Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

  "I'll have to check at the shelter. I don't have those pages here," she explained.

  "What about the other files, the case histories on the women?" Durwin asked. "The files that show where the men are?"

  "They're also at the shelter. Once they're a resi­dent, they're kept on-site. It makes the women feel better."

  "Why, do they like to read them?"

  Regan stifled the urge to call the man an unpleas­ant name. The blond woman looked beyond irri­tated now, she looked embarrassed. And that enabled Regan to rein in her anger.

  "The files are locked up, so no one can read them. That's what they like, Detective Durwin. Horrifying as it is in this day and age, there are still some dinosaurs out there clinging to the idea that abuse is somehow the woman's fault."

  Durwin didn't react, but Regan guessed he'd been at this long enough to hide whatever he was thinking.

  "Who has access to those files?" he asked.

  "I do, at Rachel's House. And when they come through here, our administrator, Mrs. Tanaka."

  The woman nodded. "If you could get that info to us as soon as you can, please?"

  "You don't really think one of the residents is the killer, do you?" Regan asked.

  "Female serial killers in the traditional sense, like in these cases, are extremely rare," Garrison ac­knowledged.

  "There are always exceptions," Durwin said flatly.

  Garrison went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Women tend to be the Black Widow or Angel of

  Death sort of killer, killing spouses for money or people they think already doomed anyway."

  "These women are victims," Regan pointed out. "And most of them are too terrorized themselves to even think about hurting anyone else."

  I underst—"

  "Which brings us to the other thing we need," Durwin said, interrupting his partner without apology.

  "Of course," Regan said with exaggerated politeness. "And that is?"

  "The whereabouts at those times of the most likely suspect, the one who would be best able to find the victims, the one who is not afraid."

  Regan blinked. "What?"

  "You, Miss Keller. Where were you at the time of the murders?"

  Regan was once more nose deep in paperwork, trying to rid herself of the nasty feeling Detective Durwin had left her with. She realized when she found herself reading the same paragraph for the fourth time that she wasn't having much luck.

  She tossed the page down on her desk and rubbed her eyes. She realized they were just doing their job, looking at everyone, and that the more murders that piled up, the harder they pushed, hoping something—or someone—would break. She realized all of that, but it didn't make her feel much better. Her dad might have been killed a long time ago, but she'd never forgotten what he'd taught the little girl she'd been, that the police were the good guys. And she—

  "Regan!"

  The call from the front of the office snapped her out of her reverie. Danielle's voice held an unmistakable note of unease. Regan stood up quickly to look out her office window. Her heart jumped as she saw the short, stocky man with the slicked-back hair. Daryl Bowers. Standing there with an­other man she didn't recognize. Marita's soon-to-be ex-husband wore an expression Regan had seen far too often. She wasn't surprised; the divorce was in the final stages, and he had to be getting desperate by now.

  Regan picked up the receiver of the cordless phone she'd added to the office just for such situa­tions. She checked for a dial tone first—a lesson she'd learned after one irate boyfriend had cut the phone lines before he'd come in to demand they give him back his punching bag—then turned it off again and dialed 911, knowing it would dial itself the moment she hit the call button. Then she stepped out of her office.

  "—know where she is, and you're going to tell me, you little bitch."

  Danielle was standing her ground, but Regan could see the girl was frightened.

  "Don't mind him, honey," she said as she came up behind her. "Mr. Bowers has a problem being civil."

  "You're the one with the problem! I'm not leaving here until I talk to my wife." He glared at Danielle. The teenager, apparently feeling stronger with Regan's presence, answered calmly.

  "I told you, I don't know where Rachel's House is."

  "Bullshit."

  Spittle flew from the man's mouth, and Regan pondered the wisdom of blatantly wiping her face. Deciding against it, she handed the girl the phone instead.

  "It's set to dial 911," she told her. "Use it if he so much as reaches over that counter."

