Most Likely to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  He grasped her shoulders. She sucked in a deep breath, waiting for the news the way a condemned prisoner awaits execution.

  “Mandy Kim—Mandy Stulz’s body was found in her neighborhood park thirty minutes ago. It appears she was strangled.”

  At first Rachel couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Stunned by the news and yet at the same time not completely surprised, she stared at Dean. Then she started trembling. He ran his hands down her arms and back up again.

  “Rachel?”

  “Yes. I—I heard you. Why were you asking Uncle Charlie about Emily?”

  “Emily?”

  “Mandy’s baby.”

  “Oh, the baby. She’s fine. Someone found her alone in the park, in her stroller, screaming like a banshee. When this person looked around for the baby’s mother, she found Mandy’s body behind some bushes.”

  “It’s happened.” Rachel’s voice sounded odd, even to her own ears. Solemn. Soulful. Sad. “The person who called me has killed again.”

  “We can’t be certain of that. Not until all the facts are in.” He squeezed her shoulders.

  “I know it.” She placed her fist over her belly. “I know it in here. The person who killed Haylie and Aurora and tried to kill Lindsay in New York is the same person who killed Mandy.”

  Chapter 29

  The flashlight’s glow traveled along the row of senior lockers, then stopped on Mandy Kim’s. Soon this display would be complete. Item by item. Added with loving care. And with Mandy now dead, one more of the girls in Jake’s harem had joined him in hell.

  She smiled, thinking of Jake burning in an eternal fire, tormented endlessly. The way he had tormented her. A frown replaced her smile as memories crept in around her, like dark shadows with treacherous tentacles reaching out to grab her. She shuddered.

  “Go away,” she whispered. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to remember.”

  But the frightening shadows grew darker and more sinister, quickly enveloping her, grasping her in their evil clutches.

  “No, no, please don’t, Jake. It hurts when you do that.”

  “Hush, baby, hush. We don’t want anyone hearing us, do we?”

  She felt him push himself inside her, stretching her, hurting her. She whimpered loudly. “No, please. Don’t. Stop.”

  He held his hand over her mouth to quiet her cries as he rammed into her again and again and again.

  She couldn’t bear it. Stop! No! Go away! Leave me alone!

  “I love you, baby. I love you best of all,” Jake said.

  She fought the black shadows of memory, pushing them back, fighting them off as she had once tried to fight off Jake. Slowly, painfully, the shadows released her and settled around her, seemingly satisfied that she was now crying.

  Jake used to wipe away her tears.

  The tears he had caused.

  The tears all the girls in his life had caused.

  They thought he cared about them, maybe even loved them. But he hadn’t. He had loved only her. But why hadn’t he told them how much he loved her? Why hadn’t he made them include her in their elite little group? Why had he needed any of them when he’d had her?

  Shoving Mandy’s small diaper bag under her arm, she swiped the tears from her eyes and her damp cheeks. It wasn’t fair that after all these years, he could still make her cry. But not for much longer. Once they were all dead and St. Elizabeth’s had been turned into a heap of rubble and buried with Jake and their past, she would be free.

  But free for what?

  Free from the past? Free from the memories? Free from the bitter hatred she felt?

  With Mandy’s bag under her arm and the flashlight in one hand, she walked directly to the locker marked with Mandy’s name and number, just as it had been back in high school. She undid the snap on the diaper bag and rummaged around inside, searching for any personal items of Mandy’s. If she’d had time after strangling Mandy, she would have taken the items and left the bag in the stroller pouch. But with little Emily screaming her lungs out, she’d had to work quickly. She hated leaving the toddler alone in the park in the middle of a storm, but it couldn’t be helped. If Mandy hadn’t made it so difficult to get inside her house, the deed could have been done there.

  She yanked a set of keys out of the bag. The shimmering metallic trophies jangled like bells as she shook them.

  She placed the large, heavy-duty flashlight on the concrete floor, adjusting the attached stand so that the beam directly hit Mandy’s locker. She opened the door and placed Mandy’s keys inside on the upper shelf, then rummaged around in the diaper bag until she found a compact and lipstick. She added those two items to the locker.

  So like Mandy to take a compact and lipstick with her on a short afternoon trip to the park with her child. The little bitch had always been preoccupied with her appearance. Every strand of her shiny black hair in place. Her make-up perfect, her perfume expensive, her fingernails and toenails manicured. Even in her St. Elizabeth’s uniform, she had managed somehow to look neater and cuter than the average student.

  “Mandy’s a living doll,” Jake had said. “I’m thinking about making her my own little China doll.”

  “Your China doll is on her way to hell to see you,” she said aloud, the sound of her voice echoing in the cavernous basement beneath the old school.

  After removing all the personal items from the diaper bag, she tossed it aside. She closed Mandy’s locker, then reached down, picked up the flashlight, and shined it up and down the row on the other lockers.

  Three down and four to go.

  Maybe I should kill at least one of them before the reunion. But which one? Lindsay isn’t here in Portland and I don’t dare risk another trip to New York, even using the fake ID. And I have other plans for Rachel during the next couple of weeks. A little game of cat and mouse. Perhaps I should find a way to get to Kristen. No, damn it, that husband of hers is practically attached to her side twenty-four-seven.

