Another truck thumped over the pothole and jarred him back to the present. His legs and waist were stung by a damp cold. A stream by his feet had soaked his pants during the few hours he’d slept. Then the memory of last night’s events crept into his mind. With Audrey dead, all hope of an explanation had died with her.
Depression tried to settle in. Before it could take hold, he recalled how Emma had taken a stand against the cops. He remembered her determination to locate Audrey and uncover the truth.
He rose and brushed a patch of dirt from his sleeve. On his first step his cold, wet pants clung to his leg. He needed dry clothes. More important, he needed a place to stay.
He ran through a list of relatives and close friends. Only a few of them lived in the area. The police, however, would likely have them under surveillance. He felt reluctant to drag anyone else down into the hellhole that had become his life.
His thoughts returned to Emma. Of course the police would be watching her as well. He then considered some of the students at the university. He had several acquaintances, people he socialized with, but no one he felt comfortable asking for such a favor.
Then the perfect place to hole up came to him. He recalled a young woman from his English Literature class last year boasting to friends that she would be spending this semester in Barcelona. If she hadn’t rented out her apartment, it would be the ideal place to stay.
He stepped from beneath the overpass and squinted into the morning sun. A delivery truck bounced over the pothole. Another truck crossed the bridge, followed by a sedan. He felt exposed, convinced each driver recognized him. With great reluctance, he retreated to the safety of the overpass and resolved to move about only after dark.
It wouldn’t be easy. A pang of hunger reminded him that his last meal had been more than twelve hours ago.
CHAPTER 16
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Captain Amanda Rush said. She ushered Mayweather and Farrow into her spacious office.
Mayweather took a seat and allowed himself a moment, as he often did, to admire her ability to merge authority with femininity. She looked cool and in charge with her striped skirt-suit. The confident look that perpetually graced her thirty-five-year-old face and her self-assured stride left no doubt with whom a final decision lay.
Yet the honey-shaded bow that secured her ponytail and the gentle aroma of Elizabeth Arden perfume suggested a softness that both attracted him and left him ill at ease.
Rush alternated her stare between the two detectives. Clearly unhappy, she leaned forward and slammed her right palm on her desk. “Two murders in three days. You know how long it’s been since we’ve had something like that here?”
Mayweather assumed the question was rhetorical since the captain barely paused.
“Why didn’t you book Burnett when you had the chance?”
“Because this case stinks,” Farrow said.
“Twenty-six years’ experience tell you that?”
“I spoke to the witness again,” Farrow said. “He’s certain there was a girl in Henri Laroche’s apartment.”
“Now she’s dead.”
Mayweather considered jumping in, but decided against it. Farrow hadn’t mentioned his belief in the witness. He chose to wait and find out what else his partner hadn’t mentioned.
“We’ve gone over every frame of video from that building,” Farrow said. “No girl fitting her description entered or left.”
“How the hell’d she get in, then?” Rush asked.
“No clue. But we thought he’d lead us to her.”
“He led you right to her.”
“He’s got no motive,” Mayweather said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“If she witnessed Burnett push Henri Laroche off his balcony,” she said, “I’d call that a pretty good motive.”
“We don’t know that,” Mayweather said. “It’s likely he was trying to stop him, as he claimed.”
“Toxicology confirmed Mr. Laroche’s blood-alcohol level was 0.12,” Farrow said.
“And he was about to flunk out of school,” Mayweather added. “Just like Burnett said.”
Rush tapped her fingernails on a folder, then slid it across the desk. “Your report says you believe Burnett killed him.”
Farrow picked up the folder and averted the captain’s stare. “I thought it was a love triangle. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Why?”
“Just doesn’t add up. But I do believe he killed this Audrey Lansing.”
“What makes you so sure now? Same woman’s intuition?” When Farrow didn’t respond, Rush turned her stare toward Mayweather. “You’re so concerned about motive. Why’d he kill her?”
Mayweather never believed Burnett had killed Henri Laroche. Now he wasn’t sure whether he’d killed the girl.
“She knew something,” Farrow said.
“Knew what?” Rush asked.
“She had something on Laroche,” Farrow said. “He jumped. Burnett found her. Killed her in a rage.”
Rush shook her head, obviously bewildered. The way her ponytail flipped from side to side reminded Mayweather of his wife. She’d only been gone eighteen months, and too many things evoked memories of her. Captain Rush reminded him of her more than anyone; not because she looked like her or dressed like her or even behaved like her in any way.
No, what reminded him of Julie Ann Mayweather, and what resulted in his uneasiness in the captain’s presence, was the perfume. His wife had worn the same one for years. And nothing coupled him with a memory more than a scent. Pictures and videos were always painful, recordings of her voice always slapped a tender nerve, but nothing could pry anguish to the surface like a scent. It had an immediate, almost visceral effect. And Mayweather could do nothing but close his eyes and wait for the feeling to dissipate.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” Rush said. “Who’s the dead girl? This Audrey Lansing?”
“We don’t know yet,” Farrow said.
“Her relationship to Laroche? Or Burnett?”
