Dancing in the Dark

by Dee Davis

  “Nah. You just move in very small circles. So how'd it go?”

  “Fine. I installed Caller ID, recorded a message for her answering machine, and asked her to the barbecue.”

  “And she agreed to go?” Tony sounded amazed.

  “You don't have to act so surprised. It's not like I'm a leper or something. Besides, it isn't a date. It's just your barbecue.”

  “Right. You're just picking her up, bringing her to the party, and then taking her home again. No way is that a date.”

  “All right already. So maybe it is a date. But it's only one party, not a marriage proposal, so you and Bess back off, okay?”

  “Hey, I'm only interested in your well-being.” “You're only interested in nosing into my private affairs.” Tony pulled a face, pretending to be insulted. “Fine. I can take a hint.”

  “My ass.” Eric grinned, then sobered. “You take the bottom floors, I'll start at the top. We'll meet in the middle, hopefully with a witness. If we're right about Ramirez killing Tompkins, maybe the guy has more to hide than his vocational pursuits.”

  “Yeah. The question is how it all ties into the other murders.”

  Eric blew out a long breath. “If it ties in at all.”

  Ramirez was scum. No question about it. And he certainly had the cojones to off Tompkins. But that didn't make him a serial killer.

  Sara tossed and turned, trying to find the blissful escape of sleep, but instead all she could see was Lydia Wallace's face. She'd had so much of life ahead of her. Closing her eyes, Sara sighed. No sense lying in the dark. But before she could reach for the light, the phone started to ring.

  Without thinking she reached for it, answering before her machine had the chance to catch the call. “Hello?

  The line hissed—empty, mocking.

  “Hello?”

  She glanced at the Caller ID box, but of course without service, it remained stubbornly blank. Damn it all to hell. She slammed the receiver back into the cradle, anger washing through her.

  She was tempted to call Eric, but realized she didn't have his home number. Reaching for the lamp she turned the knob, flooding the room with light, blinking at the brightness. She sat up, her anger evaporating.

  There was no point in calling, even if she could find his number. There was nothing to do except talk to the phone company in the morning. Resigned, she climbed out of bed, ready for another sleepless night.

  Chapter 8

  Eric stood in the conference room looking at the white board. The information on it had grown in complexity since they'd started, pictures of all three vics joining the stats and details. But even with all that, there was nothing to identify the killer, and the fact galled him.

  Crossing over to a utility table, he filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee, wishing he'd stopped at Starbucks on the way to work. It had been a late night. Rodriguez had been collared. The stupid prick had been hanging out at the Roxie, seemingly unaware that the whole of the Austin Police Department was out looking for him.

  Questioning him hadn't proved any more useful. The bastard was cocky, and no amount of intimidation had convinced him to give up the murder. They didn't have enough on him for a search warrant, which meant no weapon. And that left them hanging in the breeze, although for the moment the punk was still in custody.

  “You're in early.” Jordan Brady leaned against the table, studying the white board. “Anything new?”

  “No. You see anything?” Eric moved to sit beside the lieutenant. As well as being his boss, Brady was a hell of a cop, and Eric respected his opinions.

  “Nothing you probably haven't. The guy is obviously getting better. But that's to be expected. His vics are getting younger. And, given their profession, more innocent.”

  Eric frowned at the board. “Yeah, I thought the same thing, but we could just as easily be forcing the puzzle in a direction we want it to go. Like Ramirez. I think he whacked Tompkins, but I don't see him as a serial killer.”

  “He copping to any of it?” Brady's stare was intense. Intimidating. Except that Eric had known him a hell of a long time, and the big black man wasn't even aware of the look. It was part of what made him so good at his job. He scared the shit out of perps without even trying.

  “So far he's just blowing hot air. Posturing.”

  “We don't nail Ramirez for this, we lose him all together. He already cut a deal for moving the body.” Brady walked over to the coffee pot and refilled his cup. “He lawyered up?”

