by Justine Dare
Her face must have changed, because Drew said softly, "What is it, Lynne? If s obviously eating you up."
She hesitated, then realized there was probably no one better to tell. Drew would give her an honest reaction, and could probably tell her how to handle it better than anybody.
"I'll tell you," she said, "because I need someone an emotional step back from this. But that's all I want. I'll handle it myself."
"All right."
She poured it out then, what she'd found in going through the domestic-violence crime reports. And how he'd seemed so eager to make sure potential targets were warned, as if it were more important than focusing on the killer himself, as if he didn't trust anyone else to do it. Then she told him of the other occasions when he'd made comments like he had today, things that taken alone might be ignored as just mouthing off, but put together with everything took on an entirely different connotation.
Drew listened without speaking until she was done. And even then he said nothing as he paced the office, but she could almost see his mind working. Finally, he stopped and turned to face her. "What are you thinking?"
"I just thought he might not be going at this without bias, as he should."
"More likely he'd be going at it harder, don't you think? If he feels that way, he'd probably want this guy who's killing his like-minded brethren wrapped up as soon as possible."
She hadn't thought of it quite that way. She sighed. "You're probably right."
Drew looked thoughtful. "Didn't he get himself in some hot water once, over a public fight in a restaurant with his girlfriend?"
Lynne frowned. "I'm not sure."
"I think it was in our territory, one of the big hotels near the airport."
"Then I might not have heard. I do know she dumped him pretty unceremoniously. A vanish in the middle of the night kind of thing. Pretty humiliating."
"Very, for a guy like Kelso. Remember her name?"
Lynne thought for a moment. "Tanya, I think." "Anybody heard from her since then?" "I don't know. I think one of the records clerks was a friend of hers, though. I could ask. Why?"
"Just thinking."
Drew was never "just thinking," but Lynne knew that if he wasn't inclined to share those thoughts yet, nothing would make him.
Her cell phone rang, and she tugged it out. "Garrison."
"You owe me," the female voice said.
"Helen? What have you got?"
"The correct answer is 'Thank you so much, Helen, you're right, I owe you big time.'"
"You're right, you're right, but not now."
The crime-scene technician gave in. "You've got blood." Lynne's heart leapt; Helen had promised to get to the testing on the swords as soon as she could, but as backed up as the lab always was, Lynne hadn't expected results already. "However," she added, "that's all I can tell you. The sample is too small and too old, not to mention contaminated with some kind of cleaner or detergent, for me to tell much except that it's human and maybe type O."
Naturally, Lynne thought. The type of at least three of the victims, but also the most common blood type in the world.
"But there are limits to what I can do here. State might be able to pull up some DNA for you. If not, then there's always the feds. Shall I send it on?"
"Yes, please," Lynne said. "And thanks, Helen. Really."
By the time she hung up she was already on her feet. Drew was looking at her curiously, waiting.
"There was human blood on the swords. We need to go pick up Gene Pilson."
Pilson seemed stunned. If Lynne hadn't seen that kind of reaction before, in suspects as guilty as sin, she might have been convinced.
The thin, balding man barely protested when she and Durwin went to his tiny office and took him into custody, just kept repeating "I never, I never," as if he were stuck on those words and couldn't get past them. Then he lapsed into silence until they reached the station. In fact, he stayed silent, as if numbed, only shaking his head no at every point they made. The time cards that showed he was not working at the times of any of the murders—although the long lunch break was questionable, they didn't mention that. His statements about the murders, which they'd been able to corroborate with coworkers, saving them from having to use Regan's statements. His access to Rachel's House, and knowledge about its occupants and their situations. But he stayed silent, until they confronted him with the blood evidence.
"Of course there's human blood on them! They're Japanese ceremonial swords. They've been used."
That was a curve they hadn't expected. "How long have you owned them?"
"Just over a year. I bought them at an antiques show." He drew himself up. "I'm interested in Asian culture. Is that a crime now?"
Was it possible, Lynne wondered, that the blood Helen had found could have been there that long? Maybe. She'd said it was old.
They continued the questioning but got nowhere. Lynne couldn't decide if he was playing it smart, or was truly bewildered. Finally, Durwin signaled her that it was time to withdraw and let him stew for a while.
As they were leaving Pilson finally spoke. "They don't think I did it, do they? The ladies at Rachel's House? They didn't tell you they suspect me?"
His voice was so plaintive Lynne thought his feelings might really be hurt by the idea. Since low self-esteem was another hallmark of a murderer, she wondered if this was a sign. Deciding not to answer, she merely looked at him, shook her head sadly, and left him there.
"Let Drew go at him," she suggested, and to her surprise, Durwin agreed without protest.
"I'll page him," her partner said.
"I'm heading back out to Rachel's House," she said. I want to talk to them some more about our friend here."
