When the Tiger Kills

by Vanessa Prelatte

  After Ty had finished, Brody said, “Anything I can do?”

  Knowing Brody's aversion for drone work in general and research in particular, Ty responded, “Uh... not right now. Maybe later. I'll let you know.”

  “How's your mom handling everything?”

  “Pretty well. My cousin Lotti is coming over, and Mom's going to watch Echo while Lotti helps Dad with some of the research.”

  Brody scowled and said ominously, “You mean he actually had the balls to ask your mom to baby-sit?”

  “No, no – it wasn't like that at all. Mom offered to do it – out of the blue. Shocked the hell out of all of us.”

  Brody digested this information and then said, “I'll give your mom a hand.” When he saw Ty's expression of disbelief, he growled, “What's your problem?”

  Ty said hastily, “No problem. No problem at all. I just can't picture you helping to baby-sit, that's all.”

  Brody responded, “I like kids. As long as they're not too little. I'm not real comfortable around infants, but once they're able to walk around and do something other than eat and sleep and poop, kids are kind of fun. Just make sure that your cousin brings a lot of toys with her.”

  “I'll send her a text. If she doesn't bring enough, we can always go and raid a toy store later.”

  *****

  Rafe picked up the phone immediately when he saw that it was Sergeant Chernet calling back from Michigan. He had sent a photograph of Vaughn Makella and asked Chernet to have Katelyn Norti take a look at it. Skipping any preambles, he said, “This is Melbourne. What have you got, Sergeant?”

  “That photograph you sent us – the one of Vaughn Makella? Katelyn Norti has positively identified him as 'the artist guy' who did a portrait of her sister Tamara a couple of weeks before she disappeared. I'm sure you've also noted the resemblance between Makella’s photograph and the sketch your witness from the coffee shop came up with of the guy who was watching your missing girl and her boyfriend from across the street when they exited the sporting goods store.”

  “Yeah, we noticed it. What about that sketch the guy did of Tamara? Did Katelyn or her parents locate it?”

  “They're still looking. I'll let you know if they find it.” Sergeant Chernet paused for a minute and said, “You've got the death penalty there in Colorado, don't you?”

  Rafe answered in the affirmative and then hung up, understanding what Chernet was intimating. Michigan had been the first state in the country to do away with the death penalty, abolishing it in 1846. As badly as Chernet wanted to get the guy responsible for taking the life of Tamara Norti, he wouldn't urge the local DA to push for extradition if the State of Colorado could make a capital case against the killer and get the death penalty. With that, Rafe was in total agreement.

  *****

  Dawn wrinkled her forehead and frowned in frustration as she continued with the tedious task of searching rental and property records. The sound of Sloan's cell phone ringing distracted her for a moment, and she looked over to where he was working at another desk, Lotti beside him. At the expression on his face, she felt a stab of hope. Please let it be a lead of some kind. Something, anything, she thought.

  Sloan was finishing up his conversation. “Okay. Thanks for getting me the results so fast. Just a reminder: don't email the written report. Fax it to the number I sent you instead.” He hung up and turned to face Dawn. Ty rolled his chair over so that he was close beside her.

  “That was the private detective I hired to dig up information on Vaughn Makella,” Sloan said. “I think he's onto something that could help.”

  After Sloan had summarized Ethan Bardner's report for her, Dawn said slowly, “We need to get this information to Rafe.”

  “Agreed. But I want to do it in such a way that no one can trace your involvement with it, Dawn. I don't want you to jeopardize your career.”

  Dawn smiled wanly. “My career is way down on my priority list right now. I'll do anything, including tossing my career in the toilet, to get Marina back.”