  “Yeah, that's why I'm in here. Tony's baby-sitting. The attorney's on his way.”

  “Wagner?”

  “Who else? The man has a nose for losers.”

  “And a track record of getting them off.”

  “Not going to happen.” Claire Dennison walked into the room with a smile. “Got the bastard dead to rights.” Crossing to the table, she threw a file down on the desk. “Almost missed it.”

  Eric sat at the table, opening the file. “So what have you got?”

  “At first I thought nothing. The room was so full of fingerprints half of east Austin could have been considered a suspect. And, of course, the weapon wasn't found at the scene. But Tompkins' blood proved to be another story.” She leaned over Eric's shoulder, pulling out a picture of the deceased.

  “The bloodstain under his head doesn't match the position of the body.”

  “So he rolled over.”

  “No chance in hell. This guy was dead before he hit the floor.”

  “So you're saying someone rolled him over?” This from Brady, who had crossed the room to stand by Claire.

  “Exactly. And better still, the asshole left a handprint in the poor guy's blood.” Her smile was wicked. “It wasn't apparent to the naked eye, but one of my techs saw it when he was photographing the crime scene.”

  “And the prints match Ramirez?” Eric frowned, trying to connect the dots.

  “They do. We've got three clear and a partial on the other two.”

  “But couldn't Ramirez argue that he moved the body after Tompkins died? It certainly fits his M.O.”

  “Not when you add in the ballistics test.” She reached over to pull another piece of paper from the file. “There's a unique striation on the bullet we recovered. Traced it to a previous incident, which makes it a gun belonging to one Alturo Ramirez. My guess is you'll find it in his apartment, and I think this more than gives you cause for a warrant.”

  Brady smiled. “I like the way you work. What do you say we go catch us a murderer?”

  He and Claire walked toward the door, still talking, but Eric stopped in front of the white board, the dead women staring out at him. Ramirez wasn't the one. He could feel it in his bones. Which meant that somewhere out there, they still had a murderer on the loose.

  A man without a face and an escalating desire to kill.

  “So what do you think?” Nate strode into the office, tossing the magazine on Sara's desk.

  “I haven't actually seen it, but Ryan brought the article by last night. You did an amazing job.” Sara smiled up at him.

  Nate shrugged, color flooding his face. “I'm glad you liked it.” He ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable. “I wanted it to be special.”

  “Well, it is. Ryan even said so.”

  His head shot up. “Really?”

  “That's what he said. My guess is he'll be giving you more assignments from now on.” She smiled to underscore her words, hoping that she was right. Ryan hadn't exactly said as much, but surely his comments intimated it.

  “God, that would be fantastic. Do you think I should go talk to him?”

  Sara laughed. Sometimes she forgot how young Nate was. Chronologically he was in his late twenties, but emotionally he was more like a teenager sometimes. “I'd wait for him to come to you. And in the meantime, you need to enjoy the moment.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up every which way. “You're right. I always get ahead of myself. Sorry.” His smile was sheepish.
<
br />   “Don't worry. If it were me, I'd be excited too.”

  “Oh, God, what am I thinking? It is you. I mean, your pictures are the heart of the article, really. Without them it wouldn't be anything but words.”

  “It was teamwork, Nate.”

  “Yeah. I guess it was.” His expression was joyful, as if the realization was a welcome surprise.

  “Well, I hope you're not going to leave the publisher out of this party.” Ryan stood in the doorway, his gaze assessing.

  “Of course not. We're all part of the process. But right now we're celebrating Nate's first big story.” She smiled fondly at the younger man. “And for the moment, I think we should leave it at that.”

  “Of course. I didn't mean to take away from the moment.” Ryan's gaze encompassed them both.

  “It's okay.” Nate's eyes signaled that it wasn't, but Ryan either didn't notice or was ignoring the fact.

  Sara stood up, not wanting to facilitate anything more between them. “Actually, I'm afraid we'll have to save our celebrating for later. Right now, I need to get these pictures over to the police. I've sat on them longer than I'm comfortable with already.”

