by Jenn Black
Nonetheless, he’d keep that information between himself and Carver. And their report, of course. If any of the Crimestoppers’ tips mentioned the link between the killings without reporters splashing the connection all over the news, they’d know they were onto something.
“Go on outside, Bock.”
“Thank you.”
Davis hoped Bock made it out back before vomiting.
Somewhere along the line, someone had flicked on every single one of Lori’s lights. Probably for documenting the scene—photos would be worthless in the dark.
Davis walked along the perimeter of each room, cataloguing the scene in his mind.
Hardwood floors, no rugs. Spackled ceilings, overhead fans. The living room contained a large black sofa, a matching leather recliner, and a flat screen TV.
A double row of shelves stretched along the walls, right about eye level. Both were filled with blown-glass figurines. Palm trees, ballet dancers, roses. No dust.
He drifted into the kitchen.
Sliding glass door, open. Bock outside, puking. Grass, orange tree, no privacy fence. Davis turned away from the backyard.
Not a spoon was out of place, but the kitchen stank like wet cat. Had to be the work of the mysterious Mr. Giggles.
Davis stepped over to the table and leafed through a small handful of envelopes. Mostly bills and you’ve-been-pre-approved junk. Guess Lori’s mail wasn’t any more exciting than his.
The shiny metallic refrigerator hummed to life.
Photos littered the front panels, attached with alphabet magnets. Strange. The five-by-seven on the freezer door hung cockeyed.
Davis stepped closer and pulled it down.
Lori and Sara, smiling and swimsuited. Lori sported a tiny black bikini. Sara hid in a flowery one-piece. They stood ankle-deep in sand, outer arms clutching fluorescent surfboards and inner arms around each other’s shoulders.
Man, that funeral had been rough.
Bad enough he hadn’t seen Lori in years. Sara was his age, had been in some of his classes. Not the art classes—Sara wasn’t like that. She was about as opposite her sister as possible. No, Sara had been in his block classes—History, Science, Algebra.
Nonetheless, the girls had been inseparable.
Davis put the photo back on the fridge and headed for the hallway. Most of the action was at the end of the hall, which led into a bedroom.
The door on his left opened to a shell-themed bathroom. The door to his right opened to an office. Davis stepped inside.
No tchotchkes in here.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the walls, each row packed with neatly lined books. Paperbacks, this shelf. Hardbacks, that shelf.
Davis looked closer.
How to Start Your Own S-Corporation. Modeling in the New Millennium. The Entrepreneurial Spirit. Home Based Business for Dummies. Lori was many things, none of which implied stupidity. She’d always been one to underestimate herself.
He moved to the desk and nudged the cordless mouse with his knuckle.
The monitor glowed to life, displaying a blank desktop. A book lay open next to the keyboard. Davis opened it to the bookmark. Chapter Seven, Logos and Slogans. Interesting. He closed the book, took a deep breath, and headed for the hallway.
No wonder Lori looked like a Mack truck blindsided her.
Davis shuddered. Nobody should ever have to see someone they love look like this.
As many cases as he’d been on, he doubted he’d ever get used to it. He doubted anyone ever truly did. He wished he could take Lori into his arms, comfort her.
But he couldn’t.
No matter how he sliced it, Lori was still a ‘person of interest’ until forensics said otherwise. No alibi, no forced entry. His gut said there was no way in hell she could have done something like this, but his report was going to have to list the facts. With no editorializing.
He stepped back into the hall and almost smacked into Bock.
“You all right?” Davis asked.
Bock nodded, but he still looked wobbly.
“I want you to find all the hairbrushes in here and bag some samples.”
Bock frowned. “Why?”
Young cops. God save him from the F.N.G. “Exclusionary purposes.”
“You’ve got hair at some other scene?”
What did he need, a map? “Something like that. Can you take care of it?”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Oh, and…”
“What?”
Bock looked like he might throw up again. “I don’t know if it means anything, but there’s a whole mess of cat hair outside.”
