by Karen Rose
“But I wanted a murder suspect,” Steven grumbled. “Not a candidate for asshole of the year.”
“You’ll get one, honey. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.” Steven smiled and pecked her cheek. “You’re a good woman, Liz. Why hasn’t some man snatched you up?”
Liz shrugged into her jacket. “Well for starters, I don’t have a fairy god-aunt like Helen to handpick me a man. And for finishers, I work too damn much.”
Steven sighed. “Let’s make that two beers.”
Saturday, October 1, 10:30 P.M.
“Good boy.” Jenna slipped the leash off Jim’s collar and patted him on the head, grateful she could finally sit down. Her ankle throbbed, her head ached, and her stomach burned. Damn memorial dinners with sloppy joes from a can. She eased her body into the sofa and sighed as her tense muscles relaxed. A hot tub would be better, but that would mean getting up.
The phone jingled and Jenna glared at it. If it was Allison...But on the off chance it was only a telemarketer trying to put himself through college she made her voice pleasant.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jen, how did it go?” It was Casey and she was yelling over the din of a noisy band.
“Okay, I guess. My bottle of Tums is all gone.”
Casey chuckled. “Poor baby. So what feast did Allison serve tonight?”
Jenna winced, her stomach remembering all too well. “Sloppy joes. It’s a family tradition.”
Casey made a rude noise. “That family is weird, Jen. They’re like the Munsters and Charlie’s the only normal one, like... what was her name again? The blond one?”
Jenna smiled, accustomed to Casey’s quicksilver topic shifts. “Marilyn.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, now that Allison’s dinner is done, why don’t you come down to Jazzie’s? The band is great.”
“Can’t. My foot is killing me.”
“What happened to your foot?” Casey shouted above the din.
Knowing Casey would hear about her tires soon enough, Jenna told her the story, as briefly as possible, again keeping the threatening note to herself. Casey would have a conniption over that. “Steven brought me home and that was all there was to it,” she finished.
“Steven?” Casey asked and Jenna felt her face heat. “Who’s Steven?”
“Nobody,” Jenna said, but it was too late. Casey would never let it go. “He’s Brad’s father.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean, hmm?” Jenna gritted, her jaw clenching.
“It means nothing.”
“It was nothing,” Jenna insisted, but the denial sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“Just like your Steven is nobody,” Casey added, her tone one of patronizing amusement.
Your Steven. Too bad the name conjured the face. Too bad it was such a very nice face. “Go back to your band, Casey,” Jenna growled.
Casey laughed out loud. “Whatever you say, Jen. I’ll be by tonight after my date and you can tell me all about it.”
“That’s all there was,” Jenna spat, frustrated. “Besides, later tonight I’m going to be up to my chin in a tub of hot water. Then I’m going to bed. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Monday? Don’t you need my truck for hospice day? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”
Jenna groaned. “I did.” She and Jim volunteered one Sunday a month at the hospice where Adam had spent his last weeks. Jim was a certified therapy dog and wagged his tail to spread joy. Jenna worked a little harder, reading aloud, relieving weary family members who needed a few hours to themselves, hugging them when the fatigue and grief became too much to bear. It was her way of turning Adam’s death into something positive. But every hospice day she had to borrow Casey’s truck since Jim was a tight fit inside Adam’s XK 150. “Can’t you bring the truck by tomorrow?”
“Oh, I could, but then I’d miss hearing the rest of the story. I’ll be by tonight.”
“There is no more story.”
“I’ll bring a pint of Rocky Road.”
Jenna sighed. Casey never gave up. “I won’t open the door for under a gallon.”
“I’ve got a key.”
“Dammit.”
Casey chuckled. “See you later, Jen.”
Jenna hung up the phone, settled back into the cushions when the phone rang again. Casey. “What did you forget?” Jenna asked sourly, then sat up straighter at the silence. “Um, hello?”
“Hello,” a female voice said uneasily. “May I speak to Dr. Jenna Marshall?”
“This is she.” Oh, crap. She’d been rude to a complete stranger.
