. That's different. No. It can't be Rachel. It has to be Erica."

  Methinks thou dost protest too much, Holly thought. "Why are you telling me this?"

  Bobbi got up from the couch and walked across the room. For a moment, she just stood there, with her back to Holly, then she removed her glasses, straightened her spine, and turned slowly around.

  Holly had encountered Bobbi's other personality before, but seeing the change occur before her eyes was much more disturbing. It was not only the glasses and posture that had changed, Bobbi's whole demeanor became strong and aggressive.

  "To warn you," she answered in a deeper, clearer voice than she'd been using before. "You're new. I was afraid you might feel obligated to report what you know, and you can't possibly understand all the repercussions that would have on the rest of us. Besides that, I think you should consider the risk you'd be taking. If Erica thought you were going to talk to someone other than Rachel, she might stop you from talking to anyone ever again."

  Holly was stunned at her own naïveté. It hadn't even occurred to her that the murderer or murderess, whoever it was, could turn on her.

  Roberta laughed lightly. "Finally got the picture, huh? Just keep what you know to yourself and no harm will come to you. You haven't told anyone else about us, have you?"

  Holly thought about her confession to Philip the other day, and how much her parents knew, but there was no reason to put them at risk as well. "No. I haven't told anyone. But now that you mention it, there are other people who know about Ziegler, O'Day, and most of the other men, too. Besides the rest of the Little Sister Society and any people they may have told, Cheryl Wallace waved a list of names on national television. Who knows where that list ended up?"

  Roberta laughed again. "Very good, Holly. You just came to the same conclusion that the FBI team of investigators arrived at... with Rachel's guidance. O'Day was drugged and his genitals were removed, exactly like with Ziegler. Also, just like the first time, a message was left behind with the words, 'Just Punishment for a Rapist'.

  "Since Cheryl was the only person known to have a relevant motive and her alibis are airtight, the general consensus is that the perpetrator is a militant feminist who's gone off the deep end. Since none of us publicly fall into that category, there's no reason for anyone to look our way. So you see, there's no need for you to do anything about this matter yourself. No need at all."

  Holly might have been more receptive if the woman offering her such assurance had been the same one that had walked in her door fifteen minutes ago, but this one, her alter ego, gave her the creeps.

  "I understand you've already passed the Frampton information on to a reporter. Rachel and I are very concerned about you, Holly. The last thing we need right now is some nosy reporter in the middle of this mess. You can't do anything to stop him at this point, but we strongly suggest you forget the idea of staying in contact with him."

  Holly nodded, though she had no intention of taking suggestions, no matter how strong, from either Bobbi, Roberta or Rachel.

  Roberta walked toward the door, then faced Holly with an expression that was as threatening as her words. "Remember what I said. No talking to anyone about us, or I guarantee you, you'll regret it."

  Holly locked the door as soon as she ushered Bobbi out. Her head was pounding and her stomach burned with acid. What should she do?

  The safest course of action would be to follow Bobbi's orders. Let Rachel handle it. Don't talk to anyone.

  What had Bobbi meant by saying that she'd regret it? What could she do to her if she told anyone about what Ziegler and O'Day had in common, or that there was a group of women systematically seeking revenge against the list of men? The answer came easily enough. If either Erica or Roberta were a cold-blooded butcher, they wouldn't hesitate to kill Holly as well.

  But what if they weren't? What if none of the women had done anything more than what they had to
ld her about originally? After all, none of the other men on the list had ever been physically hurt. That fact, more than any others, seemed to point to the killer being an outsider. The murderer could turn out to be a total stranger and going to the authorities would call attention to herself and the other women unnecessarily.

  However, that still didn't explain why Roberta would threaten her. If none of the women were responsible for the murders, why the threat? It seemed much too extreme just to maintain their privacy. The more she considered possibilities, the more frightened and bewildered she became.