  The man swore again. And for the first time the older, taller man spoke. "Let me handle this, Daryl. Take a walk."

  Regan looked at the other man, but she never let Daryl Bowers out of her peripheral vision. She saw him open his mouth to protest. Then shut it again, glance at the man beside him, and turn and walk away.

  Any man who could make Daryl Bowers do any­thing was someone to watch. Carefully, Regan added to herself as the man spoke again.

  "Now, you listen to me, girlie," he began, in the condescending tone of a superior lecturing a flunkey, but Regan cut him off.

  "I don't listen to anyone who calls me by an antiquated, sexist diminutive," she said, as patronizing as he had been condescending, "but I'm sure we can do better, can't we, Mr.... ?"

  "Why, you—" He stopped, seemingly flummoxed, and unsure whether to respond angrily to her comment or provide her with the standard fill-in for her unfinished sentence. "The only thing you need to know is that I am Marita's father. And I have every right to know where she is. I wish to speak with her."

  "She's not indicated any desire to see you."

  "I don't care what she wants! She's my daughter, and I demand you tell me where she is!"

  Marita had never mentioned her father also being abusive, but it didn't take a psychic to figure that one out. "Did you know," Regan said conver­sationally, "how likely it is that a girl whose father was abusive will marry a man who is also abusive?"

  He swore then, a string even more creative than Bowers' had been. Those extra years of practice, she supposed. He slapped his hands down on the counter and leaned toward her.

  "You bitches really stick together, don't you?"

  "And men like you only know one way, don't you?"

  He swore again, harshly and at length.

  "Regan? Should I call?" Danielle asked, clutching the phone in white-knuckled fingers.

  "Not yet. I'm sure the ... gentleman will be leaving immediately."

  Regan saw the man's hands curl into fists on the counter. This particular breed of leopard rarely changed its spots. Even if they were liver spots, she thought wryly.

  Although perhaps she couldn't assume that this old predator wasn't still dangerous.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was disconcerting, Alex thought. He had never before realized how accustomed he'd become to women reacting to him in a positive way. These women kept hurrying away from him as if he carried some virus. In a sadly twisted way, he supposed he did. For these women, the Y chromosome was dangerous. And sometimes fatal.

  He could only hope it would get better. Maybe once they got used to him, they'd relax a little. Otherwise this was going to be a very long job.

  Of course, it was liable to be long, anyway. He was in good shape, but he wasn't used to this kind of physical labor for eight hours a day. He hadn't worked like this since he'd spent his summers as a teenager laboring on various CourtCorp develop­ments, his father's idea of learning the company from the ground up.

  "Back to work," he told himself aloud. As he began to move again, he felt protests from various muscle groups he hadn't heard from in a long while. Grimm had set him up with a small apartment nearby, as part of his cover, but an hour or two in the hot tub at the family house might be in his plans for tonight. Especially if he wanted to be able to move tomorrow.

  He went back to ripping off the old shake shingles, a fire hazard and then some here in southern California. The skip sheetin
g beneath looked in pretty good shape, considering the condition of the roof. He had this section almost cleared, then he'd have to lay the plywood so he could walk on it safely to get to the rest of the roof.

  "Hello?"

  Alex glanced downward, surprised to hear a male voice. The man who'd called out looked vaguely familiar, with his thinning hair, black horn-rimmed glasses, and tall, wiry frame.

  "Hi," Alex returned casually.

  "I'm Gene Pilson, from next door," the man said. "I kind of look out for things here. You're the roofer?"

  Alex thought that was self-explanatory, but merely nodded.

  "Going to be here long?"

  "As long as it takes," Alex said. "This roof needs a lot of attention."

  "Hmm. Well, I'll be around," Pilson said, and Alex wondered if that had been merely information or a warning.

  He glanced at his watch; he'd already put in a full day. He didn't want to leave before Regan re­turned, until he knew she was safely back for the day, but he wasn't sure how long he could hang around without looking suspicious. He'd give it another half hour, he decided, until he had those shingles cleared. He worked slowly, at the same time watching the street for the green Honda coupe he'd seen her leave in.