“Dr. Marshall, this is Brad Thatcher’s aunt. Great-aunt actually. I hope it’s not too late to call.”
“Of course not, Mrs.—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” “It’s Helen Barnett. I tried to call earlier, but kept getting your machine. I have your briefcase.”
“My briefcase?” Jenna asked blankly, then it came flooding back. Steven putting her briefcase in the backseat, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how sweet and supportive he was when he helped her file the police report. The way his arm had felt against her when he helped her up the stairs to her apartment.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Barnett said, jerking Jenna from her reverie. “This is your briefcase, isn’t it?”
“Oh... oh, yes, ma’am, it’s mine. I’m sorry, it’s just been a long day. I’d completely forgotten about leaving my briefcase in Mr. Thatcher’s car. Can I come pick it up tomorrow?”
“Why, certainly, dear. Steven would have brought it to you himself, but he’s in the middle of a major investigation and it’s got him preoccupied, I’m afraid. He’s been gone all weekend.”
“I know he’s a busy man, Mrs. Barnett. If you’ll give me directions, I’ll swing by and pick it up tomorrow afternoon.” She and Jim could go by after they finished at the hospice.
“It’s Miss Barnett, actually. Would you mind coming by between five and six?”
She’d be done at the hospice by four-thirty. “That’ll work.
Thank you. I’ll be by tomorrow.”
Jenna hung up and stared at the phone for a long minute, acutely aware of the disappointment she felt that one, Steven wasn’t bringing her briefcase by himself and two, he’d be gone on his major investigation when she went to his house to pick it up tomorrow. Both were ridiculous, she knew.
But still she was disappointed. Why ever for, she had no clue.
You do so know, Jenna, the little voice inside her whispered. She hated that voice. It was so snide. But usually right.
Casey’s teasing has me thinking things that just aren’t true. Whatever you say, Jenna.
“Shut up,” she snapped aloud and Jim and Jean-Luc looked up, instantly aware. “Not you,” she added and looked at her watch. It would be a good two hours before Casey arrived with the Rocky Road, but she was pretty sure she and Seth had left some in the carton from last night. It would have to do until Casey arrived with the reinforcements.
Saturday, October 1, 10:45 P.M.
“Why didn’t you ask her to dinner?” Matt asked when Helen hung up the phone.
“It didn’t seem right,” Helen answered. “I trust my intuition on this.”
“I think you just chickened out,” Matt taunted. “Aunt Bea.”
“I don’t chicken out,” Helen maintained with hauteur. Then she scowled. “And stop calling me Aunt Bea. Leave me alone. I have potatoes to peel for tomorrow.”
Matt dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Mash ’em so thick you can stand a knife in ’em.”
“I know how you like your mashed potatoes, young man.” Helen took her peeler from the drawer and shook it at his grinning face. “I’ve been doing it for four years. Four long years.”
“I’ll have to ask Brad’s teacher if she can make really thick mashed potatoes,” Matt said thoughtfully. “I think it’s a critical criteria.”
Helen swatted him with a hand towel. “Don’t even think about it. You make one false move tomorrow a
nd I’ll take this potato peeler to your behind.”
“You’re a scary woman, Aunt Bea.” “And don’t you forget it, boy.”
TEN
Sunday, October 2, 9:00 A.M.
JENNA STUMBLED OUT OF HER BEDROOM, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drawing her to the kitchen like a magical lode-stone. Casey must be awake, she thought. She’d arrived late the night before and stayed over, just like the old days in the Duke dorm.
Cradling the hot cup between her palms, she walked back to her spare bedroom where Casey lay in bed watching TV, Jim curled up at her feet and Jean-Luc with his head on her pillow.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Jenna asked through a jaw-breaking yawn.
“Sshh!” Casey hissed and it was then Jenna noticed how pale Casey had become.
Alarmed, Jenna sat on the edge of the bed, pushing Jean-Luc aside. “What is it?”
“The police are talking about the second missing girl,” Casey murmured.