  No matter, I can take them all out the night of the reunion, if it comes to that. One by one. I simply have to devise a foolproof plan. And if I get lucky and the opportunity arises to eliminate any one of them before the reunion, all the better.

  But until then, I’m going to make Rachel Alsace’s life miserable.

  The heavy rainstorm had all but destroyed any possible evidence from the scene of the crime. Rachel stood under the huge black umbrella Dean held and watched as the Oregon State Crime Lab technician team packed up and headed for their vehicles. They had stayed out of the team’s way, but during the investigation, Dean had been unable to persuade Rachel to leave. She had tried to make him understand that she couldn’t leave, that she needed to do something—anything—even knowing that there was little she could do at this point.

  “Come on, Rach,” Dean said. “Let me take you home. You need a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.”

  She shook her head. “What I need is to find out who killed Mandy.”

  “Then let’s go somewhere, get a cup of coffee or a stiff drink and talk.”

  “All right. Coffee sounds fine to me.” Her senses numb, her mind focused on a single objective—to find the killer before someone else died—she let Dean lead her to his Thunderbird parked across the street.

  Dean opened the car door, held the umbrella over her until she was seated, then closed the umbrella and locked her safety belt. When he got behind the wheel, Rachel turned to him. He ran a hand through his wet hair and flicked raindrops from his fingertips onto the floorboard.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Rachel said. “Why kill Mandy? I don’t think she ever had an enemy in the world. She was always so nice to everyone.” Rachel heaved a deep, sorrowful sigh. “Poor little Emily. That sweet child has now lost a second mother. And Jeff…”

  “I know, honey. I know.” Dean reached over and took her hand in his. “This has turned into a nightmare for you…for us.”

  When he squeezed her hand, she squeezed his and held on tightly for
a full minute before pulling her hand free, leaning her head back, and closing her eyes.

  “The killer warned me that she—or he—was going to strike again. If only I’d had more time to figure out who and why and—”

  “You warned each of the reunion committee members and Lindsay, everyone who received a doctored invitation. What more could you have done?”

  Dean started the car and pulled out into the late-night traffic. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, fighting the pelting rain. Rachel stared sightlessly out the window, her mind filled with a hundred and one what ifs and if onlys.

  The one question foremost in her mind—Who had hated Jake Marcott enough to kill him?—was followed by other questions she couldn’t answer. Was the person who killed Mandy and possibly Aurora and Haylie the same person who killed Jake? If so, why wait twenty years to kill again? The whole thing was one giant jigsaw puzzle with several key pieces missing.

  Behind every crime was a motive. Sometimes an illogical motive, but a motive all the same. Why would anyone want to kill the members of the reunion committee?

  Because they didn’t want the class of ’86 to come together again? Could it be that simple? No, of course it couldn’t. Besides, Lindsay had been attacked and she wasn’t on the committee. No, but she had been Jake’s girlfriend. So was the killer eliminating committee members or the girls Jake had dated or—no, not the girls Jake dated. He hadn’t dated Haylie or Aurora or Mandy. And although she and Jake had been friends, they’d never dated.

  Scratch the girls he dated. Scratch committee members only. Each victim had known Jake, but not all had dated him or loved him. Haylie had hated him. So what was the common denominator? What was the one thing that united them?

  Mentally sorting through her knowledge of each victim, Rachel reached a conclusion rather quickly. Each woman had attended St. Elizabeth’s, and they had all been a part of the same clique.

  Did that mean anyone who didn’t fall answer to that description was safe from the killer? Maybe. But until Rachel could prove her theory, it was best to err on the side of caution.

  “There’s an all-night diner about three blocks from here,” Dean said. “Want to stop there or—”

  “Sure, that’s fine.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re thinking you could have somehow prevented what happened to Mandy, stop thinking it. There’s no way you could have saved her.”

  “If I could just figure out who might hate all of us enough to want us dead…after all these years.”

  Dean pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the diner, killed the motor, and turned to Rachel. “If we have only one killer—and that’s not a definite—then I’d say we have a mental case on our hands. Pinpoint someone who is mentally unstable and we just might have a suspect.”

  “That’s it! We’ll run a background check on everyone who graduated in eighty-six from all three high schools and—”

  “Wait up, honey. Who is going to do this investigation? As officers of the law, we’re limited as to what we can and can’t do. Besides, even if we were able to cut through all the red tape, it could take six months or longer to get the kind of information we need on that many people.”

  “Damn. You’re right. Okay, then we’ll start with the people who were the closest to Jake, especially those on the reunion committee. That’s only four people. I think it’s safe to eliminate Kristen and Lindsay, since they’ve both been targeted by the killer.”

  “I tend to agree with you, but as an objective investigator, I’d say check them out, too. Never eliminate someone for personal reasons.”

  “You’re right, but—”

  “If you’re eliminating suspects, drop Bella Marcott from the list. She’s Jake’s little sister and she adored the guy.”

  Rachel reached for the door handle. “Come on, let’s brainstorm over some hot coffee. Maybe a shot of caffeine will boost our mental powers enough to plot a course of action.”

