by Maggie Price
Paige returned the photo to him. “It could be a new business that came in after the phone book was printed.”
“I’ll check with all the utilities in the morning to see if they’ve got any companies that have Midnight in the title. And with the phone company in case the number’s un-listed. Also the Secretary of State’s office for incorporated businesses containing that name.” He looked back at Paige and shrugged. “Good catch, Carmichael.”
“Thanks.”
Although Lauren Gillette might have had one lover or several, Paige knew that where homicides were concerned, a true whodunit was the exception rather than the rule. If for no other reason than statistics, the killer was likely to be one of the people closest to the victim. Spouses headed the list.
“So, McCall, give me your take on Davis Gillette.”
“He’s arrogant. Has money, looks, political power and prestige. Mix all that together and you’ve maybe got a man who perceives himself to be above the law.”
Paige nodded slowly, her mind churning information. “Do you remember Gillette’s exact language when he told you he woke up Sunday morning and immediately went to Lauren’s bedroom to remind her about brunch?”
“Hold on.” McCall retrieved a pad from the pocket of the suit coat he’d hung over the back of his chair. After flipping through several pages, he said, “According to Gillette, he woke up and went to Lauren’s bedroom. When he opened the door he discovered she was gone.”
“He said ‘gone’? You’re sure?”
“Positive.” McCall closed the pad. “Why?”
“Saying that someone is ‘gone’ is often used to refer to a person who has passed away. She’s gone. It can also be used in instances where a person is nowhere to be found. Am I right to think that the Gillettes live in a big house?”
“A mansion.”
“So, the councilman wakes up and goes directly to his wife’s bedroom. How did he know Lauren was not somewhere else in that great big house? He didn’t say that she wasn’t in her bedroom. He said Lauren was gone.”
“Jesus.” McCall scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “At times, Carmichael, you boggle my mind.”
“Just doing my job. Do you think Gillette killed his wife?”
“I think he knows a lot more about what she did during those times she took off than he’s admitting to. The jury’s still out on whether he offed her.” McCall leaned forward. “You suggesting I go slap the cuffs on the guy because he used the word ‘gone’?”
“No. Nor would I recommend you do that solely if your gut instinct told you the guy was guilty. Do you have any other suspects?”
“Not so far.” McCall shoved a hand through his dark hair, leaving it rumpled. “With all the pressure coming down from the mayor to get this case solved fast, it’s a damn shame the Gillettes don’t have a butler I can pin this on.” McCall glanced at his watch. “I have to testify in court tomorrow afternoon on another case so I need to spend a couple of hours tonight reviewing the file. But there are some things I want to go over with you about Isaac. We can do that while we grab a bite to eat before I drop you off at the Ambassador Arms.” He raised a brow. “By the way, how does Fiona Shepherd like her room there?” he asked, referring to the alias he’d chosen for her.
“Fiona likes it just fine. And your manager pal, Burke Youngblood, seems to run a tight ship.”
“That he does.”
“I have my car here, McCall. Kidd and Henderson did their escort duty again from the training center, so I’m sure I didn’t pick up a tail. I can drive myself to the Ambassador Arms after we eat.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the possibility of your picking up a tail. LeMonde’s house is about a mile from the Ambassador Arms. Since that’s our first stop in the morning, I can pick you up at the hotel and we’ll go pay Lauren Gillette’s pal a visit. You’ll have your car here tomorrow when you leave.”
“Actually, I planned to make a detour on my way back to the hotel. It concerns Isaac.” She held up a hand when McCall arched a brow. “Before you accuse me of going off on a tangent, I intended to ask if you wanted to go along.”
He gave her a dark look. “Well, now that I’ve brought up the subject of how we plan to spend our evening, why don’t you tell me about your little detour?”
“As you know, Isaac’s previous victims were all hookers. If he truly is here, he may decide to pay your city’s working girls a visit. They need to be warned.”
“I thought about that. Then decided it’d be a waste of time to flash around a mug shot of some guy who’s an ace at disguise.”
