Merciless

by Mary Burton

  Malcolm sat straighter. “That was the museum that Angie Carlson’s father managed.”

  “How do you know that?” Sinclair asked.

  “Made it a point to know all I could about her during the Dixon trial.”

  Sinclair nodded and sat back. “Interesting coincidence.”

  “Is it?” Malcolm challenged. “What can you tell us about Willow?”

  Sinclair dug out a picture of a young woman wearing a turquoise ruffled blouse and blond hair curled back off her face. She was smiling, and blue eyes sparked as if she knew a secret. “Who did she work for at the museum?”

  She scanned the page. “Wow. Frank Carlson. She was his secretary for two years.”

  Malcolm’s heart raced faster. “What does the file say about Fay Willow?”

  “She was a smart, efficient woman with ambition. She liked the finer things. Months before she vanished, coworkers said she traded in her old car for a much nicer one. She also started wearing fancy jewelry and clothes. Friends figured she was sleeping with her boss, Frank.”

  “Could his wife have gotten wind of what was going on?” Garrison said. “Maybe that’s why she left him.”

  Sinclair flipped through more pages. “According to this, police interviewed Frank, who had great alibis, but they never talked to his wife. The officer did note that Carlson looked agitated. Carlson mentioned that his wife had just left him.”

  Garrison drummed his fingers on the table. “Any mention of a Blue Rayburn in the file?”

  She flipped through pages. “He was the museum’s head of security. He was interviewed but said nothing of real help to the detectives.”

  “Were any of her bones missing?” Malcolm asked.

  She pulled the autopsy report and quickly read through it. “Several bones were missing. But because she was found outside, it was assumed animals carried them off.” Sinclair flipped through a few more pages. “Guess who else was mentioned?”

  “All ears, Sinclair,” Malcolm said.

  “Darius Cross.” She smiled, pleased with herself as she scanned the page. “He was seen with Willow a couple of weeks before she vanished. The museum was holding a big party, and Darius was seen flirting with Willow. Rumor had it they were having an affair. Cross was briefly interviewed, but nothing came of it.”

  “Interesting.” Malcolm shrugged. Louise Cross, Darius’s wife, might well have known Fay Willow. Mrs. Cross was serving three life sentences in prison for killing three women last year. “Mrs. Cross probably knew her.”

  “She’s been mute since her arrest,” Garrison said.

  “What if we enlisted the help of her son Micah?” Rokov said. “He was helpful last year.”

  “As I remember, she refused to see him as well,” Garrison said.

  “She has requested interviews with Eva,” Malcolm said.

  “No.” Garrison shook his head. “Eva is not going to talk to that woman. She’s been through enough.”

  Malcolm glanced at his partner, wondering whether the dark circles under his eyes suggested that he and Eva had made up or not. Whatever their situation, the tenor of Garrison’s voice spoke of his love for the woman he was protecting.

  “Well, we know Mrs. Cross couldn’t have killed Sierra Day,” Malcolm said. “But she did know Ms. Willow, a woman who’d been flirting with her husband.” He rubbed the tension from the back of his neck.

  “Louise Cross very well could have known the woman,” Rokov offered. “Might have some insight.”

  “There’ve got to be other people who knew Fay Willow,” Malcolm said.

  “Want me to reopen Willow’s case?” Sinclair said. “I could try and track down the old witnesses.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “Another detail,” Rokov said. “Day’s husband is pushing to get the remains of his wife returned. He wants to bury her.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Why would he suddenly care about her? He had nothing nice to say about her when we spoke to him.”

  “He’s the grieving widower now,” Sinclair said.

  “What is his insurance payout on the wife?” Garrison said.

  “Zip,” said Malcolm. “Her death does save him a costly payout when the divorce is final.”

  “He’s got the flair for the dramatic like his late wife,” Garrison said. “Maybe killing his wife just wasn’t dramatic enough.”