  “What about this?” They both turn to Ty as he spoke. “Your agent's still there in Vermont, right?” When his father nodded, Ty continued, “Have him get one of those throwaway cell phones and call the information in anonymously. Rafe and his team are making inquiries about Vaughn Makella as well, right? So have your agent say that he heard that the police in Mountpelier are looking for the dope on Makella. He doesn't want to get involved, but he does want to be a responsible citizen and tell them what he knows. That way, when they trace the call, the only information they'll be able to get is the cell phone's number and the location of the cell tower it originated from. The agent can then toss the cell phone, and no one will be any wiser regarding who the information came from.”

  Dawn's own cell rang just then. She glanced at it, put it on speaker, and picked up immediately. “Rafe? Can you tell us anything?”

  “I can't give you the details, but the suspect that Miranda Gordena gave us looks promising. What I really called you about was to tell you that I heard back on the fingerprints from Captain Penrose. He was able to compare the fingerprints from three sources: the ones taken from your home during the original investigation, the ones from Lee's apartment, and some from the bedroom Lee used in Vivian Zarafin's home. They're a match, Dawn. Leanne Zarafin and Marina Cimarron are definitely one and the same.”

  Chapter 11

  When she heard the sound of Michael's footsteps treading down the stairs, Lee was ready. Once she'd gotten loose, she'd immediately gone over to the tool chest, hoping to find something inside that she could use as a weapon. But the chest had been locked, and she'd broken her chisel when she'd tried to force it open. Just then, she'd heard Michael unlocking the door to the basement, so she'd decided to implement plan B. Taking the pillow and settling it behind her, she used it to conceal the place where she'd pried the staple out of the wall. Then she sat on the edge of the cot, arranged the blanket to hide the links of the chain in her lap, propped her elbows on her knees, and put her head in her hands. When Michael rounded the corner and saw her, he stopped abruptly.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She lifted her head up slowly. “I don't know. I don't feel well. My head hurts, and my body aches. I think I might have a fever. Do you have a thermometer?”

  Michael looked dumbfounded. Shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, he replied, “Uh... No, I don't have a thermometer.”

  “What about some ibuprofen or aspirin?”

  “No, I don't have those either. But I have some medication I can give you that will relax you and put you to sleep. You won't be bothered by the pain then.”

  Something about the way he said it made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Lifting her head up from her hands, she took a good look at him. There was a look in his eyes that she hadn't seen there before, and she didn't think it boded well for her. So she pasted a brave smile on her face and said, “Thanks. Maybe I'll take some if it gets any worse. Before I try that, however, I'd like to try putting a cold wash cloth on my forehead. Maybe that will help.” She started to rise, then faltered and sank back down on the cot.

  Moving toward her, Michael said hurriedly, “Here, let me get it for you.” As he turned his back to go into the powder room, Lee struck with the swiftness of a rattlesnake. Leaping onto his back, she whipped out the chain and wrapped it as tightly as she could around his neck.

  *****

  Rafe set his phone down and stared at it thoughtfully. After he'd given Dawn the news about the fingerprints, she'd told him about her insight regarding the idea of looking for corporate as well as individual renters or property owners. Then she had made an oblique reference to anonymous phone calls; how they were usually the bane of a police detective's existence, but some of them – a very small proportion – were gold, and shouldn't be ignored. Before she hung up, she'd expressed the hope that the investigation into the suspect's background in Vermont was going well and urged him not to i
gnore any leads, no matter how doubtful the source might be. Then she had disconnected abruptly.

  He knew his partner, and he knew Tyrell and Sloan Lewellen. No way they were sitting across the street wringing their hands and doing nothing. And if they'd found something? Dawn would choose an indirect way of getting the information to him, rather than reveal that she had been breaking protocol, involving civilians, and investigating on her own.

  He walked over to the team assigned to digging up as much background data as possible on Vaughn Makella. Asking for an update from the members of the team, which included Ralph Sokoto and Officer Jordan, he was informed about the anonymous phone call from Vermont. He read the notes they handed him concerning the information that the anonymous source had given them. After he had finished reading the notes, Rafe directed the team members to try to trace that call and verify the source; then he made his way back to his own desk, sat down again, and looked up a different number on his computer. Punching in the number on his phone, he waited for someone to pick up on the other end. Identifying himself, he asked to speak to one of the therapists at The Brieuc Center, the private psychiatric hospital where, according to the anonymous caller, Vaughn Makella had been confined at the age of sixteen.