  Once one of the women stepped outside, the one called Marita, he thought. He remembered the slight bend in her nose, clearly from a bad break. When she saw him, instead of darting away as the others did, she merely stared at him. There was no mistaking the suspicion in her eyes. He supposed she didn't trust men in general. After a moment she went back inside and he returned to his work, and his watching.

  From his vantage point on the ridgeline he spot­ted the car as she turned the corner. He picked up his pace, spreading a tarp over the roof area he'd cleared, then headed down the ladder.

  When he reached the ground, he looked toward the street. The green coupe was nowhere in sight. He knew it hadn't gone by so, puzzled, he walked toward the sidewalk until he could see down the street. He spotted it parked down three houses. There was no sign of Regan.

  Frowning, he headed back toward the house. He was up on the porch, reaching for the door handle to go in, when he suddenly remembered and backed up hastily. Just as he did so, the front door swung open.

  "I didn't expect you to still be here." Regan's voice was tense, as if his presence bothered her as much as it bothered the residents of Rachel's House.

  "I wanted to finish the section I was working on,' he said.”Oh."

  "Something wrong? I remembered not to go in," he pointed out.

  Her forehead creased for a moment. "What? Oh. No, you're fine, it was ... something else."

  "Problem?"

  She frowned. "You could say that."

  "Bad day?" She hesitated. "I'm not one of them," he said softly.

  She blinked, then flushed as his meaning hit home. "It becomes a reflex after a while."

  "I can understand why. When you're around frightened or wary people all the time, it can rub off."

  'They have reason to be."

  He raised his hands at the tension in her voice. "I didn't say they didn't. Just that it's hard to live on that kind of edge all the time."

  She let out a long breath. "I'm sorry," she said, sinking down onto the porch bench. "It has been a bad day."

  Alex leaned against the porch railing. "Something go wrong?"

  "Only if you consider practically being accused of being a serial killer by the police something going wrong."

  He frowned. The cops had a suspect? Then the literal sense of her words hit him. "You?" he asked, astonished. 'They accused you?"

  She flicked him a look he couldn't quite put a name to. "Well, only one of them, really," she said.

  "Aren't female serial killers as rare as honest politicians?"

  "I suppose he didn't really accuse me, but he was pretty snarly about asking if I had alibis for the nights of the murders."

  "Oh." Alex hesitated. He knew that was standard procedure, but he didn't want her mad at him again.

  "I know, I know," she said as if she'd read his thoughts. "He had to ask."

  "But he didn't have to be obnoxious about it."

  "No, he didn't. And he got worse when I told him only the female detective could come here to talk to our residents. And that I had a lawyer who was ready to back us up on that."

  He knew, of course, that she had access to the CourtCorp attorney his mother had assigned, but asked anyway, because it seemed like he should. "You have a lawyer already?"

  "Thanks to our main patron. Which further irritated Detective Durwin." She grimaced. "I get the feeling he doesn't have a lot of empathy for what these women have been through."

  "Then what the heck's he doing on the case?" Alex muttered, already thinking his mother was going to want to know about this.

  "I suppose he was assigned," Regan said, look­ing at him quizzically. "It's not like Vista Shores has a huge department to choose from."

  He opened his mouth to tell her if things weren't resolved soon they would have an entire task force to choose from, then snapped it shut. He'd forgot­ten her history, but the fact that she'd once been closely connected to the police department came back to him in a rush now. Along with the fact that it wasn't public knowledge yet that a task force was being considered.

  "Er, yeah," he said lamely. "Still, seems like he should lose the attitude."

  She smiled a bit. "I think his partner thought so, too. I'll bet she chewed on him a bit after they left. And I guess it doesn't matter how he feels. The killer's not threatening the women, at least not yet."

