Cutting Edge f-3

by Allison Brennan

  Duke entered his office after he saw Quin run out, obviously upset. Nora had her head on his desk, her shoulders slumped and quivering with tension and restrained emotion. He ached for her, wanting to wash away her anguish.

  Walking over to her, he put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

  She sat up, leaning back into his hands as he rubbed her tense shoulders. “She’s believed Lorraine’s lies about so many things-I don’t know where to begin to set her straight. I lost her long ago and I didn’t even see it. I was in over my head and didn’t know it. I wish to God I could take back some of the things I said.” Her voice cracked and she bit her bottom lip.

  “Quin’s smart. She just needs to think it through.”

  “She thinks I’ve been lying to her about important information. Like her father.” She rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. She’s resented every decision I’ve made.”

  Duke wished he could do something, but this was between Nora and Quin. All he could do was stand with her.

  “Did Jayne have anything for you on the security tapes from Butcher-Payne?” she asked him.

  “I know how they messed with the video. Actually quite smart. They brought in a computer that directed a completely different feed into the digital recording, essentially recording blanks over the actual images. I think that’s how they corrupted Russ Larkin’s computer as well. It’s impossible to get the true recording, but I’m glad Jayne figured out how they did it. My security system had a fatal flaw, now I can fix it.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said.

  He spun her around in the chair, his face inches from hers. Her big round eyes were filled with heartache. “And it’s not your fault that Quin is having problems accepting the truth.”

  He heard a rattle on his table in the corner. “Your cell phone is vibrating.” He walked over to the table and brought the phone to her.

  “Thanks.” It was Lindsey Prince, one of the agents in San Luis Obispo.

  “I got news for you,” Lindsey said in a rush. “First, a photo of Maggie O’Dell from high school. We’re at Kinko’s now, scanning it in, and will email it pronto.”

  “Terrific. Send it to both me and ASAC Hooper. He’ll need it for the APB and I’ll distribute it to my team.”

  “There’s more. We talked to the local sheriff and he knows Maggie O’Dell very well. She was quite the juvenile delinquent. Mostly vandalism and petty crime, and her parents always paid restitution when she was caught. It’s a small town, they didn’t do anything more about it. Except, the sheriff has long suspected that she killed her boyfriend. He just can’t prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Hemlock.”

  “Hemlock?”

  “Specifically, water hemlock. But she denied even seeing him that day, no one saw them together, and her father vouched that she had been sleeping most of the afternoon because of a flu bug.”

  “Was he lying?”

  “The sheriff thought so, but had no physical evidence to tie her to the death. Some people thought the kid accidentally ate the hemlock. Others thought he was killed. His parents received a substantial amount of money from an insurance policy they had on him. But even so the sheriff always suspected Maggie. From the start, her reaction didn’t fit for him. But she didn’t rattle.”

  “How did the boyfriend ingest water hemlock?”

  “The autopsy was unclear-there were no undigested leaves or roots in his stomach. But the pond nearby had a considerable amount of water hemlock growing near the shore. There have been documented cases of cattle being poisoned from drinking water that had been saturated with the plants. The sheriff, under pressure from the family, closed the case as an accidental poisoning. Because he couldn’t prove murder, there was the possibility of suicide, and the insurance wouldn’t pay on self-termination.”

  It fit Maggie O’Dell’s M.O.-there had been no traces of jimsonweed leaves in the Rose College students; the water had leeched the poison from homemade, deadly tea bags.

  “And,” Lindsey continued, “the victim was supposed to picnic with another girl that day, but her grandfather died the night before and she left the state. The victim’s mother said that he’d broken up with Maggie weeks before, and wouldn’t have gone to see her.”

  “That probably didn’t sit well with Maggie,” Nora said. “Anything on Russell Larkin?”

  “He was Maggie’s neighbor, though graduated several years before she started high school. His younger sister was in O’Dell’s class. I want to talk to her next, but she’s on a plane now, flying in from Northwestern for Larkin’s memorial service.”

