“You know who I am,” Vickie said, staring at him hard. “And you know something about what is going on, about the women who have been kidnapped. The women who have been saved—and the women who have died.”
“Ah,” Aldridge murmured. “Okay, so I know that’s why you’re here. And seeing you... I guess that’s supposed to unnerve me! Make me say something. Victoria Preston! The girl who knew I was there...ah, yes. The beautiful creature who got away. Well, you have really come along nicely, Miss Preston. You were so ripe and gorgeous before, but now...let’s see, your features are refined. There is an air of maturity about you that is je ne sait quoi...? You are beyond beauty, you are compelling, seductive and just magnificent. I could go on and on—”
“But you will stop right now,” Griffin informed him. He leaned toward Aldridge. “You’re involved. Complicit in murder, whether you’re in here or not. We will bring you up on federal charges, and you will face the death penalty.”
He thought his words struck a nerve, somewhere in the man. He saw a pulse at Aldridge’s throat tick—and tick again too quickly.
Death penalty. Aldridge didn’t mind dealing out death—despite prison, he didn’t want to die himself.
“I don’t know what on earth you think I could have done. Even asshole guard over there knows I haven’t so much as taken a damn step out of this place since my sentencing began. Whoops, sorry, Miss Preston. Such language before a goddess. I am sorry.”
“You’re lying, Aldridge,” Jackson said flatly.
“Look, bizarre as it seems to you do-gooders, I do have fans out there. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the women who want to marry me! Some of them are holy rollers, of course. They think if a man like me just had a really good woman, someone who loved me completely and totally, I’d be fixed. There’s a real fan club out there, don’t you kid yourselves. And others! Well, sorry, gentlemen and lady, there are fans out there who admire my prowess! They long to be like me—an artist with a knife, a connoisseur of the kill! Equally adept with firearms—a crack aim! Oh, and should it come up, I am nicely versed in poisons as well. A true artist of the death trade. Ah, well, if I could actually determine who was a femme fatale of my own ilk, I might consider the idea of tying the old knot. So hard to tell. So hard to figure out what truly goes on in the minds of those around us—or those writing to us, whatever the case may be.”
Griffin was about to press his point when Vickie suddenly spoke again. “Mr. Aldridge, you must really miss your mother. I take it she was a good person—one who loved you and had no clue as to how you grew up to be a monster.”
Again, his pulse ticked.
“She was an alcoholic whore—but she was all I had.”
“I guess you grew up without love—all kinds of hardship, that kind of thing,” Vickie said.
“Ah, there you go! Another redeemer. I wasn’t born bad—I was made that way—and I can be fixed!” Aldridge said gleefully.
“Oh, no, Mr. Aldridge,” Vickie said. “You’re completely broken. I don’t believe you can be fixed at all. But you did correspond with people—you do correspond with people. You’re allowed two fifteen-minute phone calls a week. And you call phone numbers that can’t be traced. You are involved in this and you’re using me. Because you missed. You missed me because of Griffin Pryce, and you think you’re going to settle a score with both of us now.”
“What a clever little miss,” Aldridge said.
“You need to give us something, Aldridge,” Jackson Crow said. “As my partner here mentioned, you can face the death penalty. You will face federal charges.”
“You’re blowing smoke!” Aldridge said, but that pulse was ticking in his neck again. “You can’t connect me to anything.”
“Which means there is something to connect you to,” Griffin said quietly.
Aldridge’s fists slammed on the table, chains banging. “I didn’t say that!” he snapped. “You won’t connect me because I’m not involved. It’s not my fault some demented soul has determined to get revenge for me. Sounds like whoever it is is pretty damned good, too.” He controlled himself again and smiled pleasantly. “Yes, we do get the news in here. You fellows have nothing, nothing. You’re running around holding your dicks. You don’t have a damned thing.”
“You grew up on the south side,” Vickie said.
Aldridge quickly lowered his head, hiding his expression.
“Lots of people grew up on the south side.”
“With your alcoholic mother,” Griffin said pleasantly. “Hearing all kinds of rumors. You know, I just learned today there was an article in the 1880s that mentioned one of your great-great-grandparents. Jonah Aldridge. He was known to have seen a young prostitute who disappeared. She was never found. Friends tried to get the police involved, but they couldn’t find anything or prove anything.”