  Malcolm thought about the actor’s smooth hands and his clean desk. “It’s messy work stripping bones. I don’t see Humphrey doing it.”

  “Then why worry about giving his wifeaproper burial?”

  “He cares about appearances.” He’d seen this often enough when he’d interviewed people. “Better to play the part of the grieving widower than the angry ex-husband.”

  “Has Dr. Henson released the remains?” Garrison asked.

  “No. I asked her to hold on to them.”

  “Good. Let the guy stew.”

  Chapter 17

  Friday, October 7, 6 P.M.

  The Cross mansion was located just north of Mount Vernon and sandwiched between Route One and the Potomac River. The rolling riverfront land in this area was premium and beyond expensive. A half acre could run millions. The Cross family owned six acres along the river. If you have to ask about the land’s cost, then you can’t afford it, Malcolm mused.

  Garrison drove down a gravel driveway lined with cypress. “Easy to imagine we’ve left the real world.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “I know the rich put their pants on just like me, but they are a different breed of cat. They live in a rarified league of their own.”

  “They make their own rules.” Hostility rarely crept into Garrison’s voice as it did now.

  “I guess from your tone you and Eva are still on the outs?”

  “She won’t talk to me.”

  “Go by King’s and see her.”

  “I did. She wasn’t there. King said she took a couple of days off to finish a paper. She’ll be in tonight.”

  “And?”

  “And one way or another she’s going to tell me what’s eating her.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Best of luck.”

  Garrison parked the car at the top of a circular drive behind two construction vehicles. The name on the truck doors read LANE CONSTRUCTION.

  Black lacquer covered the front doors and reflected the afternoon light. The house was constructed of an ancient brick, and the windows had the wavy appearance of hand-blown glass. The house screamed old money, but the Cross family was anything but. Darius Cross had grown up poor and had clawed and scraped his way to the top. It was often said of him, “He’d drive a pike in his mother’s back to get ahead.”

  No truer words had been spoken. Cross had locked up his homicidal wife in a home for the mentally ill. She’d languished there almost twenty years. And then when Cross realized he was dying, he had turned his wife free so she could kill and maim the last of his enemies.

  Garrison tightened his hands on the wheel. “I hate this guy.”

  His partner rarely spoke so frankly. “Micah’s been nothing but helpful.”

  “I know. But he has a way of worming under my skin.”

  “You’re tense about Eva. Why don’t you let me do the talking?”

  Garrison rattled change in his pocket. “I’ll be fine. I won’t blow this.”

  “Let me do the talking.”

  Garrison’s jawline tightened and then released. “Sure, fine.”

  Seconds after they rang the front bell it opened. A woman dressed in a maid’s uniform greeted them. They showed her their badges; she nodded and invited them in to the foyer.

  Inside the house, the sound of hammers clanged and banged from the upstairs. The scent of fresh paint wafted through the house. “Doing a bit of work?” Malcolm said.

  The woman nodded. “Mr. Cross is redoing the house top to bottom. Said it’s time for a change.”

  So the new head of th
e clan was feeling his oats and was ready to make his mark.

  The maid escorted them into a side room. When they’d been here a year ago the room had been filled with heavy mission-style furniture, and the walls had been papered in a heavy green pattern. Now a light beige coated the walls, and the antique furniture had been replaced with Scandinavian-style furniture that gave the room a more modern feel.

  A fire crackled in a large stone hearth as it had a year ago, but above the mantel the portrait of Darius had been replaced with an impressionistic painting that featured light blues and hints of red. The photos of Micah and his twin Josiah were also gone.

  “Doing his best to erase all traces of the old man,” Malcolm said.

  “Can’t blame me, can you?” The response came from behind them.

  The detectives turned and found Micah Cross standing on the threshold. He wore jeans, a black turtle-neck, loafers, and horn-rimmed glasses. His hair was slicked back.

