Haunted

by Kay Hooper

  “So Annabel scares herself with scenes from horror movies and imagines a threat against her specifically, while my way is seeing the spirit of my murdered ex-lover.”

  “Maybe it is.” Trying to keep her voice calm, Melanie said, “Maybe we all see what we need to see—”

  “So what do you see, Melanie?” Toby’s face was uncharacteristically hard. “What nonexistent ghost haunts you these days? Did you see Scott, too? Or were you still his lover when he died?”

  —

  “MELANIE WASN’T BORN here,” Deacon objected. “She didn’t go to school here.”

  Trinity nodded. “Yeah, Cathy brought her into The Group after the thing in Atlanta. There really was a job opening, and Melanie really did get the job. She was here, and . . . I mean, it’s not like we were some kind of exclusive club or anything. There weren’t rules to exclude—or include—anybody. Nobody voted or even said anything. Cathy brought her along one day when most of us were going horseback riding. And . . . she fit right in.”

  DeMarco glanced at Deacon, then said to Trinity, “Are there other members of The Group like Melanie? Not born and raised here?”

  Trinity hesitated, then shook her head. “No. The rest of us were born and raised here. Like I said, a few of us were away for anywhere up to ten years but chose to come back here to settle down.”

  Deacon sighed. “Well, cross off the victims, you, and I hope Melanie, and that leaves us with eleven names.”

  Hollis said, “We can’t automatically eliminate the women of The Group, not on the basis of two victims. I agree Trinity’s unlikely for two major reasons: because she’s the sheriff and because Braden is always with her. And Melanie wasn’t born here, so she’s off. The rest of the women have to be considered potential targets. So the women, plus six men. Trinity, isn’t Jeff Stamey one of your deputies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could he kill?”

  “As a cop, sure, I think so, if he had reason. Like this?” She gestured toward the evidence boards. “I can’t see it.”

  “How about the other names?” He leaned forward so he could see the legal pad that had made the rounds and settled in front of Hollis. “Xander Roth, Caleb Lee, Patrick Collins, Rusty Douglas, and Jackson Ruppe. What about them?”

  Trinity shook her head again. “Honestly, I’m probably not the one to ask. I can’t be objective. Xander has a temper, but I’ve never known him to harm anyone. Caleb is . . . an old soul. Very Zen—and a vegan. Pat is cheerful and likes jokes; he has an antiques shop, but really supports himself by restoring and selling antique cars— they’re his obsession. Rusty is . . . Well, he drinks too much too often, but he’s a charming drunk, not a mean one. Usually either goes home with a woman and passes out on her couch, or one of us sees him safely home to his own couch.”

  “He’s an alcoholic?” Hollis asked.

  Trinity sighed. “I don’t know if he’d ever admit it, but yeah. His father was pretty much the same. Ended up missing a curve between here and the highway one rainy night about eight years ago and going off the side. Didn’t kill anyone else, thank God. Rusty’s mom died when he was a teenager. Cancer.”

  DeMarco said, “That’s a lot of pain for a young man.”

  “Yeah. And he coped by drinking more. Several of us tried to help, even got him into programs a couple of times over the years. He’d come back sober. And then fall off the wagon. If self-destructiveness is in the genes, it’s in his. But he’s no killer.”

  “And this last one, Jackson Ruppe?” Hollis asked.

  “Jackson works down in the valley, on his family’s ranch. They’re one of two big outfits that breed and raise horses. Jackson’s family specializes in Arabians.” Trinity shrugged rather helplessly. “He’s always seemed like a nice guy. Pleasant, friendly, sort of the big-brother type. He’s big, always was, and when we were in school he tended to stand up for smaller boys who were bullied. The horses seem to respond to him really well; all animals seem to. He’s an excellent trainer, by all accounts.”

  Deacon said, “Nobody sticks out as a killer.”