“So, great-great-grandpa was a connoisseur of death, too,” Aldridge said. “Too late for you brilliant dicks to get him, huh? Is that why you’re plaguing me?”
“No, frankly,” Jackson said, “that’s why we’re so certain you are involved in this. You grew up on the south side. You heard family lore—you either knew or suspected those bodies were in the wall there.”
Griffin leaned in, going for more. “You knew they were there. You knew where the knots were in the wood. You loved to go stare at the dead and imagine you were the one who had put them there.”
The pulse was ticking at Aldridge’s throat again.
Bingo.
“Since I’ve been in here, it’s most unlikely I managed to slip out—and back in again—after adding to the body count,” Aldridge said.
“It’s not the same,” Jackson said with a shrug, “but I’m sure you’re enjoying every kill from in here. You’re quite the tutor. You’ve taught your acolytes to find their own signature, their own means of killing. You would probably prefer it if there were knives and a lot of blood involved. But, hey...prison is surely boring as hell, right? Every bit of news you hear is something that thrills you.”
“If the news does or doesn’t thrill me, means nothing,” Aldridge said.
“Imagine, though. Imagine when we catch the killers, when they talk. I don’t think they’re actually up to par with you, Aldridge. Your dementia is controlled, almost sophisticated! And these people, well...they’re good at being stealthy. But still,” Griffin said, looking at Jackson, “I think we all know once we’ve caught one of them...that one is going to do the old cliché thing and sing like a canary.”
“Yep, you will be implicated,” Jackson agreed.
“And then...federal charges!” Griffin said.
“You think you’re so clever! Well, did you know George Ballantine can trace his New York ass back to the south side, too,” Aldridge spit out.
“Actually, we do know that. Your families lived on the same street,” Vickie said flatly. “Did they have more money, even back then? More prestige in the neighborhood?”
“They were assholes then like they are now,” Aldridge said. He shook his head. “You want to talk about murderers? Family legend? Well, my family believed Jonah Aldridge was ostracized because that old-time George Ballantine was a killer—and made it look like Jonah was the one who made people disappear. Well, my sainted-alcoholic-bitch of a mother used to talk about it all the time! The Ballantine family! They went up and up...and my family...down the tubes. You need to look at that man if you want to go after someone. Seriously. He’s all fine and respected! Like hell! Check into what that man is doing, why don’t you?”
“We’re federal investigators, Mr. Aldridge,” Jackson said. “We look into everything.”
“All our looking points at you.”
Aldridge suddenly stared at Vickie. His gaze was intense. “Maybe Vickie needs to be more careful than anyone else out there,” he said very softly.
Griffin barely controll
ed himself.
He didn’t speak.
Jackson did.
“Are you threatening Miss Preston, Aldridge?”
“Me? Hell, no. I’m as innocent as a babe. But bad stuff does seem to be going on. And she is such a stunning young woman!” His smile deepened. “I remember seeing you in court, Miss Preston. And I was almost thinking I was glad I’d been stopped. So beautiful. And a bullet! All over so very quickly. Such a heartbreaker! Shattering the lives of those she left behind. Of those she touched and touches on a day-to-day basis. Take nothing from that, my friends. You’re not going to get anything from me. I’m not involved. You’re looking for some history student who just happens to enjoy my work.”
“We’re looking for a couple, we know. A man and a woman.”
“So I’ve heard. Your news conferences, warning the public. Thing is, the public just never really listens, you know. People get careless. And killers can wait until people are careless. You think you’re after a man and a woman. Maybe you’re wrong.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Griffin said. “We have witnesses—you know that.”
“Eyewitnesses are notoriously wrong,” Aldridge said. “We all know that. I am so sorry, really. I’ve been delighted to see you, and we can talk forever, but I can’t give you anything.”
Before Griffin or Jackson could speak, Vickie did.
“Actually,” Vickie said, “I believe you’re wrong. You’ve just given us a great deal.” She rose. And, Griffin thought, she did seem to know something—either that, or her bluff was absolutely excellent. “I believe I’ll have the guard let me out now. These gentlemen can finish with you without me.”
“What? Don’t leave! You’re the reason I’ve agreed to speak with these men,” Aldridge said. “You came because you had to. You wanted to see me. Here I am.”