“It would be,” she agreed, and patted a hand against her purse. “I had my former partner send me a recording of Isaac’s voice. It’s distinctive. His speech patterns are cultured. Formal. And there’s all that politeness mixed in. If he starts trolling hookers, he might look different, but he won’t sound that way. Not totally, anyway.”
“Just how do you know where the red-light district is around here?”
“I don’t know. Tia Alvarado wrote down the directions for me.”
“You and Tia get to be pals during your workshop?”
“More like friendly acquaintances.”
McCall studied her. “You sure you were going to tell me ahead of time about your plan to go trolling hookers?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, since you claim most people don’t lie, I guess I’ll have to believe you.”
“You’re a quick study, McCall.”
“That I am.” Rising, he flashed a grin, all power and charm. “Countless women concur.”
The grin rocketed a missile straight to her libido, loosening the lid she’d clamped firmly on her emotions the previous evening.
Okay, Paige told herself. Her response to Nate McCall was a matter of simple, unbridled lust. A woman wanting a man. Nothing complicated, nothing emotional. He made her hot, and her body wanted a chance to do something about it.
No way. She rose and snagged her coat off her desk. No way in hell did she intend to go there.
Chapter 9
Paige had speculated that Oklahoma City’s red-light district was somewhere in the general vicinity of downtown. But after McCall steered his unmarked cruiser out of the cop shop’s parking lot, he turned onto an interstate ramp. While the cruiser sliced through traffic like a shark, he explained that the city’s commercial business center had undergone a massive revitalization that shoved the hookers south into a neighborhood that had been limping along for years. The locals called the five-block urban wasteland “Low Track” because it was on the wrong side of the railroad tracks.
Now, as Paige stood on a dimly lit sidewalk in wind with a bite that chewed through the bones, she had second thoughts about the wisdom of making this particular visit at night. Overhead, the moon ghosted through thick clouds. A few dark, shuttered buildings lined the crumbling sidewalk, their doorways in shadows, making it difficult to tell if someone was hiding there. Huddling her shoulders beneath her tan cashmere coat, she tugged up its collar.
Low Track clearly had a run-down look, with the kind of street life that suggested Paige might want to look over her shoulder every once in a while. Doing just that, she spotted McCall standing at the end of the block in the hazy pool of a streetlight. He was currently engaged in an intense conversation with a tall, lean man with close-cropped hair and coffee-colored skin. He wore a bulky black jacket and low-riding baggy pants. The way the man sliced one hand through the air as he spoke made it clear he was back-talking McCall. Pimp, Paige thought, returning her attention to the two stiletto-shod working girls currently studying Edwin Isaac’s mug shot.
“Haven’t done no business with this dude,” said the leggy redhead with troweled-on makeup and finger-long earrings dangling from her lobes. She wore a faux-fur jacket in wildly patterned jungle stripes and an orange leather skirt that barely covered the essentials.
“Me, neither,” her companion added. The woman had frizzed blond hair reminiscent o
f scarecrow straw. She chewed a wad of pink bubble gum, working it between her front teeth, then stretching it out with her tongue.
Not woman, Paige amended, trying to imagine what the blonde’s face looked like beneath the heavy blusher, murderous red lips and violet eyeshadow. Teenager was more like it.
A mom-and-pop grocery store and a bar sat directly across the street. The bar had glowing beer signs in its windows and flashing neon lights framed the door. Despite the freezing weather, the door was propped ajar, pouring out a haze of cigarette smoke and music that was standard-issue bump-and-grind.
“What’d he do?” the blonde asked, handing the mug shot back to Paige. The teen wore a tattered jean jacket over a bright red polyester dress that clung to her breasts like cellophane.
“Over about a year’s time, he picked up five women in the same business as you. He kidnapped them and kept them locked in a basement. He tortured each of them for at least a week before he killed them.”
“Hazard of the trade,” the redhead stated with a shrug.
“Yeah.” The blonde blew a pink bubble that quivered in the wind, then snapped it. “Lots of guys got them a mean streak.”