“Don’t know that either,” Mayweather said. He gritted his teeth, stood, and strode to the opposite side of the room. Tearing up in the boss’s office would likely not impress her; nor would stepping out in the middle of discussing an important case. He could claim to be in the midst of a severe stomach ailment or lightheaded from a lack of food or sleep, but he’d exhausted those excuses months ago.
Rush thumbed through a stack of notes on her desk. “Yet Burnett killed her, so we believe, then stuffed her in the trunk of his car. Not too swift for a college guy.”
“My guess is he planned to dump her somewhere after class,” Farrow said. “He knew if he missed class it’d look suspicious.”
“And you have no idea who she is?” Rush asked.
Farrow shook his head.
“Nobody’s reported any missing girls recently who fit her description,” Mayweather said.
“Probably a runaway,” Farrow said.
The captain appeared to ponder this.
Mayweather strove to focus on the case. He had to admit this was the strangest one he’d encountered in nine years of law enforcement. One class at the academy in kinesics by no means made him an expert, but he sensed from the start that Burnett and Emma had been honest. At least they believed their story. He also sensed neither was capable of murder. Whoever killed Audrey Lansing, or whatever her real name was, might just get away with it.
“One more question,” Rush said. She leaned far over her desk and snatched the folder out of Farrow’s hands. “Can you explain this to me?” She read from the report, “‘Burnett says she claimed to be from the future.’”
“That’s what he said,” Farrow replied.
“The young lady,” Mayweather added, “Miss Blankenship, independently made the same statement.”
Rush waited, but neither detective elaborated. “Strike either of you as a bit odd?”
“Maybe the girl was playing some sort of prank,” Mayweather said.
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“Or Burnett and Miss Blankenship are in this together,” Farrow said, “trying to confuse us with this ridiculous story.”
Rush’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the report. She released the folder and it floated to her desk. “I want to know who this girl was. And I want Burnett in custody. Any idea where he is?”
“He dumped the car in a parking lot about ten miles from here,” Mayweather said.
“We think he’s going to try and get in touch with Miss Blankenship,” Farrow said. “I got somebody on her.”
“Like you had somebody on her before?” Rush fell back into her chair. “We both know subtlety isn’t my long suit, so I won’t waste my time or yours. Don’t screw up again.”
CHAPTER 17
Emma closed the door and knew, before she turned, that Mr. Frank was not pleased to see her. At that moment she didn’t care. She knew what she wanted, and neither he nor anyone else would dissuade her. If she needed to, she could find another private investigator. The phone book and Internet were filled with them.
“They’ll be keeping tabs on you, you know that,” Mr. Frank said.
“I lost them. It was easy.”
“This ain’t no game. Your friend is the one and only suspect in the murder of a teenage girl.” He motioned for her to sit and she did.
All the books and other items she’d raked under the desk the other night remained untouched. He and Henri would have gotten along.
“How well do you know him?” Mr. Frank asked.
“Why?”
“His decision to run makes him look bad.”
“He’s not capable of murder. Besides, we needed her.” She felt drawn to Burnett with an intensity that puzzled her. He’d been a close friend for more than a year; he’d been Henri’s best friend longer. They’d been through hell together since Henri jumped from his balcony. Now he’d been dragged deeper, and she refused to abandon him.
“Your father’s someone I’ve known a long time,” Mr. Frank said. “Someone I respect. I should tell him you’re here. What you’re doing.”
“I’m over eighteen. And you have no right to tell anyone anything without my permission.” She paused, her composure slipping. “Now, what did you find out about her?”
“Audrey Lansing,” Mr. Frank said, lifting a sheet of paper from his desk. He handed the single page to her.
She snatched it and flipped it over. Both sides were blank. “Are you playing games?”
“She doesn’t exist.”
“I assume that wasn’t her real name.”
“Ya think?”
Emma answered with an annoyed glare. Her life had been flipped upside down, and she didn’t appreciate this asshole adding to her problems. “I overheard my father say you were very talented at locating people, even if they didn’t want to be found.”
“I can tell you where she is right now.”
“At least they know she exists,” she said, thinking aloud. “Thing I can’t figure out is how she knew about Henri’s nightmare.”
Mr. Frank’s puzzled expression indicated he had no idea what she was talking about. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you want me to keep trying to find out who she was, or you want to let the cops handle it?”
“I want you to find Michael.” Just voicing that want, that need to know whether he was alright, granted her an extraordinary sense of relief. No way could she just “get on with her life,” as more than one person had already recommended. With Henri gone, everything would be different. She would have to start over, but first she needed answers. And no one was a bigger part of finding those answers than Michael Burnett.
“Mistake,” Mr. Frank said. “Huge mistake. Gargantuan.”
“He won’t leave the area. He needs answers more than I do.”
“As I said, the cops are no doubt following you.”
“He’s got no place to stay. Little if any cash.”
“That means they might start following me. I can’t afford to lose my license again.”
“I told you, I lost them.”
“Maybe they just allowed you to think you lost them.”
“They have no idea where I am. Trust me.”
“Cocky little thing.”