She knew they wouldn't like being interviewed yet again, but sometimes dogged perseverance was the only thing that broke a case. Regan was holding up well, although Lynne suspected she would never let herself be beaten. Marita was still taking in the shock that her war was over. There were only two other residents now; they'd lost another, Regan said. Trish had caved when her husband had hired a notorious divorce attorney, saying he would make sure neither she nor her family had anything left when he was done with them. Sometimes even the support of places like Rachel's House wasn't enough.
When she was done, she'd turned up nothing new, but not from lack of trying. The women were all shocked that Mr. Pilson had been arrested, and Lynne felt terrible, as if she'd added to their burden by telling them. And she wasn't confident enough of the circumstantial evidence they had to tell them it was all over.
Regan walked her outside, and Marita came with them, saying she still couldn't quite believe she was free to keep right on walking if she wanted to.
"Believe it," Regan said, putting her arm around Marita's shoulders.
"Yes, believe it," the gardener—Mitch, Lynne remembered—said from the bottom of the porch steps. He stepped up to Marita and handed her a luscious buttery yellow rose. "To freedom."
"Aw, Mitch, you sweetie," Marita drawled. "A yellow rose. How'd you know I'm from Texas?"
The man looked startled. "I..."
Marita laughed, Regan laughed with her, and Lynne smiled herself at the joyous sound. Mitch joined in, and Lynne wondered how long it had been since this place had heard such laughter.
"Hey, Mitch, if Regan and Alex end up getting married, are you going to do the flowers?" Marita asked.
"Married?" Mitch looked stunned. Regan blushed.
"So, you two have worked out your ... differences?" Lynne asked.
"Not yet," Regan said, sliding a look at Marita that only made her grin. It did Lynne's heart good to see the woman strong enough to tease, and she suspected Regan's annoyance was mostly feigned, too.
"Mitch," Lynne said, "Detective Durwin will probably be wanting to talk to you again, too. We're going through everybody all over again."
"Anything I can do to help. Should I call him? Or just wait here?"
"
I'll let him know you're waiting," Lynne said. "He'll be in touch."
At the man's nod, Lynne said a final good-bye to the two women and headed back to the station. When she got there, Drew was seated at her desk. And he did not look happy.
"Now what?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
"Come with me," he said. "Outside."
He led her out to a grassy area next to the public parking lot. Now she was sure she didn't want to hear this, if he wouldn't even risk saying it inside her own station.
"What?" she asked when he finally stopped.
"I did a little checking while you were gone."
"On?"
"Kelso's girlfriend."
"Tanya? And?"
"I asked around here, including her friend in records, and she supposedly dumped him three months ago."
"That sounds about right."
"The consensus was she'd gone off to New York. Friends and family got E-mails from her, but after about six weeks they stopped coming."
"And?"
"No one's heard from her since." Lynne frowned. "Have they tried to contact her?"
"Supposedly she was staying with friends in the city, different ones, until she found her own place. Told them she didn't want to tie up their phones so she'd contact them."
"Makes sense, I guess."
"Yeah. Except that nobody had any idea she even knew anyone in New York. And the names she gave in the E-mails were always very common, impossible to track down in a city that size."
"Where are you heading with this, Drew?"
He let out a breath. "After that, I called her family."
Lynne went very still. Asking around the department was one thing, involving civilians was something else.
"She didn't call them, either. Still the E-mail route. But eventually even those stopped." He rubbed his hand over his jaw before going on, almost reluctantly. "They filed a missing persons report on her a month ago. Nothing's turned up."
"In New York City, I'm not surprised."
"They also hired a private investigator. He found she bought a plane ticket on-line, with her credit card, the day before the flight."
"Didn't she have a car she would want to take with her?"
"Not anymore." He sounded grim. "Her mother says Nick made her sell it, that he said they didn't need two cars."
Lynne's breath caught. It was a typical ploy of a controlling male, limiting her mobility.
"Yeah," Drew said.
"Drew ... what are you saying? That you think he killed her?"
"I don't know. I just know that she vanished. No one's seen her since the night she supposedly left."
"But the E-mails," Lynne began, then realized the flaw in that. "Which are easy to fake."
"Especially if he had access to her password, and if he's that kind, you know he did."
Slowly she nodded. "And he would know enough about her to make them sound real. God, do you realize what kind of premeditation and mentality that means? Six weeks of sending E-mails to the family of a woman you've murdered?"
His expression told her he'd already thought of all that. "And something else, Lynnie."
"What?"
"If she dumped him three months ago—or if he killed her then—that was just before the other murders started."
Lynne sucked in a breath, her eyes widening.
"And he had access, or could get it, to the files," Drew added. "He knew what was happening now as far as the Rachel's House connection, because he got himself put on the case. He'd be as careful as our killer is, more in fact, because he knows how CSI works. And he would have known Bowers was in jail, could have called Yantz to bail him out so he could follow and later get to him."
"But... why would he kill abusers if he is one?"
"I don't know," Drew said again. "Unless he was horrified by what he'd done to her. And by killing other abusers he's trying to atone."
"You mean he's killing the others out of guilt?"
"Or a suppressed urge to kill the killer he can't kill."
"You mean ... himself?"
Drew nodded.
"My God," she whispered.