Paige had been a cop too long to be surprised by their lack of concern. Dangerous clientele was just one risk of their desperate profession.
“Those women didn’t just suffer a little pain before Edwin Isaac put them out of their misery,” she said. “He’s a doctor, a shrink who gets off on playing mind games. He messed with his victims’ heads so much that they all willingly mutilated themselves with razor blades.”
“Crap,” the redhead stated, blowing on her bare hands. “Dude must be wired wrong.”
“Very,” Paige agreed. “Like I said, if he shows up here pretending to be a john he’ll probably be disguised, so he won’t look anything like he does in the mug shot.” She opened her gloved palm, showing them again the micro-cassette recorder. “That’s why I played you the tape of his voice. Do you need to hear it again?”
Both women shook their heads. “I got it,” the redhead responded, her earrings swinging. “This shrink doctor uses big words, real polite tone. We don’t hear much of either. He shows up talking that way, we’ll know him, even if he looks like Cinderella.”
“Tell the other girls who work around here about his voice,” Paige said. “In Dallas, the media dubbed him ‘Gentleman Jim’ because he was so polite and bashful. Unassuming.”
A car turned onto the street, the high beams of its headlights licking across the brick walls of the dark buildings. As it coasted by, Paige glanced across her shoulder. Late-model four-door BMW, black or navy, she thought, her cop’s brain automatically recording details. The Beemer’s windows were tinted, making it impossible to see the driver. The light over the license plate had either burned out or been removed.
She handed a business card to each woman. “My cell number’s on the back. If you even think some guy who shows up here is Isaac, call me. Day or night. Okay?”
The redhead studied the card. “There a reward?”
“The Crime Stopper’s program will pay for any tip that leads to Isaac’s arrest.”
“You want to go to jail, keep it up!”
Paige swung her head toward the sound of McCall’s raised voice. He now had the pimp backed against the side of the cruiser and a palm pressed against the guy’s chest. The pimp said something, then shrugged and held up both hands, palms out. Apparently he preferred not to spend the night behind bars.
She looked back at the women. “That your man?”
“Yeah.” The blonde slid the business card into her coat pocket. “Name’s Juju. He’s pissed ’cause he don’t like us talkin’ to nobody who don’t pay us for our time. Says our time’s his time. What about that man you’re with? He yours?”
“My partner.” Paige shoved the recorder into her coat pocket, then wrapped her gloved fingers around the handle of the asp. If the pimp changed his mind and decided he wanted to go to jail, she’d back up McCall.
“You told us you ain’t a cop,” the blonde said. “Your partner sure is. How does that work?”
“I’m consulting on one of his cases.”
“Yeah? I’d like to do some consulting with a fine-lookin’ man like that.” The blonde blew another pink bubble, snapped it. “Lots of consulting.”
The redhead scoffed. “Only consultin’ he’d do with you was to toss your skinny white ass in a cell.”
“Gettin’ close to a dude who looks like that might be worth doin’ a little jail time.” The blonde stomped her stilettos in an effort to keep warm. “Least I wouldn’t be out here freezing my ass off when there’s hardly no business.”
The wind picked up, chasing debris along the street, swirling leaves and bits of rubble upward into small cyclones, then dropping them into piles. The music from the bar blasted on the cold air with a vengeance, hot and ruthless. Raw. Paige could have sworn she saw motion in one of the dark doorways, a shadow gliding among shadows. She shivered, not from the wind but from a twinge of icy premonition. Was Isaac close by, watching her? Or was he a world away, issuing instructions to some accomplice?
We’ll be together soon. I promise.
Thinking about his message on the back of his mug shot had her admitting all over again that she was glad she had not ventured to Low Track alone.
“Thanks for your time,” she told the two women.
“Yeah.”
Paige hesitated while a montage of five dead hookers scrolled through her brain. She had no trouble picturing the two women standing before her in the same condition.
Paige couldn’t help but feel empathy for the two shivering women. She knew McCall could run them in for loitering, just to get them off the street and into a warm cell for a couple of hours.