  “Down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you can get to her tonight or tomorrow morning, find out what she knows about Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Will do. Watch for the photo.”

  Nora hung up and said, “I’m getting a photo of O’Dell.”

  Duke watched Nora’s phone. A few seconds later, a message came in. She clicked it.

  The photo loaded fairly quickly. In ten seconds, they were staring at a stunning girl with long brown waves of hair and huge, round brown eyes. The shape matched Nora’s, but nothing else resembled her. Nora didn’t know why she was relieved.

  Maggie looked a bit familiar. Not just because of the eyes, but …

  Duke snapped his fingers. “She was the girl who threw the soda at you on Monday.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  There was a tap on Duke’s door and J.T.’s stellar administrative assistant, Heather, walked in, sharply dressed in a pricey business suit. “We found an apartment,” she said, handing Duke a folder.

  Duke opened the thin red folder.

  510 °College Blvd., #A124, Roseville.

  Rented to: Margaret Lovitz.

  Landlord: Ted Albany.

  “Heather, you’re incredible.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Not right now, but thanks.”

  Nora looked at Duke, weary, her fight with Quin draining her.

  Duke tried to offer a reassuring gaze. “I had our staff call every apartment building in Placer County starting with those near Rose College. Bingo-I found one. Rented to Margaret Lovitz.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “I gave Heather a list of likely aliases-O’Dell, Wright, Plummer, Lovitz-and a time frame: rented after June of this year.”

  “I’ll call Hooper to get a search warrant.” She stood and smiled. “Thank you. For this-and everything.”

  He caressed her cheek. “Anytime,” he said slowly. “For you, anything.”

  Maggie bolted upright in bed, panicked. Where was she?

  Quin’s house. Quin’s bed.

  She let out a long, quiet breath and listened. Something had woken her up. Finally, Quin had to be home.

  She glanced at Quin’s simple, old-fashioned alarm clock, the kind with the bells on top and a traditional clock face. It was only four in the afternoon. Had she left work early? Why?

  Someone was moving around downstairs. Into the kitchen, the creak of the linoleum a slightly different, louder sound than the soft carpeted footfalls. Water running. Turning off. Footsteps again.

  Maggie swung her body out of bed, picking up the knife. She wished she hadn’t cut herself so much. Quin was going to see the blood. But that couldn’t be helped.

  Now was the time to convince Quin that they should be a team. Just the two of them.

  On the stairs, Maggie coughed twice and cleared her throat.

  It wasn’t Quin she glimpsed downstairs. It was a man.

  Maggie scurried to the closet, grabbing the comforter on her way. She practically threw herself inside and closed the door.

  And was very, very silent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Maggie O’Dell’s apartment would alone convict her.

  At first, Nora sa
w nothing out of the ordinary in the small ground-floor garden apartment. In fact, it was virtually empty: The living room had a secondhand couch; the dining/kitchen area a small table with two chairs; and the bedroom a mattress on the floor with sheets and a blanket pulled tightly around the corners. But as she dug deeper into the dark crevices, Maggie’s crimes became clear.

  The pristine kitchen concealed death well. A container in the refrigerator matched that one with the fatal iced tea in Anya Ballard’s dorm room. This one, too, was full. Nora didn’t know if it was poisoned, but they would find out.

  In a drawer, jimsonweed was spread on paper towels, drying. In the drawer next to it, a set of knives, handmade, perfectly aligned in a special tray that appeared to have been built for this set of knives.

  One knife was missing.

  Nora wondered if one or more of them would test positive for blood.

  It was the bedroom closet that had Nora most on edge.

  The closet was a walk-in, nearly as large as the bathroom. The few articles of clothing hung far to the left side. Every inch of the walls was covered with photos and articles. For a moment, Nora thought she’d walked onto a cheesy movie set when she saw a picture of Jonah Payne taken from a distance at his Lake Tahoe house. Written in black permanent marker across the top:

  You’re dead.