  “I'm sorry, Sergeant Melbourne, but I can't give you any data on whether someone called Vaughn Makella was ever a patient here. You must know that doctor/patient confidentiality is sacrosanct and cannot be violated.”

  Taking a deep breath, Rafe decided that playing dumb was the best way to finesse some useful information out of the therapist that the receptionist had connected him with, Dr. Fiddich.

  “I respect your position, Doctor, but I thought you were allowed to break confidentiality if you discover that the patient poses a danger to himself or to others.”

  “That's true only if the patient himself indicates to the therapist that he is seriously considering suicide, or if he makes a credible and serious threat to severely injure someone else. I can't break my patient's right to confidentiality just because the police have a hunch that he might be a person of interest to them in an ongoing case.”

  “So you were Vaughn's therapist?”

  Annoyed when he realized that he'd almost given himself away by referring to Vaughn as 'my patient', Dr. Fiddich snapped, “I can neither confirm nor deny that. It's none of your business which of our therapists have treated any particular patient. And I haven't even confirmed that anyone named Vaughn Makella was a patient here.”

  Injecting a soothing note into his voice, Rafe repeated, “I understand and respect your position, Doctor. But if you learned that one of your patients was a danger to himself or to others, you'd be concerned, wouldn't you? You'd want to do whatever you legally could in order to safeguard your patient and those he is interacting with, wouldn't you?”

  Dr. Fiddich answered cautiously, “The key word here is legally. As I just indicated to you, there isn't anything I can legally do to help you in this situation.”

  “But you're an expert, Doctor – right? You could give me an opinion if I outlined a hypothetical case, couldn't you? As long as we're speaking hypothetically, there's not a problem, right?”

  There was a pause on the other end before Dr. Fiddich responded, “I can listen to your hypothetical case, but I can't promise you that I will be able to comment on it. You're treading on some very blurry legal ground here, Sergeant Melbourne.”

  “Okay – you don't have to respond at all if you're uncomfortable. Just listen, okay? Just hear me out.”

  There was another pause; then Dr. Fiddich replied, “Go ahead.”

  “Well, let's say that there was this kid who was having some problems. He was delusional, having hallucinations, so his family had him committed to a reputable psychiatric hospital for treatment. Now this hospital was one of the best, so they were able to diagnose the problem and find the right medication to treat the patient. After a while, this hypothetical patient was able to return home and live a fairly normal life again. He had a very responsible father who made sure that he took his medication, so everything was fine. Until a few years later, when the father was killed in a tragic accident. The kid had a hard time dealing with it, and without supervision, he didn't keep up with his medication. So he became delusional again, started hallucinating once more. First of all, he deluded himself into believing that he was the reincarnation of a famous artist. Let's pick one at random, shall we? A famous one like – I don't know – DaVinci or Michelangelo maybe. On top of that, he started hallucinating and convinced himself that he was having conversations with some of the gods or goddesses in Norse mythology. You know, like Odin or Thor or Freyja – or perhaps a more obscure one like Vanadis...” Rafe let his voice trail off at this point and waited expectantly for a response.

  There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line; then Dr. Fiddich said, “I'm sorry, Sergeant Melbourne, but I cannot comment on your hypothetical scenario. I bid you good day.” He hung up abruptly, and Rafe hit the end button on his phone with a grunt of satisfaction. The doctor had done the ethical thing and had protected his patient's confidentiality. But he'd given Rafe what he needed. That silence had spoken volumes. And by telling Rafe that he could not comment even on a hypothetical premise, Dr. Fiddich had unintentionally confirmed that Rafe's scenario was uncomfortably close to the truth.