  “No, they usually don’t,” Hollis murmured. “We’ll need complete background checks on all of them. We’ll start with the men, see what if anything we find. Try to establish habits, routines. See where everyone was around the times of the two murders. And go from there.”

  Trinity said, “If we focus on just these men, it won’t take long for people to connect the dots.”

  “I know. And I’d rather not give our killer a heads-up if he’s on this list—or too much complacency if he isn’t. So we shake things up a bit.” She looked at Trinity. “Even the most peaceful town has troublemakers. The usual suspects whenever anything goes wrong. Guys you may bust once or twice for doing something illegal but not violent. That guy everybody whispers beats his wife, even if she did swear she just ran into something when she wasn’t looking. And other men gossip has labeled as trouble—for whatever reason.”

  “Yeah, we have a few in each category.”

  Hollis nodded. “Add them to the list. Have your people run backgrounds and then do preliminary interviews. As far as your deputies and the townspeople of Sociable know, we’re checking out known troublemakers, men who were friends of the victims and might know about enemies and such, and anyone else you can reasonably use to pad that list.”

  Trinity found a fresh legal pad and began jotting down names, this time mixing those from The Group with other names. “We’re going to end up with a lot of extraneous information,” she said. “And at least a few offended but innocent-of-this citizens.”

  “I know. Can’t be helped.” Hollis hesitated, then said, “Is there a deputy you trust to quietly run a background on Jeff Stamey—and tactful enough to ask a few innocent questions without getting caught at it?”

  With a sigh, Trinity said, “Yeah, I know just the one. She’s smart, ambitious, keeps her wits about her even under pressure—and Jeff’s had his eye on her. She’s pretending not to notice, mostly because she’s gay. Not really something you talk about in a town like Sociable, but even so, Jeff seems to be the only one unaware of it. Amy Frost.”

  DeMarco lifted an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Jeff jokes about it, says that’s why he can’t talk her into going out with him. Says he gets his fingers frostbitten.”

  Hollis winced.

  Trinity, noting the reaction, said, “It’d probably be kinder to put him out of his misery. Maybe I’ll do that once we get all this behind us. In the meantime, I think Amy’ll be willing to . . . thaw a bit in the pursuit of truth and knowledge.”

  “Sorry the deception is necessary,” Hollis said.

  “Listen, if I’ve got a killer in my department, I’d rather know about it—even if he hadn’t already killed two of my friends.” She shook her head. “And if one of my friends is a killer, same thing. Any way you look at it, we have to get at the truth. Preferably before anybody else dies.”

  She picked up the legal pad and got to her feet. “I’ll brief everybody. The background checks of the victims were going on all night, and we’ve already accumulated a lot of paper. I’ll have that brought in so you can start going over it, maybe get a timeline for each victim at least roughed out. Then I’ll add these names to the list for the first shift to start working on. And start sending select deputies out to do interviews.”

  “Select?” DeMarco asked.

  “Some are better at it than others. I’d rather have the ones who can ask polite questions, soothe any ruffled feathers, and still pick up on the subtleties.”

  Hollis smiled wryly. “I’m glad you have a few.”

  “So am I. I’ll have them question people around the areas of the crime scenes as well.” Rather grimly, she added, “Do my best to get us as much useful information as possible and muddy the waters at the same time.”

  “Good luck,” Deacon said.

  Trinity eyed him. “Don’t go far. With the women still on the list, we have potenti
al victims, a few witnesses, and quite a few women who knew the murder victims. I’d like you with me when I go talk to them.”

  “Because of my charming smile?”

  “Because you’re Melanie’s brother—and by now, everyone in town knows it. I want them thinking about that and not thinking so much about the questions I need to ask them.”

  “Smart,” DeMarco murmured.

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  Hollis was looking at the original list Trinity had given them, frowning. “What about people who didn’t come back?” she asked suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are there any names not on this list who were once upon a time? Who were raised here, went to school here as part of the same class as the rest of you, maybe even lived here for years as adults and were part of The Group—but aren’t here any longer?”

