Insidious

by Catherine Coulter

  “Very well.” Daniel shoved his cell phone over to him, and he and Cam left the interview room.

  Chief Murray met them outside the interview room. “He might get the Nitwit of the Year Award, but he isn’t the Serial, not that either of you thought he was.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Cam said. “He doesn’t fit the body type and there wasn’t a knife or goggles.”

  Dreyfus patted her arm. “Still, we’ve got him on trespassing, maybe breaking and entering, violating the restraining order, and attacking a federal agent.”

  Cam said, “He didn’t really enter, only break.” She sighed. “I really did attack him, Dreyfus, jumped right out the window and took him down.”

  “Doesn’t matter, too bad for him. If he gets himself a good lawyer, he could plea-bargain down to maybe three months, and out on bail until his hearing.”

  Missy, who’d been pacing up and down the bullpen with every male eye following her progress, overheard Sheriff Murray. She grabbed Cam’s sleeve. “He’ll get three months or maybe nothing? And he’ll be out on bail? I’m going to go break his arm, Cam, he deserves it. He was going to come into your bedroom, you know it.”

  “But he didn’t, Missy,” Cam said.

  “He would have. And what if you hadn’t been there, Cam? What was he going to do? Sneak to my bedroom and try to kiss me? Lick me? Rape me? Then when the schmuck gets out of jail, if he ever even goes in, he can come after me again? Sheriff Murray, can’t we get him committed to a loony bin?”

  Daniel took her hand. “Calm down, Missy. He wasn’t at your house to kill you. He worships you, he’s obsessed with you, and that’s got to stop. We’re all on edge because of the serial killer, but it isn’t Blinker. Do you know he doesn’t have a mark on his record, even a speeding ticket? He’s a putz, that’s about it. I’ll see to it he has a psych evaluation. Don’t worry.”

  Missy said, “Maybe he did have a knife and goggles, maybe you just didn’t find them. I’ll go back and search, see—”

  Cam interrupted her. “Missy, I just called Sunset Airlines. Sure enough, Mr. Bayley flew back on their flight 415 to L.A. early last Saturday evening. Also, none of the murdered actresses reported a stalker. He’s got the wrong build, too, and his features aren’t remotely close to the sketch we have of the killer. He’s just a putz, like Daniel said. We’ll see what the psychiatrist says after his evaluation. Stop your worrying, all right?”

  “Easy enough for you to say,” Missy said, and began pacing again, much to the pleasure of the men in the bullpen.

  Daniel looked after her, talking to herself, her hands waving to make a point, pacing in her skinny jeans and her 49ers sweatshirt. He said to Cam, “What with that Ka-Bar of hers, I’d be willing to bet she’d cut off some of Blinker’s prized real estate if he tried anything again. I think he knows that, but before he leaves, I’ll tell him I’ll hold him down for her if he ever gets near her again.”

  Cam smiled at him. “I know you would. Missy told me she wants Blinker sent to prison in Antarctica.” Her cell beeped and she excused herself. When she strode back into the bullpen a couple minutes later, she looked upset.

  Daniel said, “So who’s the fool who pissed you off?”

  “No, I’m not pissed off. Confused is more like it. That was David Elman, the LAPD supervisor of Homicide Special Section. The administrator at Children’s Hospital in Santa Monica called to tell him there was a private investigator asking questions about the surgical staff’s working hours and schedules on Tuesday night, when Deborah was killed. Elman said it was Gus Hampton, a P.I. with a good rep for being thorough and very expensive. When Elman had Loomis confront him about it, Hampton freely admitted he was working for Theo Markham. Hampton said Markham believes Doc killed Deborah and that we—the cops—wouldn’t take him seriously. He used my name, as lead investigator, and that Doc had fooled me with his grief routine, had us believing his alibi about being in the hospital all night. He said Mr. Markham doesn’t think the cops will ever take him seriously unless Hampton proves him right.”

  Missy called out, “I’m sorry, but I heard you. I don’t care what Markham thinks. You know it can’t be Doc, Cam. I mean, he saves lives, he’s a surgeon. It’s not possible. Listen, I talked to him, held him while he cried. Doc was nuts about Deborah. You’ve met him, you’ve talked to him, you know he’s devastated. Deb meant everything to him. I never heard a word about her dumping him or being afraid of him. Afraid of Doc? That’s stupid. Markham’s got this all wrong.”