“Oh, no,” Jenna whispered as the weeping parents implored whoever had stolen their daughter to bring her home. “Those poor parents.”
Casey said nothing, but the coffee cup she held in her hands trembled. Jenna put Casey’s cup on the nightstand and listened to the reporter solemnly finish with a reminder of the first kidnapped girl, whose body had been discovered a few days before, butchered beyond recognition.
“Raleigh law enforcement gave a press conference this morning, but refused to make any comments or speculations at the time,” said the reporter. Then the scene switched to the press conference and Jenna drew a startled breath. Steven Thatcher stood on the podium, looking impossibly handsome as he faced a barrage of questions from the media.
“What?” Casey asked. “Who is that?”
“Sshh,” Jenna hissed, not taking her eyes from the screen. “—no comments at this time,” Steven was saying.
“Do we have a serial killer stalking young women?” a reporter shouted and Jenna watched Steven’s jaw tighten.
“We are not speculating at this time,” Steven returned evenly.
“Do you believe the abduction of Samantha Eggleston is related to the murder of Lorraine Rush?” another reporter insisted. Bulbs flashed and Steven frowned.
“We are investigating any and all leads. We can’t afford to rule out that possibility at this time.” Again he tightened his jaw as if clenching his teeth. He looked exhausted.
Jenna was worried about him and annoyed with the media at the same time. The scene switched back to the CNN anchor. Then there was silence as Casey hit the mute button on the remote. Neither of them said a word for a full minute.
Casey wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Dammit, Jen. What if we do have a serial killer out there? That’s two girls in the last two weeks. What if one of our girls is next?”
Jenna squeezed Casey’s hand. “I don’t know. But I do know that if Steven’s on the job, he’ll make sure everything’s being done that can be done.”
“Steven?” Casey asked cautiously. “As in Brad’s dad? That guy was Brad’s dad?”
Jenna abruptly stood, making both dogs look up expectantly. “Yes. Agent Steven Thatcher. Brad’s dad.”
Casey’s eyes instantly focused. “Okay,” was all she said. Perfunctory responses from Casey were never a good thing. “What does that mean?”
Casey shrugged. “It means okay.”
“Your okays never just mean okay.”
Casey retrieved her coffee cup from the nightstand and took a sip. “Jen, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” she said wryly, then raised a brow. “Isn’t it?”
The mental image was too powerful to ignore. “What is that supposed to mean?” Jenna demanded, feeling her cheeks flush.
Casey blinked. “You’re blushing!”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” She shrugged again. “But it’s no matter. You’ll probably never see him again.”
“I’m going to his house today,” Jenna blurted before she could stop herself.
Casey’s blue eyes grew round as saucers. “Hello.”
“But it’s not what you think,” Jenna added hastily.
“Of course not.”
“It’s not,” Jenna insisted.
“Whatever you say,” Casey said mildly.
“His aunt called last night and asked me to come to pick up my briefcase. So I’m going to pick up my briefcase.” She set her lips together. “Nothing more. He probably won’t even be there.”
Casey sobered, her eyes flicking back to the television. “If he is there, ask him about the girls.”
Seattle, Washington, Sunday, October 2, 10:30 A.M. Eastern Time (7:30 A.M. Pacific)
Seattle Detective Neil Davies came home from work, bypassed the piles of newspapers and dirty, sweaty laundry, and went straight to his kitchen for a beer. It wasn’t even breakfast time, but somewhere in the world the sun was setting over the yardarm. That had been his old man’s way of justifying alcohol at any hour of the day.
He’d no sooner popped the top when the phone rang. He’d given up hoping it would be Tracey. She’d gotten on with her life. He gave a mirthless chuckle. He guessed he couldn’t blame her. It was hard for a woman to live with a man haunted by the ghosts of four dead teenaged girls.
“Yeah?” he barked into the phone.
“It’s Barrow.” His old partner from the West Precinct. “Turn on CNN.”
Immediately Neil grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
“Do you see?” Barrow asked tersely.