Sweat sprang to Davis’s neck and sleet filled his stomach. “What?”
“You see that orange tree?”
“Yes. Tell me about the cat.”
Bock sagged against the wall. “No cat—just cat hair. Lots of claw marks at the bottom, as if it fell out of the tree.”
No doubt these marks were from the missing Mr. Giggles. Fantastic.
“Thanks, Bock.”
“No problem. I’m on the hair samples, too.”
Bock peeled himself from the wall and bounced off. He was a freaking puppy.
Or a cat.
Mr. Giggles was MIA. How was he going to tell Lori?
* * *
Detective Carver stood next to Lori in what she no doubt hoped was companionable silence.
No matter. Lori didn’t want to speak anyway.
What was there to say? Her best friend had been carried outside. Not on a stretcher to the hospital, but on a one-way trip to the morgue.
Lori no longer faced the road. Instead, she watched the door to her house. Waiting.
Ah, there he was.
She frowned. Something was wrong.
“Where’s Mr. Giggles?” Lori demanded when Davis reached earshot.
Detective Carver inched away, as if she thought there might be a throw-down in the front lawn.
“He’s not here,” Davis answered. He slanted his partner an inscrutable look. Stupid man. He probably thought she was going to go bonkers. She was perfectly calm. Why not lose Mr. Giggles, too? She’d lost everyone else.
“But where is he?” Lori shouted, unable to keep the words in her mouth. She flung her arms toward the house, palm-up. “I let him run off?”
“I– I’m sorry, Lori. At least he’s okay. We’ll let you know if he turns up.”
Damn it. Lori blinked faster and faster as hot tears prickled her eyes.
She hadn’t cried yet, and she wasn’t going to cry now. She would not let a single– the first tear hovered on her eyelashes before burning a hot streak down her cheek, but Lori forced the rest of the tears back inside her heart.
She’d lost Mr. Giggles. She was the worst friend ever.
“I’m sorry, Kimber,” she mumbled.
Davis loomed closer. “Lori, I’m going to need to know who to contact about Kimberley. Does she have family in town?”
Lori swallowed.
She had to be strong for Kimber’s parents, at least. She wiped her cheeks with trembling hands and faced Davis. Before she could reply, the young cop from the station materialized at his side and nudged him on the shoulder.
“Hamilton.”
She squinted at his tag. Oh, yeah. Officer Bock.
Davis gave her a gentle smile before turning to the uniformed officer. “What?”
“Should I get one from her, too?”
Lori frowned. “One what?”
Officer Bock held up a plastic bag. “A hair sample.”
“For what?”
“To match against the other case Hamilton’s–”
“Bock.” Davis looked like he wanted to strangle the officer. Lori wanted to throttle Davis.
“You think I killed her? You think I killed Tommy, and then I killed my best friend? You’re an ass. I’m not telling you anything else about Kimberley. I’ll talk to her parents myself. I don’t want you marching over there and making it sound like I shot their
daughter!”
Davis touched her goosebumped arm and she twisted out of his grasp.
“Lori–”
“Screw you, Davy. I don’t want to hear it. I’m leaving. I can’t stay here tonight.” Lori turned to Detective Carver. “May I go?”
The detective glanced at Davis before nodding. “You can’t stay here anyway, until forensics is done. Active crime scene and all that. You got somewhere to go? I’ll be glad to drive you anywhere you want.”
Furious, Lori shook her head. “I’ve got a car, but thanks.”
“Don’t worry,” Bock piped up. “Forensics is done with your car anyway. Clean.”
Lori whirled back to Davis. “You should be using your so-called brain, Davy. I’m no murderer. I’ve never even used a gun. Somebody is after me.”
He blinked. “After you?”
“Tommy and Kimberley aren’t dead because I killed them. They got in the way of somebody killing me. Think about it. Nobody knew Kimber was staying with me, except maybe her parents, and I doubt they’re who you’re after.”
