The Devil She Knew

by Koontz, Rena

  “This is Amber Malone,” he croaked, blinking back tears. “Age twenty-four. Place of employment, The Packing Place in Greenbrier. She’s got one prior, you can get her other stats from the files. Same address; she hasn’t moved since I arrested her.” Laying the pages on the desk, he shook his head. “This wasn’t a drug shooting. She’s been clean for more than a year.”

  The three men studied his face, taken aback by the rare emotional display.

  “Domestic?” Pat asked.

  “I doubt it. She was single and she didn’t live there.”

  “Know the next of kin?”

  He shook his head against the tightening in his chest. He teased her almost daily, went out on a limb to keep her out of trouble, and had relied on her to help Cassidy. Yet, he didn’t know much about her, not even if she had a sibling or parents.

  “Can you give me anything else?” Pat asked.

  He didn’t dare say another word, couldn’t tell his co-workers that it was likely reputed mobster Tony DelMorrie who gunned down Amber thinking it was Cassidy. What was Amber doing at Cassidy’s old apartment? Certainly she couldn’t have known Tony DelMorrie, couldn’t have been in on his hunt for Cassidy. She’d had too many opportunities to hurt Cassidy if that were the case. No, this was a case of misidentification and the second costly mistake DelMorrie had made.

  His jumbled thoughts nauseated him. Tony DelMorrie was in town, he knew where Cassidy lived, he’d been at her doorstep. Where was he now?

  Did he realize it wasn’t Cassidy who he killed? He shot Jill Diamond in anger, deviating from the cautious, premeditated actions he was known for. When Amber opened that door, did he act impulsively and fire or did he see who it was first? Either way, he had to follow through with it. How do you explain knocking on someone’s door with a gun aimed at their head when they answer?

  “Clay? Are you with me?”

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “Do you know where I can find Miss Hoake? She might be able to fill in some blanks, like why this woman was there and who might have wanted to hurt her.”

  His heart drummed in his ears. His oath as a law officer battled with his desire to protect Cassidy. He’d promised he would.

  “I’ll have her in here tomorrow morning for you to interview. I’m heading out on patrol,” he said, reaching for the car keys and turning away from the men. He needed to get out of there and taste some fresh air. He needed to call Cassidy and hear her voice to reassure himself she was all right. How was he going to break the news about Amber? How was he going to impress upon Cassidy that she needed to stay put, that the safest place for her was with him? And how, dear God, was he going to keep her safe?

  • • •

  She couldn’t sleep. Surrounded by Clay’s possessions, curled into his sofa, Cassidy felt wide awake and alive. Her mother’s clock occupied the center of Clay’s mantel as if it was designed for the space. She smiled when it chimed one o’clock and didn’t flinch when her cell rang seconds later. It had to be Clay, calling to check on her and say goodnight. Reaching for the phone, the idea of her mother and Clay ringing into her life at the same time turned her insides into jelly.

  “Hi, hon, did I wake you?”

  “Nope. I’m having trouble crawling into your bed without you so I’m watching TV on the couch. I just may sleep here tonight.”

  Clay cleared his throat. “Cassidy, would you do me a favor if I asked?”

  She laughed. “I am not getting into that bed without you. I’ll be fine here for one night.” When was the last time somebody cared about her like this? Not since her mom.

  She knitted her eyebrows, realizing quiet prevailed on the other end of the line. “Okay, grumpy. What’s the favor?”

  “Go stay with Maggie and Dan tonight.”

  She sat upright. There was something about his tone.

  “Is something wrong with Jack? What happened? Clay, tell me.”

  Through the phone, she heard him inhale, hesitating before he answered. “Amber’s dead.”