  “Yeah, a few,” Trinity admitted after thinking about it. “Matt Reeves took a construction job on a crew working out in the Gulf area. It was meant to be temporary; he didn’t even sublet his apartment. But there was an accident, not so uncommon in construction. A cable snapped, and a steel I-beam fell on him. Killed him instantly.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Last summer.”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, we’ve been at war. Half a dozen from our graduating class entered the service. I know of two who were killed: Sam Eliot and Bruce King. No idea what happened to Wayne Morrow, I just know he didn’t come back here. Neither did Kendra Logan. Let’s see . . . Sonny Lenox. He and Toby were an item for a while, but they broke up. Must have been three years ago, just before I came back, so I hadn’t even seen him since graduation. Gossip had him heartbroken, but I wouldn’t have said he was the type. More the type to do what he did. Big dramatic gesture. Packed all his belongings in the back of his pickup and left Sociable, swearing he’d never come back. And there was no family left here for him to come back to, if he’d wanted that excuse.” She frowned. “You know, I’m not positive, but I have a vague memory of someone commenting that he’d been in a car accident and was left a vegetable, then later died. Not here in Georgia, somewhere north. He was never really a friend, so I didn’t follow up and find out for sure.

  “There were a couple of women who came back here for a while after college, then married men they’d met in college and moved away. The only other man I can think of from our class who was here for some years and then left was Andrew Ware. He and Dana Durrell had been sweethearts since high school, so everybody expected them to marry, have kids, the whole happily-ever-after deal.”

  “What happened?” Hollis asked.

  “Amy Frost joined the department.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah. It took Andrew a bit longer than it did most of the rest of us to see which way the wind blew, and even then he got it wrong. I mean, Amy and Dana were discreet, didn’t even go out together in public—but the breakup with Andrew was anything but. He suspected another man and told everybody he could get to stand still long enough everything he suspected. Far as I know, nobody ever corrected his assumption.”

  “So he left town?”

  “Yeah. He kept in touch with Rusty for a while. They’d been good friends when they were kids, though not so much later on. Still, once or twice when Rusty was sober, he said he’d gotten a few e-mails. Andrew was out west somewhere, taking flying lessons, wanted to be a commercial pilot.”

  DeMarco said, “Why do I get the feeling any of The Group leaving Sociable just never ended well? He died, didn’t he?”

  Trinity nodded. “Made the news, which is the only reason I knew about it. First solo flight, his small plane went down in the mountains near his flight school. Exploded on impact. They never found enough of him to bury.”

  —

  DEACON SETTLED DOWN in a chair across the table from Toby Gilmore and Annabel Hunter, glanced around at the almost deserted employee lounge of the bank, and said, “I guess we missed lunch.”

  Trinity, sitting down one chair over from him and opening her notebook, said absently, “Nearly done, for now. We’ll stop for takeout on the way back to the station.”

  Braden was, as usual, sitting beside her, silent and attentive. Deacon had found it interesting that everyone they had spoken to all morning long had accepted the dog’s presence without comment, a few even greeting him pleasantly.

  Melanie, sitting at one end of the table, said to her brother, “Hope you still like Chinese. That’s the only restaurant between here and the station.”

  “It’s a small town, Mel. Half a block in either direction, and I have more choices.”

  “What do your friends prefer?”

  “We’ve never worked together before, so I have no idea.”

  “Then you are working here? You haven’t been talking to possible witnesses with Trinity just to keep her company?”

  “What, I can’t be good company?”

  “You can’t stop being a cop.”

  Before he could respond, Trinity said, “I requested his help, Melanie. If you want to pick a fight about it, pick it with me.”

  Deacon looked at her with a faint grin. “Oh, I can tell you were an only child.”

  She looked slightly disconcerted.

  Even Melanie had to laugh. “Sorry, Trinity. The default age for siblings tends to be about twelve. And a brother and sister can get into an argument about the weather. There’s a storm coming, by the way, in case you two didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t know,” Deacon said. “No chance to catch the weather so far today.”