  Now that he had something to indicate that they should take the information the anonymous caller from Vermont had provided seriously, he needed to update Lieutenant Westbrooke. Afterward, he needed to brief his team and have them be on the lookout for anything in the case that had a connection to Norse mythology or to the famous Renaissance artist Michelangelo. Then he needed to call New Jersey and inform the detectives in charge of the Gordena case that Vaughn Makella freaked out any time the power went off in his unoccupied house. Getting a search warrant for that house might be a really good idea.

  *****

  Maeve sat back and sipped at a glass of white wine, watching the scene being played out before her with a good deal of amusement. Brody was sitting on the floor a little distance away and slowly rolling a ball across to Echo, who was stationed close to Maeve's feet. When the ball reached her, the baby chortled with glee, picked it up, and batted it at Brody, who fell back and pretended to be hurt as the ball smacked into his chest.

  “Ouch! Hey, kid, have some mercy. You're killing me here.”

  In response, Echo scrambled to her feet and toddled over to him, wresting the ball out of his hands and proceeding to bounce it off Brody's head.

  Brody took it for a while, but then he tossed the ball aside, got a hold of Echo, and lifted her up, pretending to drop her and then catching her at the last minute. Echo pulled herself up and grabbed a double handful of Brody's hair, tugging at it enthusiastically.

  “Hey, careful with the hair, kid.” When Echo cheerfully ignored him and began winding his hair around her little fingers, Brody sighed and said mournfully, “I hate to break this to you, kid, but you're just as bad as your half-brother. And even he's never stooped to hair-pulling.” He freed his hair from her clutches, tossed it back over his shoulders, and turned her away from him, facing Maeve. But then he took a deep breath, and a look of comical dismay crossed his face.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Is something wrong?” Maeve asked.

  “Uh - no, but something over here sure smells, and I don't think it's me.”

  Amused, Maeve crossed over and plucked Echo from his arms. After getting a whiff of the odor emanating from the baby, Maeve said, “You're right. This baby definitely needs to be changed. Hand me that bag over there, would you, please?”

  As Brody complied, he commented, “Maybe I'd better wait outside or something.”

  Maeve, who had located the changing pad and a clean diaper, responded in an absent tone of voice. “Go ahead and wait outside, if you need to. After all, this is a life-threatening situation here. Probably one of the most dangerous you've ever had to face in your enti
re career.”

  Brody, who had been gathering himself up to make a quick exit, said slowly, “Well, I guess if you put it that way...” He settled himself back down again, but kept his eyes averted.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Maeve said, “There now! All nice and clean and fresh again, Echo!” Then to Brody, “You can look over this way now. The world is once again safe from poopy diapers.”

  Looking over cautiously, Brody responded, “Where is it?”

  Maeve pointed to a thin green plastic bag. “In there. It just needs to go into the garbage can.”

  “Not the one in here, right?”

  Maeve rolled her eyes, scooped up Echo with one arm, picked up the plastic bag with the other, and left the room momentarily. When she returned, she resumed her seat and pulled a round plastic ring out of the bag of toys that Lotti had left with them before she went upstairs to help Sloan. Echo grasped it and shoved it into her mouth, sucking on it contentedly.

  Brody, meanwhile, heaved himself up from the floor and made his way over to the chair next to Maeve's. After watching Echo for a minute or two, he said, “You really don't mind it? Watching the baby, I mean.”

  Maeve picked up her wine glass again and toyed with it. She thought about pretending to misunderstand Brody's comment, but then decided to meet the subject head-on. “If Renea were still in the picture, it would be different. But she's gone, and I don't have it in me to hold the fact that Echo shares some DNA with a person I can't stand against such an innocent child.” She met Brody's questioning gaze levelly. “I can't deny, however, that the fact that Echo doesn't resemble Renea at all helps.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Who? Renea?”

  At Brody's nod, Maeve said, “I'd forgotten that you've never actually seen her.” Clearing her throat, Maeve continued slowly, “She has red hair and green eyes. She's quite beautiful, actually.”