Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

  For once Durwin subsided, even looked a little ashamed.

  Regan Keller turned to face Lynne. "Thank you." Without a glance at the two men, she went on. "It's true I have access to the records. It's true I despise what men like your so-called victims do, so I guess I do have motive. What I don't have"—she turned to glare at Durwin—"is the stomach for it. If there's anything that working at Rachel's House has taught me, it's that I hate violence."

  "So you don't believe in vengeance?" Nick asked, sounding merely curious.

  "I believe in the kind of retribution my father be­lieved in. He used to say we were still very much an eye for an eye society, but now the police and the courts get your eye for you. Which is the way it should work. Through the system."

  "Nice speech," Durwin muttered.

  Lynne had had about enough of Durwin for one morning. She stood up. "Let me see you out," she said to Regan, not waiting for any protest from ei­ther of the two men.

  She led the way to the door. "You parked out front?" At the redhead's nod, she continued down the hall toward the public entrance. "I do want to thank you for helping clear that up, about Mr. Gibbs."

  "I felt I had to. Things like what Dawn did just make it harder for everyone."

  "Yes, they do. I wish more people understood that."

  "Once this is all over, I'd like to talk to you about Rachel's House."

  "You were on my list, before this got dropped on me," Lynne told her. "I'd planned to contact you. It's important to me as the domestic-violence detec­tive to know all the options I can give victims I come across."

  Regan smiled, and Lynne couldn't doubt the warmth and sincerity of it.

  Lynne hesitated. She knew that while it was un­likely their killer was a woman, it wasn't impossi­ble that Regan had something to do with the murder. Female accomplices were not uncommon. She hoped not. She liked Regan Keller, admired what she was doing, and her dedication to a tragic, heartbreaking cause.

  But had that dedication pushed her over the edge?

  "I could, by the way," Regan said.

  Lynne blinked. "Could what?"

  "Put six in the ten ring."

  Lynne laughed. "Do you own a gun?"

  "Yes. One of my father's that I kept."

  "You don't carry it?"

  "No. It's locked up, in my room at the shelter. Has been ever since we moved into this location.

  None of the residents know it's there, but I do. Just in case."

  Lynne nodded. She'd read about the case of the young mother being shot gunned to death in front of the original Rachel's House, which had precipi­tated the move.

  Lynne walked with Regan out to the parking lot, where they stopped next to a green Honda that was at least a decade old. Odd, she thought. With the Court Corporation behind them, she would have thought the director of Rachel's House would get paid well enough to afford a newer car.

  "Thanks for sending over those sign-in logs, by the way," she said as Regan unlocked the car.

  "You're welcome."

  "Keep them signing in and out," Lynne recom­mended. "And do it yourself, too."

  "To keep Detective Durwin off my back?" "Mainly," Lynne admitted.

  This time Regan's gaze was more pointed. "You think it will happen again, don't you?"

  Lynne let out a long sigh. "Yes. I think he'll kill again."

  And again, she thought. Until we stop him.

  Alex tacked down the last corner of the tarp, slid the hammer into the loop on his tool belt, and headed for the ladder. Once down, he stretched wearily. The next time the guy at the gym talked about a full-body workout, he was going to sign him up for a few days of roofing.

  He walked up onto the porch. Regan had come back a couple of hours ago. He'd resisted the urge to go down right then and see how things had gone with the police. He didn't want to blow his cover by appearing too curious. But now he was going to have to try to find out. He knocked on the door.

  He stretched again, arching his aching back. As he did so he noticed the base of the porch light was askew, one of the screws holding it to the wall clearly loose.

  Regan pulled the door open. His head came down abruptly.

  "Something wrong?" she asked, gesturing to­ward where he'd been looking.

  "Your porch light's coming loose."

  "I noticed that the other day. I've been meaning to fix it."

  He shrugged. "I've got a screwdriver right here. I'll do it now."

  "You don't need to. You've put in enough work for one day."