  Pictures of Maggie with Scott, with Anya, with Quin. Quin. What was going on? Nora resisted the urge to pull them down, and swallowed, focusing on the unspoken message Maggie was leaving.

  The captions were everywhere. You’re dead. I hate you. I want you to beg. I hate you. Slut. Pervert.

  There was a picture of Anya Ballard in a naked embrace with Leif Cole, taken from outside a window. A picture of Quin with … Danny? Yeah, Danny. Whoever was the guy before the new one, Devon. They were at a house Nora didn’t recognize, probably Danny’s. The woman was a voyeur.

  The picture of Maggie and Quin bothered Nora the most. Centered on the wall with a big heart around them. She recognized Quin in the picture. It was taken three or four years ago when Quin had gone through a short-hair phase and sported a sleek bob. They both were smiling, Quin’s arm slung over Maggie’s shoulder. The image unnerved Nora. Quin trusted Maggie, and that trust could get her hurt, or worse.

  “Nora,” Duke said quietly.

  She turned around. He’d closed the door. On the back side was a violent shrine dedicated to Nora.

  Traitor. Bitch. Traitor. Murderer. I hate you I hate you I hate you.

  Over and over, covering pictures of Nora taken while she worked, while she went to the store, while she was sunbathing in her backyard earlier this summer.

  One of the pictures had her head cut off. Another, her throat slit with what looked like dried blood around the edges. And another had her heart cut out.

  “Oh God,” she gasped.

  Steve Donovan called her name from the bedroom.

  She opened the door with a shaking, gloved hand.

  “Donovan.” She motioned him to go inside while she stepped out.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “She doesn’t stay here,” Nora said, looking around. “It’s too dark, too barren. No privacy. This is her stop-ping-off point. A place to hide, to regroup, to keep her supplies close. Donovan, we need every photo analyzed to see where it might lead us. Every nook and cranny and hiding place. She has another house. It’s private, no neighbors. That’s where she’s living.”

  She stepped outside, close to being claustrophobic in the sterile apartment. She dialed Quin’s cell phone. With each unanswered ring, Nora’s fear grew. She should never have let Quin leave Rogan-Caruso without an armed guard. What had she been thinking? About her own pain and guilt, forgetting that she was dealing with a killer who had a connection to her family. Her only family, Quin. If anything happened to her sister it would be her fault.

  Voice mail picked up, Quin’s cheerful voice proclaiming, “Hello, buttercup, this is Quin Teagan, I’m not available-ha ha-but leave a message and I’ll call you when I’m free.”

  Nora said, “Quin, call me as soon as possible. Wherever you are, stay there. Let me know where. You need police protection.” She hung up and bit her bottom lip.

  “After seeing that you think she’s going after Quin?” Duke sounded both angry and scared. “Did you see what she did to your pictures?”

  “But-”

  “You’re the one who needs protection.”

  “She knows she can’t get to me, not easily. Especially now-you’ve hardly left my side, I’ve been working, I haven’t been alone. Quin is my Achilles’ heel. Maggie knows I’d do anything to save her.” And Nora would. She’d delivered Quin nearly twenty-nine years ago. She’d been terrified of hurting the baby, certain from her mother’s screams that Lorraine was dying. Then she held her, wrapped in a towel, and knew true love.

  “How does she know this?”

  Nora pushed aside the memories. “Quin told her I was overprotective and controlling. And I’m sure it sounded worse. Maggie is a good judge of people. That’s how she was able to manipulate her boyfriend and Anya for so long. How she was able to fool people into thinking she had a conscience. She knows how to behave. But it’s an act. She’s full of rage and can easily snap. We have to find Quin.”

  “Let’s go.”

  She glanced at her watch. Seven-thirty. “I doubt she’s still at work. I’ll have police check her house and if she’s not there, her office.”