  Murray said slowly, “Why would Markham care enough about Deborah Connelly’s murder to hire an expensive P.I.? He barely knew her from what he told you and Daniel. Where does that interest of his come from? And why focus on her boyfriend, this Doc? It’s obvious Markham hates him. My question is why?”

  “Good questions, Murray,” Cam said. “I don’t know the answers, but could he be that upset because Deborah couldn’t finish her role in his movie? That sounds lame to me. I’m going to try to find out. Do you think I’m wrong about Doc, Daniel?”

  “No, you can’t be,” Missy said when Daniel remained silent. “Listen, I can ask around, see who else spent time with him and Deb together.”

  Daniel got in her face. “No way you’re going to ask anybody anything, Missy. You’re already too involved in this.”

  Missy cocked her head at him. “But I’m already in the case, Daniel, Cam asked me to be. It won’t hurt to ask. What could happen?”

  “No,” Daniel said.

  Sheriff Murray said, “Ms. Devereaux, Daniel’s right. You’re a civilian, you should keep out of this.”

  Cam was shaking her head. “I still have a hard time picturing Doc planning to slit Deborah’s throat, covering his tracks. I saw him, I spoke to him, saw his grief. Like Missy, I’d swear to my last breath it was real. He was raw with pain.”

  Daniel rose, “Unless he’s the one who’s the fine actor. I’ll call Arturo, tell him to dig deeper at the hospital, put him on the hook—he’s got to prove or disprove Doc’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. Definitively. The last thing he wants is to have a private cop find out things he didn’t. Arturo doesn’t deal well with civilians sticking their noses in his business. This will fire up his burners.”

  46

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THURSDAY

  It was a beautiful day in Washington, not too hot, perfect for another walk she really didn’t want to take, but Delsey had no sooner gotten back to Griffin’s condo than he’d called her, told her he knew if she stayed inside she’d only brood. Take a taxi back into the middle of Washington, get out and walk, he’d suggested, look at all the monuments, enjoy all the people, and while she was walking he suggested her best payback was to write a song about how rotten Rob Rasmussen was.

  So here she was, on K Street, walking with hordes of tourists and government employees, humming a few bars of her new song, spinning words and notes in the back of her mind, her step lagging now and then as she let her mind worry the line about a two-timing dog.

  When she stopped at the corner for a red light, a dozen people quickly filled in behind her. There was a lot of traffic, but it was moving right along. Her eyes were on her silver sandals—she needed a new coat of polish on her toenails. Maybe a deep purple?—when something hit her hard in her back, hurling her into the path of an oncoming black limo.

  Delsey saw her mother’s face clear as day as the big car bore down on her. She heard screams and shouts, felt strong hands under her armpits literally jerking her off the ground and backward. The big car’s brakes screamed like a banshee, and the front end spun into the oncoming traffic as it slid past her. There was a tremendous crash and the sound of metal rending as several cars slammed into one another. People were yelling, horns blaring. It was pandemonium.

  She stared up into Rob Rasmussen’s face. “Delsey, are you all right?”

  Was she all right? When she’d nearly met her maker? Had he saved her? “I’m not dead,” D
elsey said, “so that’s something.” She couldn’t quite grasp what had happened. She knew she couldn’t stand on her own yet, so she let him hold her up. People crowded in beside them, some asking if she was okay, others seeing if people were all right in the crashed cars. Someone called 911, not for her, but for the mad jumble of cars smacked together in the middle of K Street. Drivers were getting out of their wrecked cars, some of them angry, screaming for the cops, others dazed, wondering what had happened. It seemed like only a second had passed when she heard sirens.

  Rob said, “You’re white as a ghost. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She tried to pull herself free, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She sagged against him. “What happened?”

  “You fell into the street, right in front of a black limo.”

  An older guy wearing cowboy boots called out, “I’ll bet she can’t walk a straight line!”

  That straightened her back and her legs. She pulled away from Rob and rounded on the man. “I’m not drunk. Someone pushed me. Did anyone see who it was?”