  "It'll only take a minute. I just wanted to tell you I'm done for the day and off the roof, so if you hear anything up there, it's not me."

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, as if she were searching for some sign he was joking. "Thank you for letting me know."

  "It hit me today that you'd need to," he said as he pulled out a flat-bladed screwdriver. She smiled at him, a warmer smile than he'd ever seen from her before. "Does that mean you've decided I'm trainable?" he asked.

  "You have potential," she admitted.

  "Thanks," he said, to his surprise meaning it. "By the way, I met your guardian angel."

  Regan gasped. "What?"

  He stopped in the act of reaching toward the lamp, realizing she'd thought he meant the killer the papers had been calling the Avenger. "I meant Mr. Pilson."

  "Oh." Regan relaxed, and smiled. "Isn't he sweet? He's always bringing over little gifts for everyone, not extravagant, just very thoughtful. He's the per­fect neighbor for us, to help the women realize not all men are like the ones they've escaped."

  "Lucky break. I can imagine some people wouldn't be happy with a shelter of any kind next door."

  She nodded. "Our old neighbors weren't. So we're glad to have Mr. Pilson. The women voted him welcome to visit within a couple of weeks of moving in here."

  Better than he was doing, Alex thought wryly.

  He reached up to the base of the lamp, which had slid sideways when the loose screw lost its grip. His fingers brushed something that crinkled like paper behind the metal plate.

  "Somebody must have tried to wedge this be­fore," he said as he fished it out. "I may need to get a different..."

  His voice trailed off as he stared at the carefully folded wad of paper that had slipped into his hand. He knew, had known the instant he'd seen how the paper was so carefully folded. He'd seen it often enough to recognize it. But hoping he could be wrong, he began to carefully open the little bindle.

  "What is it?" Regan asked.

  Alex let out a compressed breath as he got to the center and saw the white powder he'd expected.

  He dipped a little finger into it and lifted it to his tongue. The salty, bitter taste was slight but unmis­takable. "Alex?"

  "Cocaine," he said bluntly.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lynne headed back to the detective division, and got there just as Nick was hanging up the phone. The Rachel's House files were in front of him. Nick had groused about having to deal with a high-powered Court Corporation lawyer to get the court order, but Lynne had thought their re­quests regarding the security of the files quite rea­sonable.

  "Finish your calls?" she asked.

  "Everybody I could reach. I've got a few left I'll try later, after the workday."

  "Nick Kelso, volunteering for overtime?" .

  He shrugged off her teasing. "This is important. Besides, since they stuck me on this thing, I'll pull my weight."

  "You always do," Lynne said. And meant it. Nick might be a flirt and a charmer, but he wasn't a slacker on the job. "If you're done with those, let's lock them up."

  Nick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like somebody's going to steal them out of the police station."

  But he complied, returning the files to the locked cabinet beside Lynne's desk.

  "How are they taking it, the men you've called?"

  "About like you might expect. Some of them are pretty alarmed."

  "Enough to take precautions, I hop
e."

  "I think so. It's the ones who are just mad I'm worried about."

  "Mad?" Now there was a reaction she didn't un­derstand.

  "Sure. They feel like those women have caused them enough trouble already, they want to leave it behind, and then this."

  "'Those women'?" Lynne's tone was icy, al­though she knew Nick was only quoting the men he'd talked to.

  "Hey, I'm just saying that's how they feel." He shook his head. "You try to tell them, they just can't go around losing control so much that women file reports on them, but it just doesn't get through."

  "If it could get through, chances are they wouldn't be hitting women and children in the first place."

  And she was ready to hit something herself, Lynne thought.

  Kelso seemed to sense it, because he got to his feet. "I've got an interview to do downstairs."

  He hadn't mentioned bringing anybody in, so she asked, "Who?"

  "Marty Baker."

  Lynne blinked. "Mindy Baker's brother?" "Yeah," he said. "He's a good one," he added as he left.