  Malcolm opted not to respond to the comment. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “I’m a friend to the police. I am here to serve.” He held out his hand, indicating the two should sit. “What can I help you with today?”

  “We’re investigating a current murder that matches an older killing that took place almost thirty years ago. The victim’s name was Fay Willow. Rumor had it she was having an affair with your father.”

  Micah raised a brow. “I was two then, and I have no memory of this woman. But it wouldn’t be a stretch to say my father had a mistress. He had many.”

  “Would your mother have known Fay?” Malcolm asked.

  Micah frowned. “Hard to tell what Mother knows and doesn’t know.”

  “Would you be willing to visit her with us and ask her a few questions about the woman?”

  “She’s refused my last six visits. And I doubt she’d speak to either of you. She would talk to Eva.”

  Garrison’s jaw tightened, and a small muscle pulsed. “No.”

  Micah smiled and shifted his gaze to Garrison. “How is Eva doing? I think about her a lot. I worry about her.”

  Garrison looked relaxed, but Malcolm knew tension rippled through his partner’s limbs. “No need to worry.”

  If Micah sensed the tension, he didn’t care. “You two are still together, I assume?”

  Garrison grinned, a sign of danger. “So you won’t visit your mother with us?”

  “It would be a waste of time.” Micah’s eyes narrowed barely a fraction.

  “Do you have any papers, records, or diaries that might have belonged to your father? Something that might have referenced Fay?”

  “My father burned all his personal papers before he died.” Micah shifted his attention back to Eva. “Is Eva still working at King’s? I’ve been meaning to visit her. She’s come so far. I hear she graduates in the spring.”

  Garrison’s grin did not waver. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cross.”

  “Can’t you answer a few simple questions about Eva? Deep connections run between us.”

  For a split second, fury blazed in Garrison’s eyes. “No, they do not.”

  I’ll meet you at King’s. Seven o’clock.

  The text Olivia had sent Malcolm had been uncharacteristically brief.

  Normally, Olivia sent chatty texts that highlighted tidbits from her day.

  The kids had music today, and their winter-program songs sound great.

  Had a faculty meeting at lunch … so boring.

  After bus duty, I’m off to the gym.

  But not today.

  This text sounded like an order.

  Malcolm had been back in town for three days, and he’d yet to see his girlfriend Olivia. They had spoken on the phone a couple of times, but with the Day investigation going full throttle, he’d not been able to break away. This terse text reminded him he owed her a meal and a visit.

  When she’d chosen King’s he’d almost said no. They’d never eaten there as a couple. King’s was where he ate with cops. And until this moment he’d been careful to keep his personal and private lives separate. But she’d been complaining that he compartmentalized too much, so he’d said yes.

  He had arrived on King Street a few minutes early, found a great parking spot, and realized he had time for a quick shower and shave. So he’d jogged across the street to the deco building and climbed the steps to his third-floor apartment.

  He pulled off clothes as he crossed the large Spartan room, furnished with a huge couch and a wide-screen television. He jumped in the shower and ducked his head under the hot spray. It felt good to get the grime of the day off him.

  Ten minutes later he had showered, changed into khakis and a dark turtleneck, and shrugged on his leather jacket over his brown leather gun holster.

  He paused at the kitchen bar, flipped through his mail, and then glanced through the picture window toward King’s. There was a time when seeing Olivia sent a thrill of excitement through him. Not tonight. And that surprised him. He liked Olivia. She’d done nothing wrong.

  “Fatigue,” he muttered.

  He saw Olivia push through the front door of King’s.

  Malcolm dashed down the steps and shoved through the pub’s front door just after seven. The place was packed, each table and booth filled with a variety of customers: tourists, squeezing in the last of the fall-season tours; folks who worked in the shops nearby; and a handful of cops.

  Olivia had gotten a booth in the back. She raised her hand to catch his attention.