  Mandy’s autopsy report confirmed what the ME had told the investigators at the scene of the crime—she had been strangled. Ligature strangulation. There had been bruises, abrasions, and contusions found on Mandy’s neck due to the use of excessive force during the act. Excessive force was quite common when a killer used either his bare hands or a rope or scarf.

  Rachel reread the autopsy report. Using all his official influence, Chief Charlie Young had managed to get a rush job done on Mandy’s autopsy—five days. Unheard of as a general rule. And during those five days, Mandy’s friends had banded together to help Jeff and Emily, each taking turns staying at the house with them and others bringing food and fielding phone calls.

  And on each of the five days, Rachel had received a phone call from the killer. Or at least the disguised voice claimed to be the killer. The caller knew things about the St. Lizzy’s students that only someone who had been around in the old days would know. If only she could recognize the voice. If only the caller would say something that would identify him or her. But the messages were succinct, each taunting Rachel, telling her that she was no better at solving murder mysteries than her father had been.

  This morning’s call had ended with Rachel losing her temper, something she seldom did.

  Just as she flipped her cell phone closed and slammed it down on her desk, Dean approached her. She felt his presence before she actually saw him. Whether she recognized the sound of his distinctive walk or had smelled a hint of his light citrus aftershave, she wasn’t sure.

  She looked up into those now-familiar golden eyes and knew immediately that something was up. Her heart lurched as fear radiated through her. Please, dear God, don’t let it be bad news.

  “Another call from our self-proclaimed killer?” Dean asked.

  Rachel huffed. “Yeah.” She kept her gaze connected to his. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”

  “I tried to set up an appointment with Mrs. Dewey, but she refuses to see us.”

  “What? Why?”

  After Mandy’s murder, Dean and Rachel had postponed their trip to Salem to question Patrick Dewey’s widow about her husband and the fact that his bow had been used in Jake’s murder. Then yesterday, Dean had suggested they make the trip today.

  “The only reason her son gave me for her refusal was that she had nothing new to add to what she’d told the police twenty years ago,” Dean said.

  “Did you tell her son why we—?”

  Rachel’s cell phone rang again. She tensed instantly.

  Dean eyed the phone lying on her desk. “Want me to get it?”

  She shook her head. “Our killer calls only once a day.” She lifted the phone, flipped it open, and breathed a sigh of relief when she recognized the caller ID name and number.

  “Hello, Lin,” Rachel said. The day after Mandy’s murder, Rachel had called her old friend from their days as cops together on the Chattanooga P.D. Lin McAllister now worked for Powell’s Private Security and Investigation, one of the most prestigious firms in the country.

  “I’ve got the information you requested on those six women,” Lin said. “We did a rush job just for you.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one. A job like this took several days of Powell’s brainpower, as well as calling in a few favors and bypassing some laws.”

  “If I could afford to pay you what this info is worth, I would.”

  Lin laughed. “Wait until you read the report, then decide what it’s worth. I sent each report as a separate e-mail attachment. Check your e-mail as soon I hang up.”

  “Was there anything that stood out, anyone that appeared suspect for any reason?” The last thing Rachel wanted was for one of her old friends to have a suspicious skeleton in her closet, but if there was information that might point to them as being capable of murder…

  “Just about anybody over the age of thirty-five probably has a secret or two,” Lin said. “Your friends are no diffe
rent, but nothing that sent up a red flag.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure thing. Look, take care of yourself. I don’t want to hear that you’ve become a victim of this resurrected Cupid Killer.”

  A shiver of foreboding tingled along Rachel’s nerve endings. “I’ll be careful.”

  After she ended the conversation and placed the phone on her desk, she turned on her laptop computer and waited for it to boot up. “I need a printer I can connect to,” she told Dean. “My old Chattanooga P.D. friend who’s now with Powell’s Private Security agency got the info I wanted.”

  “You know, it’s just wrong somehow that a private agency can get hold of information the police can’t legally obtain, at least not without going through an act of Congress.” Dean motioned to Rachel. “You can use the captain’s secretary’s printer. Tracy won’t ask too many questions.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with six reports in one hand and her closed laptop in the other, Rachel headed to Dean’s office cubicle. When she didn’t see him at his desk, she looked around, searching for him. He came toward her, a cup of coffee in each hand. She placed her laptop on his desk, set the reports on top of the computer, and pulled up a chair from a nearby empty desk.

  Dean handed her a cup.

  “Thanks.” She accepted the coffee, then sat.

  Dean put his cup on his desk, then pulled out his chair and sat beside Rachel.

  “How do you want to do this—you take three and I take three or we read each one together?”

  “It’s your call,” he told her.

  “You take Lindsay, Kristen, and Bella. I’ll take April, DeLynn, and Martina.”

  She handed Dean three of the six reports, then pulled up the fourth one and began reading. As she read and then reread portions of each report, she felt as if she were invading the privacy of her old friends. There were things in her life that she would rather keep private.

  “Finished?” Dean asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I suggest that we shred these reports,” Dean said. “Keep them on your laptop for the time being, but we don’t want to share this info with anyone else. Not yet, possibly not ever.”