  Lynne sat thinking, recalling her interview with

  Mindy. It would be devastating to the girl if her brother was the killer. They were closer than most siblings, survivors bound together by a family his­tory of abuse.

  After a moment she got to her feet and headed downstairs; she wanted to watch this.

  By the time she got there, Kelso had Marty Baker seated at a table, and was on the other side, on his feet and leaning forward. Already working him hard, Lynne thought as she peered through the one-way glass.

  "—give it up, Baker," Kelso was saying. "You've got motive, you had opportunity, and we're going to nail you."

  "That's bull and you know it." Mindy's brother was red-faced, clearly angry, and Lynne wondered what Kelso had already said to him.

  "I know you did it, Baker." Kelso leaned in then, hands flat on the table, pushing himself into Baker's space. "You might as well make it easy on yourself, because if I have to take you down hard, I promise you'll regret it."

  "I didn't do it. Why would I kill some total stranger?"

  "I figure you're working your way up to your real target," Kelso said flatly. "Figure you're trying to make it look like some serial killer is on the loose."

  "That's really stupid. You could never prove that."

  "Watch me. You're going down, all the way, Baker. You'll be an old man when you get out, if you ever do. And your sister will be all used up."

  Lynne winced. Kelso was just pushing hard, she told herself. He was using whatever approach he thought would work to solve these murders. But she still didn't like hearing a victim, any victim, further attacked in the course of an investigation.

  "You're a loser, Baker, a blue-collar slug who doesn't have a chance. You can't afford the kind of lawyer it'd take to save your ass. So talk to me now, and maybe I can get you some kind of deal."

  "Deal? Why the hell do I need a deal? I didn't kill anybody."

  Kelso leaned in even closer. He was getting into this, Lynne thought as she saw a vein pulsing at his temple. If she hadn't known he was putting on a show, she would have wondered seriously about him. The young blond man who looked so much like his sister drew back slightly.

  "The hell you didn't. You figure because your tramp of a sister got slapped around a little that gives you the right to start murdering innocent men?"

  Lynne stiffened as Marty Baker lunged at Kelso across the table. "You son of a bitch!"

  Baker was big and strong, but Kelso was a pow­erhouse. He absorbed the rush without a wobble, and slammed Baker down hard on the table.

  "Obviously you've got the temper, too. And when you lose it, you get physical."

  Marty repeated his last words, only this time it was muffled since he was facedown on the table in the interrogation room. Kelso leaned over him, his voice going low and menacing. "So, that's your an­swer? Fine. It'll look good in my report when I tell my boss I've got our killer."

  "Go to hell," Marty said, but the rage was gone, replaced by more than a touch of fear.

  Lynne turned away then, walking out of the ob­servation room. She headed for the soda machine in the lunchroom, thinking every step of the way. Marty Baker was obviously a very angry young man, and with that temper, he could obviously be easily provoked.

  She bought her soda, then stood there sipping at it, thinking, wondering if Kelso was onto some­thing. Wondering if he might have put a crack in this case by driving Baker to snap.

  And trying not to dwell on the slurs about Mindy he'd used to do it.

  Just as she got back to her desk, her phone was ringing. Nick was already there, and picked it up. Irritation flickered, but she told herself he was closer to it than she was, it was only natural, since they were working the same case. Besides, she didn't get personal phone calls here anyway.

  "Yeah . . . yeah . . . when?" Nick was saying. "Who's there? Okay, got it."

  She knew before he hung up what he was going to say by the grimness of his expression.

  "Another one?"

  He nodded. "Number four."

  Lynne sighed, her mouth tightening. "That makes no sense. It's too soon after the last one. There was a month between the first two, and three weeks before number three."

  "He's a serial killer. Who knows what triggers him," Nick pointed out.

  She couldn't argue that, but she knew it wasn't typical for such a quick jump, it was usually more gradual.

  Not, she thought as she grabbed her jacket, that that made one bit of difference to the victims.