  After she talked to Sacramento PD dispatch, Nora called Quin on her house phone on the chance she’d left her cell phone in the car, while Duke sped out of the parking lot. It rang four times; then voice mail picked up.

  “Hiya Sexy, it’s Quin, leave a message and I promise to call ya back.”

  “Quin, it’s Nora. If you’re there, pick up the phone. Please. I need to talk to you.”

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  “Dammit, Quin, now’s not the time to be stubborn. I’m worried. Call me back.”

  Weather permitting, Quin walked to work because she lived only fourteen short blocks from her office building. Today, she wished she had driven. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to drive away. Anywhere. Away from Sacramento. From Nora. From her mother. She’d tried to reach Devon, hoping he’d take her to Lake Tahoe. If not, screw him. She’d go herself and find a hot guy on a roll and fill the emptiness inside with good sex. Nora disapproved of her lifestyle, which had spurred Quin on. Who was Nora to judge, anyway?

  But Quin didn’t want to find just any guy. She wanted Devon. She really liked him. He was smarter than most of the guys she dated, funnier, cuter. And a doctor. He cared about his work the way she cared about hers. Which is why she’d buried herself in work after walking out on Nora this afternoon.

  She turned up the short walk to her town house. She liked the three-hundred-unit complex that took up two square blocks near the river, Old Sac, the movie theater, the K Street Mall. It was convenient, clean, and attractive. Her two-bedroom town house even had a small, private garden area.

  She stopped briefly to water her plants before unlocking her front door. She heard the shower running, and her heart skipped a beat until she saw Devon’s keys and black bag on her entry table.

  He could even sense when she needed him. She might just be falling in love with the man. Hot shower sex was just what she needed to get her mind off Nora and Maggie. Because she felt like shit for what she’d said to Nora. Maybe it was true, well, a lot of it was true-Nora had been micromanaging her life since she took over the role of mother when Quin was nine. But Nora wasn’t a liar, and all day Quin feared she’d believed her mother because she was desperate for something indefinable.

  She took the stairs two at a time. The upstairs was moist and humid. How long did that man shower? She pulled off her T-shirt with the State Arson Investigator logo on the pocket.

  “Devon, it’s me!”

  Before she opened the shower door, she knew something was wrong. No one was in
the shower. There was no steam, the air thick with cool water vapor. The pebbled glass door distorted her view, but she could swear Devon was sitting on the shower floor. Unable to stop herself, her hand already on the handle, she pulled it open.

  Devon was slumped on the shower floor, his skin so pale it was translucent, long bloodless gashes down his chest, back, and arms. His eyes were open, and they were no longer bright, vibrant blue. They were glazed, faded, and lifeless.

  She screamed, then covered her mouth with both hands. He was dead. No, no, no!

  “You weren’t supposed to find him.”

  Quin spun around and Maggie stood there in the doorway between her bedroom and bath. In that split second, Quin realized everything Nora had told her was true. Fear crept up her spine until she could barely think.

  “All I did was go to the garage because I thought I heard something, and I wanted to be there when you drove up. But your car was already there.”

  “I–I walk to work.” Quin looked around for a weapon, but the only one she saw was the knife in Maggie’s hand.

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Maggie sounded like a child. “You like her more than me, don’t you?”

  “Wh-who?”

  From her pocket, Maggie pulled out a picture of Nora. It had been mutilated, but Quin knew exactly what it was. Nora at Quin’s college graduation.

  Nora had always shown up at her soccer games. Or when Quin took first place in the state spelling bee. Every play she was in, whether she had a small role or a leading spot, Nora had been there. At her high school graduation, her college graduation, her promotion party.

  Quin had taken Nora for granted. Resented her because she wasn’t her mother. She was her sister, and Quin alternately loved and despised her.

  Quin had broken up with one of her boyfriends, one she’d thought she’d loved, when he’d suggested she talk to someone about her problems with Nora. “She’s been nothing but cool to you,” he’d said. “I don’t see why you are so hot and cold with her.”