  An involuntary scream escaped her throat. “She was shot, honey, in your old apartment. We don’t know … ”

  The room began to spin. “ … will be safer … ” Her stomach heaved and she jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen sink “ … just until I … ”

  She disconnected the call. She couldn’t listen to another word, didn’t want to hear that Amber, her friend, was dead on account of her. She knew her old apartment wasn’t safe, knew in her heart that it had been Tony DelMorrie who trashed the place searching for clues to find her. A warning voice had cautioned her, even as she handed her apartment key to Amber. It might not be safe, she’d told her friend.

  But Amber waved aside her warning with typical nonchalance. And now, she was dead. Oh God. He found her, Tony DelMorrie had found her. For all she knew, he could be outside right now, waiting.

  It had been her biggest fear. Not for her own safety, but for Clay’s and Maggie’s and the baby. She’d put them in harm’s way.

  “Will you keep danger from my door?” Maggie had asked.

  Dear God, she hadn’t. Instead, she’d brought it directly to the doorstep.

  Turning on the cold water she rinsed her mouth from the faucet. No time to think about it, she had to go. How fortunate that she hadn’t unloaded her duffel except for her toothbrush and paste. She grabbed those from the bathroom, tossed them in the bag, and zipped it closed.

  Surveying Clay’s room, she spied a gallon jug in the corner three-quarters full of coins. Clay must empty his pockets every night and toss his loose change in the jar. She rushed to the kitchen and frantically searched the drawers until she found plastic storage bags. Back in the bedroom, she emptied the coins into two bags. Looking around, she reasoned that he had to have more money stashed at home. Groaning at the invasion of his privacy, she riffled through his drawers and closet. Nothing. She ran to the office. Opening and slamming desk drawers she found a box marked petty cash in a lower drawer. She didn’t count the bills, just crumbled them into her fist and shoved them in her jeans pocket. Not only was she a fugitive, now she was a thief.

  Snatching up the pen she scribbled on a piece of mail, “I.O.U. $ — C.H.”

  She hurried into the living room for her shoes as her mother’s clock chimed fifteen minutes after the hour. Dear God. She was going to puke again.

  She rushed into Clay’s office and pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer tray. Her hand trembled as she scrawled across the page, “I’m sorry.” She propped it beside the clock.

  Yanking one of Clay’s jackets from the coat closet beside the door, she slipped her arms into the sleeves. The khaki cargo coat was huge on her, but it had lots of pockets and with a ball cap, she’d be pretty well covered.

  There was no time to dwell on what she was leaving behind, no time to cry about what could have been. No time to think about how Tony DelMorrie had ruined her life.

  Any life she might have made here was dead. Just like Amber.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Clay burst through his apartment door shouting Cassidy’s name, knowing there would be no response. From the minute she’d hung up on him, he knew in his heart she would run. That was her trained response, like Pavlov’s pups.

  That’s why he rushed back to the police station and issued two be-on-the-lookout advisories, one for Cassidy and one for Tony DelMorrie. The alert for DelMorrie included the information that the suspect, wanted in connection with the Fortieth Street shooting and an out-of-state murder, was armed and dangerous.

  He sped with sirens blaring to The Chalets, but the delay in leaving the station had given Cassidy the window she needed to disappear. He instantly spotted her note next to the clock on the mantle. His heart dropped. She’d lugged that clock across country, protecting it from damage. Dammit. It hinted
at how quickly she fled.

  He didn’t have much hope that the BOLOs would locate either Cassidy or DelMorrie. He had no idea what DelMorrie looked like now. He could describe his appearance months ago, based on the newspaper photographs, but had he changed his looks?

  A description for Cassidy was equally generic. What was she wearing when she left and which way did she run? Two hiding places came to mind and he requested police units check out both: Amber’s apartment and The Packing Place. She had keys for the packing store and Amber’s roommate would likely harbor her. Had Cassidy made any other friends besides her co-workers? He couldn’t obtain a list of the other store employees at this hour. Would she try to leave town? How much money did she have? And where the hell would she go?