CHAPTER 21
She should have gone with Marita, Regan thought as she left the hospital. That first step back to a normal life was scary, and she shouldn't have had to take it alone. But she'd insisted she wanted to, and Regan hadn't argued with her, knowing this new forcefulness was fragile. Fortunately, the company she was interviewing with was a subsidiary of Court Corporation that often took on the graduates of Rachel's House, so Marita had a good chance.
Reaching her car, Regan tossed her purse on the seat and tugged off her jacket, even its light weight too much on this nearly ninety-degree day.
Maybe I'll go by and pick Marita up after she's finished, she thought as she got in and started the engine. Take her to lunch.
Regan smiled, wondering if Marita even realized she could do that now, go out to lunch anywhere she wanted, without ever having to look over her shoulder.
Thanks to a serial killer.
With a sigh, Regan shook her head and focused on driving. She'd been battling that dichotomy for so long now it seemed to have dulled the brain cells that had to deal with it. It didn't seem right to be glad of anyone's death, but she couldn't deny she was very glad Marita no longer had to live in hiding, no longer had to be the one constantly on guard, when in fact she was the victim.
They're the victims, but they're the ones who have to hide.
Alex's words came back to her, words that had told her he really did understand. Alex.
She was having a hard time getting past the fact that while she'd fallen hard for Alex the roofer, she had no idea how she felt about Alexander Edward Court
. The only thing she was sure of was that whatever she felt, she felt it strongly. You didn't hurt this much about somebody you didn't care about.
She wrenched her mind off that path and tried to concentrate on the good news that Mindy would be released from the hospital soon. She was going to need serious care for a while, and she'd lost what little hearing she had left in the one ear, but the doctors were optimistic about the rest.
Of course, when she got out, she would learn what they'd managed to keep from her so far, that her brother was a prime suspect in Joel's death, and although Detective Garrison was careful not to say so, Regan guessed he might be a suspect in the rest of the murders as well. And she was afraid that it seemed more logical to her than quiet Mr. Pilson. And that wasn't going to do Mindy any good.
Regan had always liked Marty, liked how he'd tried to stand up to Joel for Mindy, and their abusive father before, and how protective he was of her now. But if that protectiveness had turned violent...
She felt a creeping weariness overtaking her, bringing with it a longing for simplicity, for a time when life hadn't been so fraught with ugliness and danger. Mrs. Court
kept telling her she needed a vacation, which she had always declined. But for the first time the idea had some serious appeal.
For the first time in her life, she wanted to stop fighting. She wanted to run away.
Lynne glanced in her mirror again. This old, forgotten ridge-top road was getting more use than she'd thought. And whoever was driving that beat-up old sedan was darn lucky she had more urgent things to do right now, because the way he was tailgating her, when they were the only two cars here, was enough to tempt her into writing her first traffic citation in years.
She'd done her re-interview with Mrs. Tanaka first, since she lived up here in the hills and far enough out of town that Lynne had had to warn the detective secretary that if anything came up she was at least half an hour away. Now she was taking the shortcut back, the road that ran along the top of the hills before dropping back down toward the coast.
She ran through her mental list. Next, she would head toward the county crime lab. The toxicology reports on the last victim should be in soon, and although she didn't expect any
thing more than a high blood alcohol, you never knew. Then—
A sudden thump snapped her head back. The steering wheel jerked beneath her hands. She fought it, sparing only a fraction of a second to glance in the rearview mirror. The sedan was there, rammed up into her left rear bumper. She could hear the whine of its engine as it tried to push her toward the shoulder.
Toward the drop, she realized. They'd topped the ridge now, and while not steep enough to be called a cliff, it would be a long, nasty, and possibly fatal ride.
Braking would only make things worse, lessening her already scant control. So instead she hit the accelerator, her jaw clenching as she put some distance between them.
The sedan sped up, clearly intent on hitting her again. She jammed the gas pedal down, her mind racing. Calling on old skills, she began to swerve, right, then left, in varying arcs and speeds, making it more difficult for him to judge where she would be.
She couldn't divert her attention long enough to use her cell or even reach for her radio to call for help, not that it would work up here anyway. She could probably get away from him, maybe pull off a one-eighty skid turn and give herself some margin, but the road was so narrow she wasn't thrilled with the idea.
Then the obvious hit her. The average person, trying to drive somebody off the road, tended to sideswipe, pulling up even and then using the length of their car to push their quarry.
This had been something else entirely. Poorly executed and ineffective, but still, it was a fishtail maneuver. Or as they'd put it so long ago in driving school, a tactical vehicle intervention.
She ignored the sick churning in her gut. What it was, even who it was, didn't matter at this moment. They were all alone on the road.
She strained to remember the layout of the next few miles of this road she hadn't used in a long time. She picked her spot, and set about luring her attacker in close. She watched the mirror, no longer able to deny who she saw.
She wasn't going to let him win. If she died, he could get away with it. All of it. She'd be damned if she'd let him. She would do whatever she had to. Including using his own arrogance against him.