  “God, what a conscience.” Ryan's smile took the sting out of his remark. “Off you go. And tell D'Angelo I said hi.”

  “D'Angelo?” Nate frowned.

  “Tony's partner.” Ryan grinned at Nate, waggling his eyebrows for effect. “Seems he's making the moves on Sara.”

  “I'm going on a date, Ryan. One date. Nothing more. It's too soon for anything else. I'm not ready.” She glared pointedly at both of her friends, ignoring their laughter.

  Whether they believed it or not, she was telling them the absolute truth

  Sort of.

  “So you think this is a ploy?” Tony walked toward the interrogation room with Eric following on his heels.

  “Hard to say.” Eric shrugged. “I mean he was Lydia's pimp, so there's a chance he knows something. But then again he's also facing the needle, so I'd say there's motive to lie.”

  “Only one way to find out for sure.” Tony pushed the door open and strode into the room. Ramirez was sitting at the head of the table, head in hands. The cocky boy from last night had vanished, Claire Dennison's evidence damning enough to deflate his attitude. Lamont Wagner sat confidently in the chair cattycorner to Ramirez, his smirk indicating he thought their information would buy the kid's way out of a sure date with death.

  “So, you ready to tell me what happened to Maynard Tompkins?” Eric straddled a chair, while Tony leaned cross-armed against the wall.

  “My client has nothing to say until we're certain a deal is in place. Is the district attorney coming?” Lamont was a slimy bastard, always protecting the guilty, drug runners and pimps his specialty. Eric believed in justice for all, but he drew the line when it involved manipulating the law to protect the guilty.

  “I spoke with the district attorney fifteen minutes ago. And provided Ramirez here gives a full confession and that any information he provides pans out, you have his word.”

  “No death penalty.”

  “I thought you said you'd get me out of this?” Ramirez's head popped up, a hint of his former bravado resurfacing.

  “I said I'd keep you alive. Other than that, they've got a damn good case.”

  It wasn't often that Lamont admitted a client's guilt, let alone praised the department. Eric swallowed the urge to thank the man. “So we got a deal?”

  Wagner's eyes met Ramirez's and the younger man nodded, his gaze returning to his hands.

  “Why don't we start with the confession.” Tony moved to sit at the other end of the table.

  “I did Tompkins.” Ramirez's face showed no remorse. Hell, it didn't show anything, except maybe regret for getting caught. “He didn't have any business turning me in to the cops.”

  “For moving the body?”

  “Yeah.” The kid fidgeted with a bracelet on his arm. “And then he tells me I can't work the hotel anymore. Like it was my fault the bitch got herself killed.”

  “So you shot him.”

  Ramirez shrugged. “Wasn't a big loss. Tompkins was a bottom feeder anyway.”

  As if Ramirez was the cream of the crop. Eric swallowed his revulsion. “So how's all this relate to Lydia Wallace's murder?”

  “It doesn't. Not directly.” He shot a look at Wagner, and then continued. “I didn't tell you everything the other day.”

  “And you want to tell me now.”

  “Sure,” he almost looked Eric in the eyes, but at the last minute looked away again, “if it helps keeps me alive.”

  “Noble intentions.” Tony's sarcasm was lost on the man. “So let's hear what you got.”

  “Ain't much.” He mumbled, but the room was designed so that even a whisper could be clearly heard. “I told you I met up with Lydia that night.”

  “Yeah, and beat up on her.”

  Ramirez frowned. “She had it coming.”

  “Just tell them what you know.” Wagner's voice was soothing. And if Eric didn't know better he'd have thought the lawyer actually gave a shit.

  “I accused her of stiffing me. She swore she'd been giving me everything, that she hadn't been doing nothing on the side.” Ramirez shrugged. “I didn't believe her. So I asked her how come she missed appointments.” He looked up at Lamont, who nodded briefly. “She said she'd been meeting with a journalist. Some big story. Told me she even had a meeting that night.”