  • • •

  The bus station smelled like urine. Cassidy nestled her duffel deeper into her lap, warily eyeing the raggedy man snoring on a bench in the far corner. Only one other man occupied the deserted terminal, a tall, black man who paced the walkway outside while talking on his cell phone. Despite the dim exterior lighting, a glint of light reflected off his neck jewelry each time he pivoted.

  She hadn’t bothered to retrieve her phone from Clay’s kitchen counter, fearing that, even though it was a drugstore pre-pay, they could probably ping the cell towers and locate her. Without it, though, she was as alone as if on a desert island.

  Most travelers made their arrangements online in advance nowadays, booking bus trips early and taking advantage of discount prices, but she hadn’t had that luxury. So she was spending an uncomfortable night waiting for a person to arrive at five forty-five, according to the posted hours on the glass-enclosed cubbyhole designated as the office. Her destination was unknown. The bills from Clay’s petty cash box totaled three hundred, twenty-seven dollars. Where the bus took her didn’t matter. She would buy a one hundred dollar ticket to wherever one hundred dollars would take her. The self-serve kiosk couldn’t answer that question, stalling her escape. She had no other choice. A plane ticket was out of the question and she was afraid to hitch a ride.

  Her objective was to get away from Tony DelMorrie and find a way back to Arizona because ultimately, Clay was right. She needed to wake up from this nightmare. Enough was enough. Tony DelMorrie could kill her, like he murdered poor Amber, if that’s what it came to. But he was done pushing her around. Testifying against him would be justice for Jill Diamond, but now it was more personal. She wanted vengeance for Amber.

  Her throat closed, tears welled in her eyes, and she bowed her head. Amber befriended her from day one. And now she was gone. “I’m sorry. Amber,” she whispered, gulping back a sob.

  “You okay, Sugar Plum?”

  Her head snapped up and her heart escalated to her throat. The black man towered over her, the now silent cell in his hand. His features were sharp, clearly defined cheekbones and bright eyes. His black T-shirt hugged his chest beneath an open black leather jacket and he smelled of soap. Not the average bus terminal bum.

  “I’m, I’m fine, thanks,” she stuttered.

  “What’s a fine young thing like you doing in a bus depot all alone in the middle of the night?” He smiled, revealing straight white teeth.

  “Waiting for my boyfriend. Please, I want to be alone.”

  Still grinning, he cocked his head, “You want me to wait with you?”

  She sat up straighter. “Please leave me alone.”

  He held up both hands, fingers pointed to the ceiling. “Okay, Sweet Muffin. It just looked like you could use a friend.” He backed up three steps before turning and walking back outside the terminal door, raising his cell to his ear as he exited.

  • • •

  “Where to?” the Greyhound employee asked, stifling a yawn.

  “How far can I go on a hundred dollar ticket?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding me, right? Which direction?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Which way are you headed? North, east, south, or west?”

  Cassidy answered confidently. “I’ll take the first bus going anywhere west.”

  “On a C-note, you can get about two states away.”

  She dug into one of the inside pockets of Clay’s jacket, counted out the bills, and slid them into a sunken tray beneath a barred window. The clerk robotically punched a few keys and returned a ticket to her that would take her into Illinois. She had about an hour to wait.

  Shoving the coveted ticket into her jeans, she lugged her duffel into the ladies room. Turning up her nose at the stench, she used the facility, groaned at discovering the faucet did not release water, and resumed her seat on the hard wooden bench. As the sun rose, the terminal became a hub of activity. With the arrival of each bus, exhaust fumes permeated the air, threatening to turn her stomach. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee.

  “He stand you up?”

  The black man stood in front of her holding two small coffee cups. He extended one toward her. “It’s from the machine, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “No, thank you.”

  His eyebrows raised and he winked. “Suit yourself, Princess.” He balanced the cup on the end of the bench and strolled outside.