  Regan rested her head in her hands. Alex wouldn't be surprised if she had a powerful headache. He certainly would, if he'd been through what she had.

  He watched her as she sat at her desk. How could any cop possibly suspect this woman of murder? True, she was dedicated in her protection of the women of Rachel's House, but murder? No way.

  Of course, he had very little to base that on. She had no alibi for any of the murders. And he had only a gut feeling, plus the knowledge that female serial killers, very rare in the first place, almost never followed the same pattern as males.

  Well, those two things and the fact he could no longer deny, that Regan Keller interested him. In­terested him in a way no woman ever had before.

  Ironic, he thought as he watched her rub her eyes. His mother hadn't wanted him to get in­volved, but he hadn't been able to resist doing a lit­tle probing. What he'd found had moved Regan from the category of merely an attractive woman to an intriguing one.

  But the attraction he ruefully admitted to aside, there were plenty of other suspects, from what he'd heard. And the pool just seemed to be getting big­ger.

  And now this, he thought, looking at the bindle of cocaine that lay on her desk.

  When at last she lifted her head, when he saw the exhaustion in her eyes, he felt a sudden need to lift the burden from her, or at least distract her from it. He said the first thing that came to him.

  "I meant to ask how it went with the detective who was here."

  She looked startled for a moment, but then an­swered. "Fine. I mean, she was very good about it. I'm glad she'll be the new domestic-violence inves­tigator when this is over."

  "She didn't harass anybody?"

  "No, not really. She pushed a little, but no more than I would have expected."

  "I forgot, you'd probably know, wouldn't you? With your dad being a cop, I mean."

  "If you mean, do I see the police side of things, yes, I do." Her mouth twisted. "Except when it's one of those bullies you mentioned."

  "Is that what the problem was that you had to go see them about?"

  "No." She rubbed at her temples. "That was a misguided attempt at retaliation by one of the resi­dents. One of the more difficult residents."

  "Difficult?" As in difficult enough to be a sus­pect? From what he'd heard it didn't sound like Dawn had the nerve, but you just never knew....

  "She's having—that is she was h
aving—a tough time making a clean break. She kept thinking if she was just more patient, or more understanding, things would change. Even though her ex slapped her within five minutes, the last time she went to see him."

  "And this is the man she wanted to go back to?"

  "She was afraid, Alex. This is exactly what the problem is. She stays, he may kill her. She leaves, he may kill her family."

  Alex shook his head. He was trying to under­stand, he really was, but this ugliness seemed al­most beyond comprehension.

  "Besides," Regan said, "in a lot of cases, the very act of leaving is what triggers the partner into vio­lence. Everybody says get a restraining order, but I can tell you about dozens of cases where that order is the trigger. Did you know one study shows that over ninety percent of the women killed after leav­ing a batterer are killed within the first year?"

  "No." He couldn't think of another thing to say.

  Regan let her head loll back on her shoulders. Fi­nally she grimaced and said, "Sorry. I seem to lug that soapbox around with me everywhere."

  "It must get heavy, twenty-four hours a day. Don't you ever want to put it down, at least for a while? Get a life of your own?"

  "This is my life," she said. The instant the words were out, an odd expression came over her face. For a moment she just sat there. "This is my life," she whispered, an undertone of pained realization in her voice. "My entire life."

  "Regan—"

  "I didn't really realize that until this moment. My aunt tried to tell me, even Marita tried to tell me.

  She said I was letting myself become as much a prisoner as they were."

  "Maybe it's harder to see when it's by choice."

  She shook her head, clearly more in revelation than in negation of his statement. "Amazing. I spend half my time trying to get others to open their eyes, and here I am, blind to the obvious."

  "So go to dinner with me tonight."

  Not for the first time around Regan it was out be­fore he thought, a problem he'd never had before he'd come here. He might wish he'd never said it, but now that he had, he wasn't about to take it back.

  "What?"

  "Do something about that life you don't have. Dinner. Tonight."