She stood and caught a glimpse of Iris. The cat offered a contented purr and rubbed her torso against one of the desk legs. The memory of how the cat had shocked her the other night unnerved her for an instant. “You have no idea what’s happened to me the past few days.” Her grief and anger, simmering far too long, graduated to full boil. “I need to know what the hell’s going on. If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone else. But I will get answers as to why my life has become a goddamn shithole. You hear me?”
She guessed he did, based upon his stunned expression. For the better part of a minute he didn’t speak.
In that time she calmed down. “Will you do it?”
Mr. Frank cocked his head. “Let me guess. You’ll pay me double?”
“Triple. If you find him in the next twenty-four hours.”
He shook his head and dug a standard contract from his desk. “Rich college chicks.”
CHAPTER 18
Shortly before 9:00 p.m. Burnett arrived at the grounds of an expansive, two-story, brick and wood structure. He skirted the well-lit parking lot and neared the front of the complex. To his relief, he found a condominium, not an apartment building. He wouldn’t need to enter the building to reach the door.
The issue of how to get in remained. Did a key, safely hidden beneath a rock or welcome mat, await his discovery? All he knew for certain was that the owner was out of the country. Would he have to force his way in through a window? That prospect held little appeal.
He approached the front door in a manner he hoped appeared casual. A sidewalk lamppost illuminated the cement porch more than he preferred. Reaching the door, Burnett peered into a dark room to his left. Just for the hell of it, he jiggled the door knob, but it was locked.
He bent over and peeled back the welcome mat. No key there. He dug his fingers into the soil of a dying plant beside him. All he retrieved was the dirt lodged beneath his fingernails.
A car rolled into a parking space behind him. He kept his back to the headlights. Instinctively, his body contracted. He hadn’t decided how he would explain his presence if approached.
The headlights darkened.
He waited motionless on the top step of the porch. The driver slammed the door. Footsteps behind him sped up. Burnett turned in time to spot a husky man lumber toward him.
“Anything I can do you for?” the man’s raspy voice asked.
“I’m looking for the key,” Burnett said. “I rented this condo for a month from Clara Potts. But she forgot to tell me where she left the key.”
“How is Clara?” the man asked. “She’s studying abroad this semester. Madrid, I believe.”
“Barcelona, actually,” Burnett said. He struggled to keep his face in the big man’s shadow.
“Know her well?”
“We had a class together last semester over at SUNY.”
“Big news over there the other night.”
“Yeah. Screwed up world.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” he said. He extended a large, meaty hand. “My name’s Tom. I manage the complex.”
“Fred Blaine,” Burnett said. The name just popped into his head. He was uncertain what he would do if Tom contacted the university and discovered no Fred Blaine enrolled there.
“You got a contract or something?” Tom asked.
“Didn’t know I needed one.”
Tom pursed his lips. “You said you’d be here a month?”
He bobbed his head. “I can call her if you want.” He prayed Tom wouldn’t take him up on the offer.
“Probably the middle of the night over there, anyway,” Tom said. “We’ll take care of it in the morning.”
Burnett anticipated staying only a couple days. He would do his best to avoid him.
“Clara’s a good
kid,” Tom said.
“I know.” He couldn’t tell if the guy had bought his act.
“I’ll grab the key. Follow me.”
“I need to get a couple papers from my car. Homework. I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes.”
“You can feed her bird while you’re here,” Tom said and disappeared into the darkness.
Uneasiness swelled as he drifted into the parking lot to rendezvous with his non-existent car. The encounter had gone well—too well, considering how everything else had gone the past few days.
* * *
Burnett switched on the TV, flicked on several lights, and settled into his new home. Since Tom knew he was here, it would appear suspicious if he kept the lights out and the place continued to look unoccupied.
Soon the evening news would begin. He needed to know whether any new information about Audrey had surfaced, whether any other suspects were under investigation, and what the police were saying about him.
Until then, two questions were in need of answers: who put Audrey up to the job of driving Henri to suicide, and who murdered her? They would no doubt prove to be the same person. Somehow Audrey knew about Henri’s paper. Whoever told her recognized how important the paper was to Henri’s future.
Had Joel been told anything about the paper, although he wouldn’t have understood a word of it, he might have appreciated its importance to Henri. The only thing the young back-up point guard lacked was a motive.
Could he still have been in love with Emma? To the best of Burnett’s recollection, Joel and Emma had parted as friends months before Henri began dating her. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still in love with her, but if he was, he’d done a world-class job of concealing it.
Henri had likely told Desmond about the paper. It was even more likely that he’d offered the professor a preview. He’d denied it, but the more Burnett mulled it over, the more improbable that seemed. Had Desmond read it, he would have grasped its significance.
There was also the question of why. Why go to all this trouble to have Audrey play the part of a time-traveler from the future and drive a deeply troubled, heavily intoxicated Henri to suicide? The answer came to him before he finished the question. Somebody not only wanted his paper, but wanted him to suffer first. And whoever it was knew about Henri’s nightmare and his torment. This was all speculation of course, but it fit the facts.
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