“So… the killer is blind?” Davis asked, raising skeptical brows. “Both were shot at close range and you don’t look much like either of them—especially T2. If a killer was after you, he’d have killed you, not random people in your acquaintance.”
In other words, Davis found her capable of murder. Didn’t he know her at all?
“I have no idea how a psychopath’s mind works, Davis. I don’t even know how yours works.” Lori turned back to Detective Carver. “Do you have some kind of safe house?”
The detective shook her head.
“Department can’t afford anything like that. Our budget couldn’t even put you in the Holiday Inn, not that you’d find a room anyway with Spring Break in full swing. You sure I can’t take you somewhere?”
“No, I’ll–” No safe house. Either that, or the partner didn’t think anyone was after her, either. Great. Where would she go? “I’ll go to my mom’s,” Lori decided before casting one last burning glare toward Davis. “After I talk to Kimberley’s parents.”
Detective Carver nodded. “Just make sure we know where you are.”
“Fine.”
Lori stalked to her car.
She glanced backward before unlocking her door, but nobody made a move to stop her. Good. She turned her back to her house and set out for Kimberley’s parents’ place across town.
Her hands had stopped shaking when she hit the halfway point of the journey, but they started again when she parked and took her first steps toward their front porch. It wasn’t every day she told her best friend’s parents their daughter was dead.
She’d hoped for ‘never’.
With a palsied hand, she rang the doorbell.
After a few moments, lights flickered on and the door cracked open until it caught on the chain lock.
“Oh!” Mrs. Jackson exclaimed. “Lori. What on earth are you doing here?” She shut the door for a moment, the chain clinking as it disengaged.
When the door reopened, her husband stood behind her. “You want to come in?” he asked. “Where’s Kimberley?”
Lori hesitated. What was protocol here? If she went inside, she’d probably start bawling. Was it rude to stand outside and give the bad news? This was awful, awful, awful.
She forced a smile and stepped into the doorway, but no further.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, I’m really sorry. It’s Kimberley. She–”
“Oh my gosh.” Mrs. Jackson clapped her hands over her mouth and stumbled from the room.
“What happened?” demanded Mr. Jackson. “Where’s our girl? Is she all right?”
Lori shook her head, the tears she’d hoped to avoid fogging her vision.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “There’s been an… an accident.” An accident? Boy was she fumbling this. She should’ve let Davis come out with her. He’d know what to do.
Mr. Jackson paled, his pockmarked cheeks turning as white as his mustache. “Is she…?”
Lori nodded. “I– I thought you’d want to hear it from me. I’m pretty sure the police will be by.”
He stared at her without blinking for a long moment. “Thank you. I think… I think I’m going to go to my wife now.”
Nodding again, Lori stumbled outside. The door closed behind her.
After all this, could she really go to her mother’s? Mama had said never to come back, that she never wanted to speak to her again. But she couldn’t mean it, could she?
Lori was her daughter. Mothers opened their doors to daughters when they were needed. And Lori was pretty sure she’d never needed her mother more than she did tonight.
Kimberley was dead. Davis thought she was a murderer. The cops humored her about her unknown stalker. A killer was in her home, her privacy invaded, her best friend shot in her bed. Lori was forced from the house she hadn’t spent a night away from since Sara’s death.
Her life tilted on its axis.
Mama would welcome her, make her feel better. She would.
Lori pulled into her mother’s drive and ventured up to the door. She banged the knocker three times and waited.
After a moment, the door opened. Her mother stood, backlit by a reading lamp. She wore her hair curled in bobby pins and dressed in a long cotton nightgown, wrapped in a blue terrycloth robe.
“Mama–” Lori began.
“What the hell are you doing here? It’s eleven o’clock at night.” The too-familiar stench of booze wafted from her lips as she spoke.
“I know. I’m sorry. I–”
“You’re always sorry. You’re the sorriest one there ever was. I told you not to come back. You don’t listen.”