  He looked like a pimp, probably surmising that she was some young girl running away from home and he could entice her into his world. If he knew what she was running from, he’d probably run, too, in the opposite direction. She scanned the windows and didn’t see him, then reached for the Styrofoam cup and lifted the thin plastic lid. The steam from the hot black coffee moistened her upper lip. She preferred her coffee with cream and wondered if he had dropped something in it, a sleeping pill or date rape drug. The aroma was tempting, but she snapped the lid back in place, pushed the cup to the end of the bench, and dropped her head into her hands. Within seconds, a pair of boots stepped into her line of vision on the floor. This guy was starting to scare her.

  “You promised you would be there when I got home.”

  Clay’s rich voice wrapped around her like a coveted flannel blanket. She raised her head to find him standing stone-faced in front of her in full uniform.

  “Clay! What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here, Miss Hoake?”

  The formality didn’t escape her and a part of her heart splintered. “I have to leave, Clay, I can’t … ”

  “You have to come with me, Miss Hoake. I would prefer voluntarily, but I can cuff you if you resist.” His right fist opened and closed rhythmically.

  Tears sprang to her eyes and her heart shattered. The man who had made love to her so exquisitely wasn’t the man standing in front of her any longer. Chalk up another thing Tony DelMorrie killed. She noticed the black man leaning against the wall, his cell at his thigh, watching through half-closed eyes, feigning disinterest. Most of the people in the bus station openly stared, anticipating a confrontation. The man behind the glass beamed. This would likely be the highlight of his day. Clay waited.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said, her voice sounding childlike. “On what grounds are you arresting me?” From her seat, he towered above her.

  “I’m not arresting you, Miss Hoake, I’m asking you to come with me.” He glanced toward the black man and then leveled his gaze at her. “I could charge you with solicitation if you insist.”

  She gasped, his icy words chilling her soul. Cassidy stood, willing her knees not to buckle, and Clay clutched her left elbow.

  He wouldn’t look at her, didn’t say anything as they made their way to the police car parked outside the front door. There was no use trying to check the tears that fell slowly from the corners of her eyes and roamed down her cheeks. Clay floated his hand over her head and recited automatically, “Watch your head,” when she bent and slid into the backseat.

  He slammed the door, walked around the rear
of the vehicle, and slid into the driver’s seat. He unhooked the radio from the dashboard and spoke a combination of letters and numbers, informing dispatch he was on his way in.

  They rode in silence. She massaged her forehead with her fingertips, hoping to ease the pounding headache that had erupted hours earlier with Clay’s phone call, and cried. She cried for Jill Diamond and Amber; she sobbed for her mother, who’d whispered with her last breath that she would always be with her; and she cried for herself, for all that she had lost from that day on. She cried because now she had lost Clay and she knew in her breaking heart that she would never know what it was like to have this man love her.

  The police station was abuzz with activity when they arrived. Clay held her elbow and guided her around the dispatch desk, moving her toward the back. She tried to maintain a steady step, yet keep her head down. She must be a sight to the curious onlookers. Her mascara surely had run, her cheeks were wet, and her eyes probably swollen. When they approached the ladies room, she paused and turned pleading eyes to him.

  “Go ahead. The window isn’t big enough for you to crawl out, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His words dripped with sarcasm.

  Plopping her duffel on the floor outside the door as a signal to him that she wouldn’t run, she pushed on the door. She was done running. If only Clay would listen to her, let her explain. She used the facilities, grateful for the warm water washing over her hands, and stepped back out into the hall where Clay stood like a statue. He gestured down the hallway and they walked to the end and into a small room with a table and three chairs. It was just like she’d seen in the movies, one chair on one side and the other two facing it. In the center of the gunmetal gray table was a ring with a large chain attached to it and a dirty ashtray. Clay pulled the single chair out from the table and looked at her expectantly.

  “May I stand?”

  “No. Sit.” She obeyed and watched Clay speak into an intercom in the corner of the room. “She’s ready, Pat.” He turned, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall and stared at her. It resembled the look his ex-wife shot her the day Amber faced her down at the store. His was just as chilling.