  There was a punch of shocked silence, then voices, talking over one another so she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  She felt light-headed, and, admittedly, a bit crazed as she looked at the faces around her, wondering which of them had pushed her. More than likely that person was long gone now. She’d nearly died. Someone had tried to kill her. The shouts from the wrecked cars in the street stopped when a cop car arrived on scene. An officer leaped out, called for quiet and calm.

  No one had seen anything. And that’s what everyone told Metro officer George Mankins, all at once when he pushed through. He listened, then raised his hand. He looked at Delsey, saw her dilated eyes, her pallor, the dirt on her hands, the streak of grime on her cheek. “You okay?”

  She nodded. She waved toward the insane wreckage in the street. “I’m not responsible, really, Officer. Someone pushed me.”

  Mankins eyed her. He’d just finished a double shift, thankful to be on his way home when the call came in. He’d been only one block away, so he couldn’t ignore it. What was this about someone pushing her? “You sure you don’t need the hospital?”

  “No, honestly, I’m okay. My brother’s an FBI agent. Please take me to him. He’s in the Hoover Building.”

  “No can do. I’ve got to take you to the station, let you tell a detective what you told me. Who are you, sir? You know her?”

  “He’s Rob Rasmussen. He was my boyfriend for a day until I found out today he was a liar. But he did save my life, pulled me back just in time.”

  Or maybe, Officer Mankins thought, the lying ex-boyfriend had pushed her, then regretted it just in time to save her.

  47

  * * *

  HENRY J. DALY BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Griffin, Savich, and Sherlock were met by Detective Ben Raven in the lobby of the Daly Building. He led them through security and up to the third floor to his captain’s office.

  Captain Juan Ramirez, built like a fireplug and stronger than most of the officers under him, looked up when three people appeared in his doorway. He nodded to Ben, rose. “Savich, Sherlock, good to see you. Ben said her brother was coming. That you?”

  “Yes, Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith.”

  He looked back at Savich. “What are you guys doing here?”

  Savich shook Ramirez’s outstretched hand. “Good to see you, Juan. Griffin Hammersmith is in my unit. Griffin, this is Captain Ramirez.” Griffin stepped forward, stuck out his hand. He turned immediately to Delsey, pale as a death shroud, sitting on the edge of the captain’s ratty houndstooth sofa, looking straight ahead, as if studying the captain’s desk would keep her safe. Rob Rasmussen stood in the corner, staring at her.

  “Delsey, sweetheart—”

  Delsey blinked at Griffin’s voice, jumped up and ran into his arms, squeezed him tightly. “Someone shoved me into the street, right in front of a black limo, Griffin. It wasn’t people pushing in behind, you know how that is— No, it was a hard shove, square in my back, hard enough to push me into the street. Rob said he didn’t see anyone shove me, simply saw me flying into the street and he managed to grab me and pull me back.” She gave Rob a brief nod.

  Griffin continued to hold her as he looked over at Rob Rasmussen. He opened his mouth, but Sherlock beat him to it. “Were you with Delsey, Mr. Rasmussen?”

  Rob looked at her, then fast down at his sneakered feet. “Well, no, not yet. I was trying to catch up to her. I called her but she hung up on me. I drove to Agent Hammersmith’s condo, saw her get into a taxi and followed. I wasn’t stalking her, really, I only wanted to talk to her, tell her that I wasn’t—”

  “A lying jerk?” Delsey said, turning toward him, never leaving Griffin’s arms.

  “I’m not, Delsey, I swear I’m not.”

  Savich slashed his hand through the air. “Rob, this isn’t the time. We all know you were with Delsey all afternoon yesterday while Sherlock and I were interviewing your girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, I know, but—”

  Savich cut him off. “Right now you need to focus. Think back, Rob. Picture the scene in your mind. Picture each person. Can you describe the man or woman directly behind Delsey?”

  Rob gave Delsey one last look, then said to Savich, “Okay, there were lots of people, at least a dozen, maybe more, both men and women. Delsey was on the curb, first to go, waiting for the light to change. A man and a woman were directly behind her, crowding close, and then a second later, I saw Delsey flying into the street. I pushed through the crowd and managed to pull her back.” He swallowed convulsively. “It was close, too close.”