Heat flooded Lori’s face. Her mother could always make her feel like she was five years old. “Mama, please. I need you. I–”
“You, you, you. Always you. If you’d needed your sister, she’d be alive right now, not buried in a box because you talked her into being as reckless and stupid as you are.” She retrieved a bottle from behind her back and took a healthy swig. “Don’t come back.”
Lori shoved her foot forward to stop the door from slamming in her face.
“Mama–”
“What?” Her mother crossed her arms and scowled, irritation etched in every wrinkle.
“Kimber’s dead,” Lori blurted.
Her mother took a step back, loosening her pressure on the door. “What?”
“She’s dead. Somebody came into my house and killed her while I was gone.”
The flash of shock passed, and suspicion reentered her mother’s eyes.
“So you thought you’d come moseying around here? Spread a little of your poison around? No thanks. I’ve had about enough of you. You’re no daughter of mine.”
This time when her mother slammed the door, Lori offered no resistance.
She turned and trudged to her car, hating the impotent rage and humiliation coursing through her veins. If a mother couldn’t forgive her own daughter, was there any hope? Lori shoved the keys into the ignition and eased down the block.
Maybe her mother was right. Lori had sure heard it enough.
Twenty years of more or less the same speech—always doing the wrong thing. Lori was tired of being blamed. Tired of feeling guilty. Was it her fault Sara was dead? Was it her fault about her father, too?
When Mama had told Daddy to hurry home, and Lori had grabbed the phone to ask for blue-raspberry slurpies…
How could she have known there’d be trouble? A convenience store robbery, a cop in the wrong place at the wrong time, his hands too full of slurpie to reach for his weapon fast enough.
Her fault. Always her fault. Over and over again. She didn’t deserve forgiveness.
Lori slammed her fists on the wheel and kept driving.
Three hours and eleven hotels later, Lori was ready to drive off a cliff or sleep in her car, whichever came first. She trudged through the lobby of the shadiest motel she’d ever been to and waited for the fraz
zled clerk to finish arguing with drunken spring breakers.
After a long discussion about tossing kegs in the swimming pool, he made his way over.
“May I help you?”
Lori took a deep breath. “I’d like a room.”
“Just one left. One bed, ground floor. Smoking all right?”
At this point, a cot would be fine. Lori nodded gratefully.
A room felt like it would solve all her problems. Someplace to close her eyes and pretend she could sleep. It couldn’t bring back Kimber, of course, but at least the killer would never find her here.
Nobody in the world would guess that Lori Summers, supermodel, was spending the night in a ratty dive of a motel, a stone’s throw off the interstate.
“How you wanna pay?” he asked.
She plopped her purse onto the counter.
“I’ll do plastic.”
Lori slid her Isla Concha debit card across the counter for the clerk.
CHAPTER FIVE
T2’s snarling rhymes shook the condo walls. Amber slapped at her alarm clock until his voice shut off, and then sat up.
Stupid top forty station.
Tommy’d probably be richer now than he ever was before he died. She’d done the creep a favor.
Amber threw off her sheet, stood, and stretched.
Something… something… ah, yes. She grinned so suddenly her chapped lips cracked and she tasted blood. Lori Summers, dead at last.
What a fun night.
Rubbing her eyes, Amber stumbled out into the living room and flicked on the TV. She thumbed through the channels until she found a news station.
No frantic reporters or flashing headlines. Must not’ve found the body yet.
Amber squinted at the VCR. Seven thirty. Plenty of time for Isla Concha to freak out when their favorite local celeb turned up with more holes than brains.
Not that Lori Summers had brains. She got rich on her precious body, after all. The high-priced body now riddled with bullets, that is.
Smirking, Amber stripped her t-shirt over her head and tossed it over her shoulder as she sauntered to the bathroom. She stepped into the still-wet tub.
Damn faucet still leaked.
She should’ve swiped some of Barbie Hot Pants’ expensive doodads while she was in there. Oh well.
Amber showered and then blew her hair dry. She debated wearing a bra today and decided against. Next was makeup… there. Gorgeous.