  “But you said you met with her at ten.”

  Ramirez nodded. “That's right. So I'm figuring there must be something pretty special going on if it called for a late-night meeting.”

  “You think maybe she was jerking your chain?” Tony asked.

  “I don't know. She seemed on the up-and-up.”

  “And you just didn't think it was important enough to mention the first time we talked?”

  “Maybe I forgot.” The kid smiled, some of his swagger restored.

  “Or maybe you wanted a get-out-of-the-death-penalty-free card?”

  “Hadn't killed anybody then. I just forgot.”

  “Nice of your memory to come back.” Eric's gaze met Tony's, and then returned to the pimp. “So, this journalist, he have a name?”

  “Wasn't a he.” Ramirez smiled, his gold tooth glinting in the florescent light. “It was a woman. Name's Sara. Sara Martin.”

  Chapter 9

  It shouldn't have rocked his world, but it did. Damn it. It did. If Ramirez was telling the truth, then Sara just might have been the last person to see Lydia Wallace alive. A little fact that she'd omitted telling him. And that, in and of itself, was enough to throw him off-kilter. But when you added in the fact that she'd also kept her photographs of the girl a secret—well, there wasn't any way to quantify his frustration and confusion.

  Eric threw the magazine on the desk, Lydia Wallace's face mocking him from the cover. Brady had brought it to him. Along with a few choice words about the press. One photographer in particular.

  He picked up the phone. Best to just get it over with. Sara Martin had a lot of questions to answer. He punched in the magazine's number, listening to the hollow ring of the phone, his mind scrambling for the proper way to handle the situation. He probably should have let Tony deal with it, but he prided himself on facing things head-on.

  No matter how difficult.

  The receptionist finally answered, only to inform him that Sara was out. Great. After hanging up the phone, he picked up the magazine, flipping to the article inside. He'd read it three times, and on the surface it was nothing more than a human interest piece, the tragic plight of a kid without choices and the system that had failed her. But the fact that the girl had ended up the victim of a serial killer changed everything, every word and picture taking on new meaning.

  Particularly when coupled with the fact that Sara Martin might have been the last person to see Lydia Wallace alive.

  “Eric?” The voice was timid, but he recognized it immediately, loo
king up to meet Sara's guileless blue eyes. “They, ah, said I should talk to you.” Her gaze dropped to the journal in his hands. “I guess you know why I'm here.”

  “Evidently I don't know anything about you.” He tried but couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  She swallowed nervously, dropping into a chair. “If it matters, I wanted to tell you. Well, not you exactly. I didn't know you were in charge of the case. But I wanted to tell the police.”

  “So why didn't you?” He fought to keep his voice level. This was professional. There was nothing personal going on here. Or if there was, he certainly couldn't allow it to interfere with business.

  “Ryan asked me not to.”

  “And you always do what Ryan tells you?” So much for objectivity.

  “No. But he wanted first shot at the article.” She waved at the magazine, anger flashing in her eyes. “And I thought it would be okay to wait a day.”

  “You should have let me be the judge of that.”

  “I said I didn't know it was you specifically. Besides, I'm a journalist, too, remember? And I made my decision based on that fact. Which is exactly what I should have done. And now I'm bringing the pictures to you. I even brought the negatives.” She tossed a manila envelope on the desk. “So we're square.”

  He pushed the envelope aside. “Not quite. There's still the little matter of your meeting with Lydia Wallace the night she was murdered.”

  Sara's eyebrows rose, her surprise genuine. “I've no idea what you're talking about.”

  “According to my information, the meeting was scheduled just before she died. Which means except for the killer, you were the last person to see her alive.”

  “Thank you for that.” Her response was dry, her eyes narrowing as she considered what he was telling her.

  “For what?”

  Her smile didn't reach her eyes. “For not accusing me of murdering the woman.”

  “Women are rarely serial killers, Sara.”

  “So that's the only reason you're ruling me out?” She leaned forward, anger darkening her eyes.