  “Snow by tonight,” Melanie told him. Then she looked at Trinity, brows lifting. “Is that going to make things easier or harder?”

  “I have no idea,” Trinity answered. “I’m hoping it keeps everybody, including the killer, inside. But we’ll see.”

  Melanie’s expression darkened. “I wish I knew who it was. They didn’t deserve to die. Not Scott, and not Barry. They were good people, Trinity, you know that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why them? Why did this sadistic killer pick them?”

  Deacon said, “If you try to find your kind of sense in the mind of a madman, you’ll drive yourself crazy, Melanie. Even trained profilers know better than that.” He still wasn’t sure he agreed with Trinity’s determination to not warn the members of The Group that they were likely targets and that the killer likely lurked among them, but it was her town—and her case.

  They were just here to advise and offer their expertise.

  And, so far at least, neither Hollis nor DeMarco had argued with the sheriff about this particular decision.

  Trinity said, “Deacon’s right. There’s no sense in this. Maybe, when we catch him and if we catch him alive, he’ll have a reason. It won’t be a good reason, and to us it probably won’t be a sane reason. But it’ll be his. And who he kills will make sense according to his reasons.”

  “You’re rubbing your forehead hard enough to make a dent,” DeMarco told his partner.

  They were in the conference room, alone since Trinity and Deacon had been gone for several hours interviewing people, and they were still only about halfway through all the paperwork the sheriff’s really well trained staff had, overnight and through the morning hours, accumulated on the two victims and a lot of potential targets and the potential killer.

  Hollis straightened and flexed her shoulders, sighing. “Something’s bugging me,” she said.

  “Clearly. What is it?”

  She pointed to the small evidence bag containing the silver cross. “That.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think we both missed an obvious question. And I think Trinity ambushed us with the information about Melanie and her past connection to Bishop very deliberately, so we wouldn’t think to ask about it.”

  “You’ve thought she was holding back on us. Even after telling us all that, you still thought it.”

  “If you don’t stop reading me—”r />
  Sighing, he said, “You were very tired last night. And bothered. And I was tired, so my shield wasn’t as solid as usual. So I picked up a few things. Without trying, Hollis.”

  “I wish that made it better,” she murmured.

  “And I wish it didn’t bother you so much.”

  She avoided his gaze. “I told you months ago. I have a lot of baggage.”

  “And I told you everybody has baggage.”

  “Reese—”

  “Hollis, I went to war.” His voice was very steady. “And I was an officer. I saw a lot of people get killed, a few blown to bits right in front of me, and they were there because of my orders.”

  “You were following orders, too,” she managed.

  “That didn’t make it easier.”

  “I get that. I do, really. I’m not trying to minimize what you went through. I know it had to be hell, a desert hell a long way from home.”

  “But I came home whole.”

  She chose her words carefully. “I’m betting you left pieces of yourself over there, just not literally. Not limbs or—or bits of flesh, maybe. But still pieces of yourself. I don’t think anyone can go through war and come back whole.”

  After a long moment, he said, “Okay. We both went through trauma of a kind nobody should have to endure. But what happened to you—”

  “Is something I really don’t want to talk about.” She looked at him with a hard, bright smile. “Baggage, that’s what it is. Everybody has baggage, as you said. Mine may bump against my heels more than most, but that doesn’t mean it’s . . . hindering me.”

  “I never said it was.”

  Hollis shook her head. “And you’ve never believed it hindered me—from doing my job. I don’t think anybody has any doubts about that; Bishop would never have put me in the field if he had. Hell, maybe that’s what . . . shaped me to do this job, and in ways I haven’t even figured out yet. But, personally, as a woman . . .”

  “Baggage,” he murmured.

  “I warned you. I don’t think about it because I don’t want to think about it. Because I’m not ready to think about it. Because I know what kind of pain thinking about it and talking about it will cause, and I’m . . . just not ready for that.”