  Her thoughts abruptly turned to David. What if Jerry Frampton was next on the killer's list? Could David be walking into a deadly situation unknowingly? She should have told him everything as soon as she heard about O'Day, but her brain hadn't been working fast enough to overrule her natural tendency to keep her problems to herself.

  Curling up on her couch, she let herself think about David. Her scheme had clearly backfired. She may have captivated him, but he had ensnared her just as securely. She genuinely cared about him. No, that was too mild. She was crazy about him, thought about him constantly... couldn't get enough of him. Though she knew nothing permanent could come of it, that didn't stop her from acknowledging the fact that she had fallen in love with David Wells.

  She should have confessed everything that afternoon but now she couldn't think of any way to rectify that. He had never given her a phone number. She called information, but he wasn't listed. Stomach acid started churning again as she realized that since she didn't know where he lived, she couldn't go to see him before he left in the morning. She didn't even know what airline he would be flying out on.

  The only thing she could do was call his paper first thing in the morning and leave a message for him to contact her as soon as possible. She couldn't count on him calling her as she'd asked him to, but she was fairly sure he would keep in touch with his editor.

  Holly tried to get some rest, but concern for David, as much as Bobbi's upsetting visit, kept her awake.

  By the time she reached her office in the morning, she knew she had to seek someone else's advice and Philip was the most logical person, since she had already confided in him.

  His reaction took her by surprise.

  "Bobbi was absolutely right," he firmly pronounced. "You mustn't talk to anyone else—especially not the authorities. And considering the fact that Bobbi did threaten you, I'd avoid the women in that group from now on. You could be putting yourself in serious danger, to say nothing about the fact that you could also be implicating a lot of innocent people who could be hurt by any action you take at this point."

  He rose from his chair and came around his desk to where she was standing, too nervous to sit. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, almost secretive. "I'm sure it didn't occur to you, but those women are not the only ones that could become suspects. If you reveal what you know, sooner or later, the investigation would turn to the loved ones who might have acted against the men on behalf of the victims."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just for a minute, pretend you're an FBI agent, and you don't know me personally. Couldn't it be possible that I committed those murders to get revenge for you?"

  "Philip, really—"

  "Now, think about it. Everyone knows I'm totally devoted to you. I've often said I'd do anything for you. The first murder occurred shortly after you joined the Little Sister Society. Add the fact that I have no alibi for the times of either murder. It just so happens, I was home alone."

  She made a face at him. "That's ridiculous. You know Billy O'Day didn't do anything to me."

  He shrugged. "Can we prove that? Or better yet, couldn't someone suggest that I might purposely choose him to make it look like the murders had nothing to do with you?"

  "I still don't think—"

  "Then consider something else. Your father was completely irrational when I first spoke to him about you. He made threats. If the bureau started checking on your parents, what do you think they'd come up with?"

  "But he was in Butler, Pennsylvania, and the murders occurred in Washington and Philadelphia."

  "Not far enough to eliminate him as a suspect."

  "Philip, please tell me you don't really believe that Pop—"

  He touched his fingers to her lips. "Of course not. I was only making a point. Every one of the women who were hurt probably have someone in their life who would like to see those men punished. But I think you should know, I called your parents the evening Ziegler was killed, mainly to see how Bernie had taken the news of Ziegler's appointment. They weren't at their house or the restaurant. I didn't think much of it at the time, but now..." He shook his head. "Who knows what someone else would think? Please promise me, you won't try to do anything about this on your own."

  She remembered that her parents had gone away this past weekend as well. Where had her father said? The Poconos. Perhaps an hour's drive from Philadelphia. She shook her head and wondered how she could even think of such a thing.

  Considering all the complications Philip had brought up made her more confused than she already was, but she reluctantly gave him her promise not to do anything that would put herself or her loved ones at risk. To herself she amended, until I can reach David.

  David would never advise her to do nothing. She didn't have the nerve to act on her own, but surely he would offer support and advise her of the wisest course to take. She only hoped she hadn't waited too long to turn to him for help.