“Sshh,” Neil hissed and blindly set the untouched beer on the counter. It was a small town in North Carolina. Two girls missing from their beds. Cheerleaders. One found butchered in a clearing, her head shaved. Terrified parents. Mystified police. He felt a strange settling in his gut, a hum sizzling along his skin. “It’s him.” Neil was sure of it. “William Parker.”
“Maybe,” said Barrow, guarded as usual. “You thought the guy in California was him and the guy in New York, too. So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to Pineville, North Carolina. Wherever that is.” “Outside Raleigh,” Barrow said. “And once you’ve arrived there, what will you do?”
“I don’t know,” Neil answered grimly. “Maybe get rid of some ghosts. Maybe get on with my life. I’d settle for a decent night’s sleep.”
Barrow sighed. “You know you can call me if you need me.”
Neil almost smiled. “I know.”
Raleigh, North Carolina, Sunday, October 2, 10:30 A.M. Eastern Time
“Incompetent bastards,” he muttered, turning away from the CNN report to examine his most recent photographic handiwork. Having his own darkroom really gave him the freedom to experiment with color and angle and lighting. Lorraine’s body looked even more gruesome in black and white. But, he was still partial to color. All that blood . . . It just didn’t get justice in black and white.
“And this was the scene at the headquarters of North Carolina’s State Bureau of Investigation early this morning,” said the reporter, a woman with short, flippy hair.
He frowned. He hated short, flippy hair. Women should have long hair. He pulled out his most recent photo of her. She was perfect. She’d never get her hair cut like a man. In fact, if he were king of the world, all women would be required to grow their hair long and all scissors would be illegal. He smirked, looking at his head shot of bald little Samantha Eggleston. Except for his scissors of course.
But then, intelligent men weren’t subject to the same rules that bound other men. It was fact.
“We will confirm we have a second girl reported missing.” He jerked his eyes up from his photographs and scowled at the talking face on the screen. Special Agent Steven Thatcher, read the caption below the man’s face. Special agent. Hah.
Thatcher knew nothing he didn’t want him to know. Special Agent Thatcher never would have found poor Lorraine had it not been for his anonymous tip. Thatcher couldn’t even find a body if h
e found a neon sign blinking “body, body, body.” Idiots. All of them.
He tilted his head, staring at the flickering visage of Special Agent Steven Thatcher.
“So you think you’re hot stuff, huh, Special Agent Thatcher? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
The question was—what was the most effective means to up the ante?
Sunday, October 2, 4:45 P.M.
This is really stupid, Jenna thought, bringing Casey’s Ford Explorer to a stop in front of the Thatcher home. Nevertheless she pulled her visor mirror down to check her makeup. Of course it was fine. She’d just freshened it up in the Hardee’s parking lot three blocks back. She looked over at Jim in the passenger seat. “You have the bridge, Captain.”
The Volvo wasn’t in the driveway, so Steven was probably still out in the field. Or the car could be in the garage and he could be inside. Her heart fluttered and she cursed it. It didn’t matter if he was here or not. She’d only be staying for a minute. Just long enough to get her briefcase.
She looked the house up and down as she calmly walked up the sidewalk even though the butterflies were doing the polka in her stomach. It was a nice house, really nice. Jenna was a little surprised how nice. She hadn’t realized special agents of the SBI made such a good living. It was much nicer than the house in which she’d grown up, a place where loud voices and negativity were the rule. A place she rarely thought about.
She rang the bell and the door was opened by a woman with gray hair. “Come in, Dr. Marshall,” she welcomed and yanked Jenna inside where a tantalizing aroma tormented her nose.
“Uh, thank you.” Jenna looked around, noting the darkened room off to the right, a study perhaps. Jenna strained her peripheral vision to spy inside, but the room appeared empty. Mentally cursing Casey and berating her own suggestibility, she yanked her gaze back to the woman.
“Let me take your coat,” Miss Barnett was saying and Jenna shook her head.
“No, really, I can’t stay. I’ll just get my briefcase and be out of your hair.”