by Joanna Wayne
“Miss Kimberly, whoever killed Sally Martin is a very dangerous man. Don’t try to be a hero.”
“That, Detective Turner, is the farthest thing from my mind.”
“Keep it that way.”
And that was it. Not even a thank-you for coming to him with the information, though she knew there were some reporters who wouldn’t have. They’d have played along with the killer in an effort to get a really big story.
Instead, she was playing with Sam Turner. She was certain it was not going to be a fun game.
SAM WATCHED Caroline walk away, a thousand memories tramping through his mind, none of them welcome. He wasn’t sure what it was about the reporter that reminded him of Peg. They didn’t look the same. Peg’s hair had been long, whereas Caroline’s was short, and the color of wheat, whereas Caroline’s was more like café au lait.
But something about Caroline reminded him of Peg and that was enough reason to make sure he kept his distance from her. Something that might prove very difficult if she became his link with a killer.
He’d lost his taste for the burger, but he finished it, anyway. He ate from habit, the way he did a lot of things these days. Eat and sleep and breathe. Go through the motions.
Let it go, Sam, or it will eat you alive.
That had been the police psychiatrist’s advice after Peg’s death. Shows how little the shrink knew about him. Except for the motions, Sam was already dead. And there was no letting go.
IT WAS HER DAY OFF, so when Caroline left the Grille, she went home, glanced at the day’s mail and made herself a salad that she barely touched. Nothing she did took the murder or the note off her mind. Finally she took a glass of chardonnay and climbed the stairs to the second floor to tackle cleaning the huge hall closet, a task she’d put off ever since moving in. But today the thought of escaping into someone else’s old junk seemed more of a reprieve than work.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as she opened the closet door and breathed in the musty odor. No telling what skeletons might climb out when she started rummaging through the tattered boxes. The good thing was, they wouldn’t bear any of her DNA. The bad thing was, neither did any other skeletons she knew anything about.
Wrapping her arms around a large box that sat on the closet floor, she tugged until it was out in the open. The tape that held it closed was brittle and peeling, and it took only a yank to loosen it.
The box was carefully packed, full of sealed plastic pouches. She opened one and pulled out the contents. Yards of teal satin spilled out. It took her a few seconds to realize it was a dress.
Standing, she held the dress to her shoulders to get the full effect. The full skirt hit just above her ankles, hiding most of her legs, but the neckline was plunging. A gown fit for a formal party in the late 1800s—or perhaps a madam in a fancy brothel.
The dress appeared in too good a condition to be authentic. More than likely it had been made for the annual spring pilgrimage event, when many of Prentice’s historic homes opened their doors to the public. It was traditional for the hostesses to dress in the style of the period during which the houses had been built.
Caroline had first met Becky at one of the pilgrimages three years ago, her first year as a teacher. She’d brought a group of her students down to tour the houses and Becky had been one of the guides.
They’d hit it off from the moment they met, more because they were so different than because they were alike. The friendship had paid off in lots of ways. Becky was the one who’d told Caroline about the Times looking for a reporter back when she’d lost her teaching job.
Stripping off her slacks and sweater, Caroline lifted the dress and fit her head inside the opening, letting the dress slide into place. The full skirt swirled about her legs as she danced over to the antique mirror and stared at her reflection. The distortion of the wavy glass was more pronounced than usual in the grayness of the cloudy afternoon, giving the shimmering dress a luminance that seemed almost magical.
The moment ended abruptly at the gong of the doorbell. She wasn’t expecting anyone. But then, she hadn’t been expecting a call to a murder scene last night or a note from a weirdo today, either.
Lifting the full skirt, she hurried down the winding staircase. The doorbell rang again before she got there, this time prolonged. She stopped at the door and looked through the peephole. Sam Turner.
And if he thought her outfit last night was a bit much, imagine how he’d react to this one. She started to yank the low-cut bosom up, then changed her mind and tugged it lower, leaving lots of exposed cleavage and little to the imagination. Might as well shock the detective all the way. Too bad she didn’t have on her stilts.
She swung open the door and smiled up at him. “Hello, detective.”
SAM ROCKED back on his heels, speechless. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No, I’m just relaxing. Care for a mint julep on the veranda?”
He didn’t answer, just worked to drag his gaze away from the pink mounds of flesh peeking out of her dress. Another fraction of an inch and her nipples would have been staring back at him.
“That was a joke, Detective. There’s not a mint or a julep in the house. I was just cleaning out a closet, found the dress and tried it on.”
“Good. I thought you might be expecting Rhett Butler.”
“No. I hate men who don’t give a damn.” She opened the door a little wider. “Now that you’re here, I guess you should come in.”
“Just for a minute.”
“Were you able to get prints from the note?”
“Only one set besides mine on the right edge.”
“And the one set would have to be mine.”
“It appears that way.”
“I doubt you came all the way over here to tell me that.”