  Smiling, he nodded and moved toward her, leaned in, and kissed her on the cheek. Her dark hair smelled of roses and crayons; her pale skin felt so soft to the touch. “You smell like an art project.”

  She kissed him back. “Hazard of being a kindergarten teacher. We began our section on Halloween and the letter T today.”

  He liked hearing about the kids in her classroom. He slid into the seat across from her. “So is that towheaded kid learning to stay in the classroom?”

  “Andy. He and I drew a line across the threshold yesterday. We discussed that it’s the line he’s not supposed to cross.” Kindergarten had been Andy’s first experience with formal school. For the last few weeks he’d taken to running out of the classroom and down the hall when the mood struck.

  Malcolm laughed. “And that worked?”

  “He’s very proud of his line. In fact he showed it to his mom today.”

  He traced circles on the table with his thumb. “I got to feel for the little guy. He’s got a lifetime of rules waiting for him.”

  She feigned sadness. “Look who’s talking; the man who never met a rule he liked. You’re the worst for following rules.”

  “I follow them.”

  “When you make them.”

  He shrugged, no hint of apology in his demeanor.

  A waitress, a cool blonde with a perky face, arrived at the table and laid menus in front of them. “What can I start you folks off with?”

  Malcolm sat back in the booth, dearly wishing he could order a beer and knowing he had too much work in front of him to allow the luxury. “Coffee.”

  Olivia smiled. “White wine.”

  “Mind if I go ahead and place my order? I’ve got to get back to work soon,” Malcolm said.

  Olivia, ever calm, smiled. “Sure.”

  “Number six,” he said without opening the menu. “Mustard on the side.”

  Olivia glanced at the waitress. “Give me the same.”

  “You don’t like red meat,” Malcolm said.

  “Oh, well, that’s what I get for hurrying things along. Just a salad then.”

  As Malcolm watched the waitress walk away he couldn’t help but scan the room for Angie. She came in here for dinner a lot. But not tonight. Disappointment tweaked.

  “You must eat here more than I realized,” Olivia said.

  “Food is good. And you know Garrison dates a gal that works here.” He still wasn’t sure how he felt about sharing this part of his life with her.

  The
waitress reappeared and served Malcolm his coffee and Olivia her wine. He sipped, grateful to have something to do. A coworker had once told him he had ice water in his veins. He wished now that were so.

  Olivia sipped her wine. “Look, Malcolm, I’m not one to beat around the bush.”

  And he’d appreciated that about her. “Sounds ominous.”

  “Not really. It’s time we talked.”

  “About what?” Damn. The M-word.

  She sat back in her seat, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips. “It just seems like if we were really that close, we would talk more about what you do.”

  “I like to keep you away from that kind of stuff. It’s not nice or pretty, and I don’t want that hanging between us.”

  “But I don’t mind hearing your problems.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want to talk about them.”

  She stared at him as if trying to peel away his skull and peer into his brain. “Where do you see us going?”

  He wished he’d ordered that beer now. “I see us together down the road.”

  “‘Down the road.’ Is that code for, I see us getting married one day?” She enunciated each word, and he had the sense that she’d used the same tone with Andy when she’d drawn the line over the threshold.

  He met her gaze. “I still haven’t thought that far.”

  “Well, I have. I love you, Malcolm. I’ve told you that often enough. I know you’re not a hearts-and-flowers kind of guy, so I’ve not worried so much that you never say it back. But we’ve been together nine months. And I still remember the panic in your eyes when I mentioned marriage a couple of weeks ago.”

  He arched a brow.

  She pressed her palms on the table. “Nine months is long enough for me to know I want marriage, Malcolm. A family. A home. I want more than to just be your girlfriend.”

  Tension rippled through his body. He did not want to have this conversation any more than he had wanted to have it the last time. “Your timing is really bad, Olivia.”

  “I know. You’re on a case. But the fact is that you’re on a case most days. Cases are a fact of life for you. So now is as good a time as any.”

  “What are you asking?”