But even as the thought crossed her mind, she rejected it. The minute they bonded out, they’d be back on the street, probably facing a beating from Juju.
And clientele who could prove deadly.
“Keep your eyes open,” she said. “Isaac is sick. Be careful. Very careful.”
The lobby of the Ambassador Arms Hotel was on a less grand scale than that of the Waterford, but the green-veined marble, polished brass and dark hardwood gave it a cozy feel that appealed to Paige. As did the blazing fire in the massive, copper-faced fireplace that helped take off the morning chill.
Sipping the latte she’d purchased at a coffee kiosk, she stood at one end of the fireplace’s stone hearth. Nearby, a mahogany table held an enormous crystal bowl from which red and white roses spilled, their color in celebration of the upcoming Valentine’s Day. Across the lobby, several suit-clad men had chosen a grouping of crimson leather club chairs in which to drink coffee and scan the day’s newspapers.
From over the rim of her cup, Paige gave each man a hard look. Could one of them be Isaac in disguise? Or his partner? Sitting there, yards away? Sipping coffee.
Monitoring her.
She pulled her gaze from the men. The lobby teemed with people—guests lining up at the front desk, bellmen pushing brass carts piled with luggage, an elegantly dressed couple receiving information from the concierge. Isaac could be any of them.
Paige eased out a breath. If she kept thinking about how close he could get to her without her knowing, she’d have a case of rampant paranoia. Not good when she needed to keep her senses sharp and her thinking processes void of emotion. So she would just keep reminding herself there was no way Isaac could know she had moved to the Ambassador Arms. No way for him to link her to the Fiona Shepherd alias McCall had registered her under.
She looked out the span of front windows, checking the circular drive where McCall had dropped her off last night, and agreed to pick her up this morning. No sign yet of his unmarked cop cruiser.
Just thinking about their upcoming interview with Lauren Gillette’s friend, Elizabeth LeMonde, had her adrenaline humming. It was the same type of stirring she’d felt at the beginning of each homicide investigation she’
d worked. She hadn’t been a cop for three years; still, she sensed the ghosts from her past cases whispering their cautionary tales into her brain. Never take anything for granted. Never accept only what you see in front of you. Never automatically believe the things people tell you.
Her training in statement analysis had taught her just the opposite: believe what people say. Now, though, she was skilled at looking just as closely at what they didn’t say.
She nudged up her coat sleeve and checked her watch. Since she had a few minutes before McCall was due, she pulled her PDA out of her purse and began checking the e-mail she’d downloaded from her laptop.
Sipping her latte, she punched buttons, scrolling through messages from various co-workers and friends. Her mother and grandfather had both e-mailed her. Not surprisingly, the gist of their messages focused on concern for her safety and urged her to hole up on her grandfather’s ranch until Isaac’s capture. Her boss, Holden Lassiter, advised that certain unnamed contacts had unearthed no new leads to the psychiatrist’s whereabouts. Her attorney-cousin in Austin had e-mailed a joke about a lawyer and a goldfish that had Paige rolling her eyes.
The next message she opened stopped her cold. As she read, her heart rate picked up and her mouth went dry.
My Dearest Sergeant Carmichael. Oh, pardon, it’s Ms. Carmichael now, isn’t it? For the sake of brevity, I shall be referring to you as Paige, for that is how I think of you. On a personal level. And I am thinking of you often. Are you enjoying the frozen wasteland of Oklahoma for now? In contrast, it is warm here. After three years I can again relish the glorious heat of the sun against my face. My surroundings are much more to my liking than the prison cell in which you locked me. I look forward to sharing some of those wonderful memories of my incarceration with you soon.
I could tell you that I harbor no ill will toward you for finding me. But that would be a lie I suspect you would see through, inasmuch as you are now in the business of unearthing deceit. Back then, you were simply doing your job. A person can look at our relationship and conclude the scales have been balanced. You, taking away life as I knew it. Me, firing the bullet that ended the job by which you defined yourself.