“No. I have a proposition for you.”
“I don’t sleep with cops.”
“Good, since I wasn’t going to ask you to. I’d like you to take a run over to the crime scene with me.”
“You want me to go to the park where Sally Martin was murdered?”
“That’s right. It won’t take long.”
She took a step backward. “I’d rather not go back there, Detective.”
Now that surprised him. Every reporter he’d ever known would have been salivating at the possibility of visiting the scene of the crime with the lead homicide detective. “It could be important, Caroline.”
“Why?”
“I’d like you to show me exactly where you were at all times last night. Where you parked your car. Which areas of the park you were in, that sort of thing.”
“I was only there a few minutes.”
“Long enough for the killer to see you, if in fact he was the one who wrote the note. You may have seen him, too, without realizing it. If we go back there, I can get a better feel for where he may have been standing while he was watching you. It might even trigger a memory of something you’ve forgotten.”
“I didn’t talk to anyone except cops.”
“Look, I know this won’t be as much fun as playing dress-up, but I have a dead woman, a brutal killer on the loose and no leads. Now are we going to stand here and quibble, or are you going with me?”
“Since you put it that way, I don’t have a lot of choice. I’ll need to change first.”
“A good idea.” Hopefully into something that completely covered her breasts. “Make it quick. The storm’s blowing in fast.”
She turned and hurried away, leaving him standing by the door. Her skirt swished about her ankles, making soft, crinkly sounds that seem to slide under his skin.
What the hell was it about her that got to him like this? Or had it just been too damn long since he’d been with a woman?
Not that it mattered. He had a killer to catch.
A killer who had Caroline Kimberly on his mind. It was no time for Sam to be lusting after her, too.
Chapter Three
A group of teenagers carrying skateboards stopped to watch them as she and Sam got out of the car. Her imagination flew into overtime and she tried to picture one of them wielding the knife and cutting Sally Martin’s throat. But the innocence on their faces made them seem incapable of such brutality.
Sam glanced their way, then appeared to dismiss them as inconsequential. “It’s going to pour soon, so let’s get started.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Where did you park your car last night?”
“Down the block, near that big oak.” She pointed to a tree whose branches canopied the narrow neighborhood street.
He didn’t bother to wait for her, just strode off in that direction, his gaze scanning the area. Once under the tree, he threw back his head and stared into the branches above him as if he expected the killer to be sitting there, waiting. “Was there anyone standing nearby when you got out of the car?” he asked when she finally caught up to him.
“There were clusters of onlookers everywhere, but I didn’t notice anyone in particular.”
“Did anyone speak to you?”
“Not then.”
“You’re sure?”
She tried to think back. Her mind had been on so many things when she arrived last night. Her photographer. The lights of the police cars and the TV cameras. Her inexperience in such a situation. Still, her memory was usually good for details. “I don’t remember speaking to anyone until I reached the gate. I showed my ID to the cop who was standing guard, and he took one look at my dress and said I should go back to the party unless I had a strong stomach.”
“So you marched right in?”
“It’s my job.” It still was, so she looked around, trying to take in as many details as she could. The park took up a full city block. There were baseball fields to the back, a jogging track, trees and walkways and a play area with picnic tables off to the right, near a wooded area. That was where the body had been.
Across the street from the park were small houses, mostly brick fronts with touches of stucco. A few had porches. A middle-aged man sat in a porch swing in the house directly across from them, watching them as he swayed back and forth. It was a natural thing for him to do, but still, his gaze made her uneasy.
“Do you think the killer was watching me even before I entered the park?”
“Possibly.”
“From one of the houses?”
“He could have been watching from any number of spots. A house. Sitting in a parked car. Crouched behind someone’s bushes. From the edge of the wooded area. But more likely he was just mingling in the crowd of bystanders.”
And if the guy had been there last night, he could be out there somewhere now. She could all but see his eyes. They’d be dark, piercing, threatening. “Do we have to go inside the park?” she asked, anxious to get back in the car and drive away.
“It would help. Just retrace your steps, and I’ll follow you.”
They walked back to the gate as another bolt of lightning hit, this one way too close for comfort. Once inside the gate, she headed straight for the area where she’d first seen the body. “I started to follow the lights from the TV crew,” she said. “That’s when you spotted me and told some cop to order the broad on stilts out of here.”
“Apparently it didn’t do a lot of good.”
“The cop told me to leave, but when he got sidetracked, I went back to my job. The public has a right to know.”
“So you ignored police orders. Then what?”
“I looked at the body, and…” Damn, she hated to admit her weakness in front of this detective.
“You threw up in the bushes.”
“How did you know that?”
“You were quite a hit last night. Wasn’t a cop on duty who didn’t notice the reporter in the red dress.”
Cops. Killers. She’d impressed them all, except for Detective Sam Turner. He kicked a small pebble. It flew through the air, coming to a stop just inside the yellow police tape that circled the area where the body had been found.