  "It better stay that way." When he saw his tone had caught her attention, he shrugged. "I hate bul­lies. Even when they're cops. Maybe especially. They're supposed to be the good guys."

  That earned him another smile. "I don't blame him, really. I am one of the only ones with access to the records that include the men's whereabouts, and I can't say I don't have reason to despise men like that."

  "We all have reason to despise men like that," Alex said while wondering when she would realize she'd just let slip to him what wasn't general knowledge, the direct connection to Rachel's House. He didn't want her to stop talking now, so he said quickly, "But I read about the murders in the paper. I can't quite see you slashing throats."

  Her eyes went oddly flat. "Don't think I wouldn't if it was the only way to stop one of them."

  He tried to keep his tone neutral. "That sounds ... personally fervent."

  "Men like that," she said, her voice tight, "have cost me my father and my best friend. Yes, I'm fervent, and yes, it's personal to me."

  If she had sounded like that when she'd been talking to the police, he wasn't surprised they were looking at her; there had been a world of anger and vehemence in that declaration. And suddenly he could picture it, this woman taking vengeance like some female warrior out of legend, and the image rattled him.

  Regan glanced over her shoulder, and he spoke quickly, before he lost her.

  "Your father and your best friend?" He knew the story from the file his mother had given him, but he wanted to hear it from her. If for no other reason than when she knew he knew, he could quit worry­ing about slipping up himself.

  She looked back at him. "He was a cop. He tried to stop one of them from murdering his wife. He got murdered instead."

  Her mouth twisted into a grimace that made him wince as if he'd felt the pain himself.

  "And your friend?"

  "Rachel. Rachel Carreras. The best friend I ever had, the sister I never had." "Had?" he asked.

  "She made the fatal mistake of falling for one of them. I never understood why. I still don't."

  From the doorway came a soft call. "Regan?"

  They both turned. Alex recognized the young blonde he'd thought he'd seen peeking through the curtains at him a couple of times today.

  "Yes, Mindy?" Regan said.

  "I think you'd better come in. Dawn's on the phone with her father, and it's getting
ugly." Regan responded quickly. Alex decided it was time to take another step into her confidence and followed her inside.

  "—always hated him! Half the times he hit me, it was because of you!"

  Alex saw Regan wince at what the petite brunette said. He'd read enough to know that excuses were the hallmark of an abuser. He just hadn't realized how thoroughly the victim sometimes bought into it as well.

  "Can't you even have a little respect, when he's barely cold?" The woman paused, listening, while she wiped already reddened eyes. "Oh, yeah, I for­got, your respect has to be earned, isn't that what you always say? Well, I hope you're happy now! I hate you, and I don't ever want to see you again!"

  She slammed down the receiver on the wall phone, stood glaring at it through her tears, and only then seemed to realize she had an audience.

  "Can you believe him?" she exclaimed. "He wants me to come home, now that Art is . . . oh, God."

  A new flood of tears poured from her. Mindy ran to put a comforting arm around her. Beside him, Alex saw Regan take a deep breath before she started toward the two women. He himself was feeling confused. This was obviously the woman connected to the most recent victim, but Alex didn't understand this. She'd had to run from him, hide from his brutality, yet she sounded as devastated by his death as any normal married woman.

  "Come on, Dawn," Regan said quietly. "Why don't you go back upstairs and rest for a while?"

  "I should never have called him," the woman said bitterly. "But I thought he'd understand, at least feel bad. But no, not my father. He always hated Art."

  I'd hate the man who battered my daughter, too, Alex thought.

  "Don't say any more right now," Regan told her. "You're upset, you've been through the wringer. Get some rest. You don't have to do anything or go anywhere right now."

  Her calm, soothing tones seemed to have an ef­fect, and Alex watched as Regan led the distraught woman to the stairs.

  "Hi. I'm Mindy."

  Alex turned to the petite blonde. "I'm Alex," he said. Normally he would have held out a hand, but he wasn't sure that was a good idea here.