  “Did anyone look familiar to you?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention, only looking at Delsey. Even when I shoved through people to get to her, I didn’t notice their faces.”

  Detective Ben Raven said, “Officer Mankins and three other patrol officers corralled some of the people who were behind Ms. Freestone. They took their names so we can question them. But many of our fine upstanding citizens couldn’t wait to get away. Our best shot at seeing the person who shoved Delsey might be the traffic cams at that intersection. We’ll have the footage within the hour. We’ll also check the cameras on all the buildings within a block radius. I’m hopeful we’ll nail our perp in living black and white.”

  But Griffin wasn’t hopeful, not if the person who’d shoved Delsey was savvy about the cameras plastered all over Washington, almost as many as in London. He saw Delsey was looking wobbly and led her to the sofa and sat down beside her, never letting go of her hand. He saw she was looking at Rob Rasmussen, who still stood behind a utilitarian office chair, not moving, looking back at her.

  She licked her dry lips. What would have happened if he hadn’t followed her to try to talk her around? “Griffin, why would someone want to kill me? I mean, I don’t know many people in Washington. I haven’t had the time or the opportunity to make a serious enemy. Even your doorman likes me. Could this have something to do with someone trying to kill Mrs. Rasmussen?”

  Captain Ramirez came to attention. “What’s this? Wait a minute—Rob Rasmussen. You’re related?”

  Sherlock said, “Rob is Mrs. Rasmussen’s grandson.”

  Rob said to Captain Ramirez, “I had nothing to do with the attempts on her life and Delsey hasn’t even met her. What happened today couldn’t have anything to do with that mess.”

  Savich said slowly, “It could have something to do with a woman’s anger at a rival. Rob, how would Marsia know you spent hours with Delsey yesterday?”

  Rob never looked away from Delsey. “I went to see her last night. Before I could speak to her about Delsey, she told me about your visit at her studio and said she hoped she’d passed with flying colors. Then she eyed me, and finally asked me about my day. I told her I’d had lunch with a new friend in Washington.” His eyes fell to his sneakers. “Not much more. I wanted to wait until the weekend to break it
off with her, but I did tell her I’d met someone I really liked, and I told her your name, Delsey. She smiled at me, asked if you were an artist like she was, and I told her you wrote music. She said she’d like to meet you. She didn’t seem disturbed at all. She said it was nice to meet new people that I liked. I started to get into it then, explain everything to her, but I got a call from one of my people about an emergency at one of our job sites. I had to go see to it. I told myself I had enough time. This weekend, I’d get everything clear with her.

  “But listen, Savich, I’m not making it up. Marsia wasn’t at all upset when I told her about Delsey. She was understanding, agreeable, sweet, like always.”

  And did you come back after your house emergency and sleep with her, Rob? Aloud, Delsey said, “Yeah, a nice new friend, that’s me.”

  “Well, you are, plus you’re a whole lot more than that, and you know it.” He saw Captain Ramirez rolling his eyes at him and said quickly, “Savich, you can’t believe Marsia would do something like this. She’s a sculptor, an artist, for heaven’s sake. As I told you, she wasn’t jealous or upset. No, she wouldn’t do anything like this, it’s absurd. I know her.”

  Savich said, “How serious do you think Ms. Gay is about you, Rob? Does she expect a marriage proposal?”

  Rob froze like a deer in the headlights. “A marriage proposal? Neither of us have ever said a word about marriage, never. We’ve been really good friends, well, maybe there was more, but that’s all changed.” He looked at Delsey dead-on. “Everything changed when I met Delsey.”

  Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Rob, I know you believe what you said to Ms. Gay didn’t give her a big clue that your feelings for her had shifted to another woman. However, the fact that she remained calm and sweet to you doesn’t mean she wasn’t threatened or furious or jealous. We’ll confirm where Ms. Gay was this afternoon. Of course, even if she spent the day snug in her studio, she’s smart enough to have hired someone. Maybe we’ll clear this up quickly with the camera footage. Now, if you think of anything else, please call Dillon or me. Ben, Captain Ramirez, thank you for taking care of Ms. Freestone. We’ll be in touch.”