Bloodstains were still visible, though they’d probably fade after the rain. But the images in Caroline’s mind were still as clear as if Sally had still been lying in the grass. She shuddered and stepped away.
Sam took her arm. “Steady now. We’ll be through here in a minute.”
“Do you ever get desensitized to murder?” she asked.
“No. If I did, I’d get out of the business.”
The admission made him seem more human somehow. It meant he wasn’t all roar and rumble. Might even have a heart beneath that brawny chest. “Have you ever been on a case where the killer contacted someone he’d seen at the crime scene?”
“No, but it’s not unheard of. I remember reading about one case on the West Coast a couple of years ago. Serial killer called a female news anchor before every crime.”
“What happened?”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
She didn’t buy that for a second. “He killed the woman he’d called, didn’t he?”
For the first time since they’d been in the park, he turned his attention totally to her. “Nothing will happen to you, Caroline. Not unless you let this man draw you into his sick games.”
The first drop of rain fell, quickly followed by others. They splattered on her nose and ran down her cheeks. Sam grabbed her hand and started running toward the car. But the storm’s fury didn’t wait. The rain blowing into her face stung like needles, making her contact lenses blur until she could barely see. By the time they reached the car, her clothes were soaked and water from her hair was dripping down the back of her neck.
Sam started the ignition and turned on the heater, but he sat for a minute before putting the car in gear. She had the feeling there was something else he wanted to say, but if there was, he changed his mind. He kept his gaze straight ahead as he pulled away from the curb.
Don’t get drawn into this.
Good advice, only the killer had drawn her in the second he’d singled her out and delivered his note. With that one act he’d robbed her of any chance of the objectiveness reporters were supposed to maintain. Nonetheless, she’d keep things under control, report the news and do a good job of keeping the citizens of Prentice informed.
And pray he didn’t contact her again.
“I TALKED TO every neighbor on the block,” Matt said, scooting his notes in front of Sam. “Everyone claims not to have seen anything until the television news van arrived.”
Sam picked up the notes the young detective had made, reared back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. “Did you check to see if anyone in the immediate area has a record?”
“All the adults are clean as a whistle. One of the teenagers on the block has a battery charge against him.”
“Details?”
“Gregg Sanders. Age seventeen—sixteen when the charges were filed. Attacked his stepfather with a baseball bat when he caught him fondling his little sister. Stepfather denied it. Kid got off with a warning, so I’m guessing the judge believed him, instead of the old man.”
“Where’s the stepfather now?”
“Out of the picture. Mother divorced him and has no idea where he’s living, but is fairly sure he’s not in Prentice.”
“Any known sex offenders in the neighborhood?”
“None that showed up in the records.”
“What about the search around the crime area?”
“We bagged some items. A couple of cigarette butts, an old sock, some chewed gum, a beer bottle, that kind of stuff.”
“Send them to the crime lab in Atlanta. See if we can get a DNA reading from any of them.”
“You
got it. Anything else you need before I head out?”
Sam glanced at the clock. Five after five. Knockoff hour for the day shift. Time was when a cop on a murder case wouldn’t have bothered to look at a clock. But those were guys from the old school. Today’s cops had lives. They worked their shifts and that was it. They were probably better off for it. But then, so were the criminals.
“Guess that’s it,” Sam said. “Got a big night planned?”
“A hot date with a cute little redhead who works for Dr. Wolford. What about you?”
“I might cut out early and get some sleep.”
They both knew he wouldn’t. Sam would stop in at the Grille for the daily special, if he bothered to eat at all. After that he’d be back here at the precinct, going over the sketchy evidence.
Sam dropped the notes on the table as Matt left, then walked to the window and stared at the rain. It wasn’t falling as hard as it had been when he and Caroline had been caught in it, but it was steady.
Caroline Kimberly. She should have no meaning to him at all except as she related to the murder case. Only now, standing here staring at the rain and thinking about how she looked soaked to the skin, he knew she affected him in ways he couldn’t begin to define.
Not simple, like plain old-fashioned lust, though there was no denying he’d felt a tightening in his groin when she’d opened the door this afternoon.
But it had been even worse driving her home from the park, and she’d looked a little like a drenched, stringy-haired waif at that point.
Frustrated by the needs pushing at him from all directions, he crossed the room, opened his desk and pulled out the framed picture of Peg. He used to keep it on top of his desk, but he got tired of answering questions about who she was. So he kept it here for special times, when he needed to remember what life was supposed to be like. What it would have been like now if he hadn’t made that one fatal mistake and let a killer sneak into their lives.
The kind of mistake Sally Martin must have made. Had she trusted a stranger? Prentice was the kind of town where that could easily happen. An hour southwest of Atlanta, but a world away from big-city problems. More churches than bars. Clean streets. Landscaped lawns. Citizens who still held to the old Southern ways and treasured their past as if it were a gem to be polished and put on display.