  Chapter 16

  Jerry Frampton reread the article on the front page of his morning newspaper. It said a lot about Billy O'Day's career, but very little about how he died. The little it did say, however, combined with what he knew was enough to make him suspicious.

  He had thought it was terribly ironic that Tim was killed right after he was vindicated by the Senate committee and got the appointment he'd wanted so badly. It hadn't occurred to Jerry that Cheryl Wallace could have anything to do with that murder. He figured, after the embarrassment of the hearing, she would have no choice but to crawl back into her hole and never come out again.

  But now, with O'Day being what the news called "butchered in a manner similar to the murder of Senator Ziegler," Jerry was not so sure about Wallace's forfeit of the game. It could be that she had decided to change the rules.

  Considering the time between his conversation with Tim and Tim's murder, he assumed Tim never had the chance to contact a reporter as they'd discussed. Otherwise, the news would be full of suppositions about the women somehow being involved in the two men's deaths.

  Was he next on the list? For his own protection, he thought it might be best if he stepped forward and told the whole story himself.

  Then again, the public was so fickle, he couldn't predict how they'd react to learning that Ziegler had set Wallace up to be raped and that he'd been one of the men who'd used her, as well as others. Advertising in Jock or even actual sales of the magazine, could be affected. Nor could he predict how the senators would respond to having their poor judgment exposed—his magazine could suddenly be labeled pornography and pulled off the general newsstands.

  For the time being, he decided to keep what he knew to himself, but to beef up security around his estate. No one could kill him if they couldn't get to him.

  * * *

  Bleary-eyed but surfacing, David scanned the interior of the airport coffee shop and wondered how long he had been vegetating there in his alcoholic fog. He popped three more aspirins into his mouth, swallowing them with a huge gulp of black coffee. He judged the state of his intoxication by how many seconds passed before he realized the scalding liquid had burned his tongue. The flight to Miami had been piloted by a character out of a Stephen King novel. He didn't care how long it took—when it was time to return to D.C., he was taking the train.

  It took one hour and two more cups of coffee to clear his head enough to leave the airport. Guessing in advance what his condition would be, he had made arr
angements to pick up a rental car at his hotel, which was only a short cab ride from the airport.

  As a reporter, he probably would have had little trouble getting an interview with Jerry Frampton, but the man was not going to hand himself up just because someone had taken a picture of him with an ex-convict. David knew he needed more than that, and Mick D'Angelo was the source that could provide it. As was his way, David didn't have a specific plan. He would just follow his nose and see where it took him.

  By late afternoon he was refreshed and ready to check out his first lead: the Hon Choi restaurant on Miami's South Beach. Tommy Li Chen, the proprietor for twenty-three years, was not only in, but very available for an interview by a reporter. When he realized the questions did not involve the quality of his cuisine, however, he shed a considerable amount of his Oriental charm.

  "I tell you same thing I tell other man. Jerry Frampton, big shot now. No come here some time. But I remember and tell people big shot eat here. They come back again to see. No harm. Good for business."

  "Wait a minute. You said another man was asking about Frampton?"

  "Yes. Private investigator, he say."

  That would make sense. Someone had unearthed the facts that had been passed to him. The question was, why? "What about Mick D'Angelo? I understand they used to meet here."

  "Yes. Some years ago. Mr. D'Angelo still come in once in while." Li Chen glanced furtively around him before speaking. "He different kind of big shot in Miami. Bad kind."

  "Did you tell the other man who was here anything about D'Angelo?"

  "Same thing I tell you. He good buddy of big shot Frampton. I hear him bragging to lady friend last time he here."

  "Any idea how I could find D'Angelo?"

  Li Chen's straight eyebrows arched slightly. "Better you ask girls on Seventy-Ninth Street. They not charge much to talk to handsome boy like you." He gave David a wink, then excused himself to supervise the dinner preparations.