“There you are. I expected something far more menacing, a monster, perhaps, in truth. You’re just a man. A truly sick man—asshole, if you will. You’re a little man in chains and behind bars. Excuse me, I am leaving.”
She walked to the door; the guard quickly followed her.
Griffin rose as well. “We’ll be back, Aldridge,” he said.
“I won’t see you,” Aldridge said, hate now seeming to rise from him; he almost spat out the words and the pulse at his throat was going full speed.
“Yes, you will. Vickie won’t be back, no. But we will be. And I suggest you think long and hard. Next time, you’ll tell us everything you know, or I will personally see to it there is no way in hell the death penalty gets taken off the table for you.”
“I’ll be helping on that one,” Jackson promised.
“You can’t, you can’t!” Aldridge roared as they headed out the door as well. “You can’t! You can’t... I’ve got rights. I’ve got rights! You’re dead, you’re all dead, you...”
They didn’t hear his final words. The door slammed on Aldridge.
The three of them didn’t speak as they went through the formalities of leaving the prison.
Griffin reached for Vickie’s arm to escort her; he worried she might have been shaken by the visit; that they might have put her through too much.
She was steady as concrete.
When they reached the car she turned to face both him and Jackson.
“He did give us something.”
“Yes, he is involved,” Griffin said.
“Through those phone calls,” Jackson agreed.
“More than that,” Vickie said. “I mean, he didn’t give us any flat answers, but he did give us a lot. His mother was all he had. But it had to have been a love-hate relationship. And whoever is doing this now, well, I believe Aldridge has used the same type of situation to create a killer. As in someone who grew up in South Boston, poor and feeling disenfranchised, someone who maybe had a father who left the home and a mother who drank. It’s a follower, yes. We need to find out who might have been in prison with him before and might have had the same lifestyle growing up. Or maybe not even a prison buddy. Maybe someone out there with whom he might have had a special relationship because they shared experiences. Someone who has been writing to him. Have you been able to get the letters he’s been sent in prison? Are his letters checked before they go out?”
“Yes, always,” Jackson told her. He looked back at the prison and leaned against the car.
“We can’t see what he’s sent out, but we can see what he’s been sent, right? Copies of them?” Vickie asked.
“Yes. And, of course, our officers have read and analyzed them all. Nothing was ever said about killing, about methods of killing or about specific people. He was right—many of the letters he received are from women who think that he needs to find God and the love of a good woman, or they’re letters of admiration about his looks and his skills. Those are pretty chilling,” Griffin told her.
She looked as cool and confident as any law enforcement agent out there.
“Have they been seen by a Bostonian? Especially, have they been seen by a researching Bostonian? One who really knows the city?”
“Vickie, I’m not sure we were right bringing you. I’m beginning to think maybe we should get you out of town,” Griffin said. “I’m not at all sure we should keep dragging you more deeply into this.”
“You admitted I’m a target. I believe even more so after today—he was making allusions to people from my past. Suggesting I know the killers, that maybe I see them on a day-to-day basis. I’m a target.” She smiled suddenly at Griffin—God, but he loved her face, her smile, her eyes, and the determination in them now.
“She’s right,” Jackson said. “We brought her in the minute we went to her parents’ home to ask her help with Chrissy Ballantine. And it’s a good thing—she might have already been a victim if we hadn’t gotten her police protection.”
“Not to mention,” Vickie added, grinning at Jackson, “I have started sleeping with a federal agent—that should make me nice and safe.”
Jackson grinned in turn. “Can’t hurt,” he told her.
Somewhat perplexed, Griffin looked at the two of them. They’d had some kind of exchange, obviously, to which he hadn’t been privy.
Whatever.
It had worked.
“There are still a number of hours before you have to meet up with the group from Grown Ups, right?” Jackson asked Vickie.
“I should be there by about 3:00 p.m., ready to Duck Tour with them,” she said.
“I thought we should pay a visit to Dr. Loeb. The bodies from the Pine house were brought to the morgue. They’ve brought in some anthropologists from the university, and I’d be interested in finding out what we can,” Jackson said. He looked at Vickie. “So, we’ve dragged you to a prison. Why not add in a morgue.”
“Sure,” Vickie said.
“Hey!” Griffin protested.
“It’s important,” Vickie said. “Like it or not, you should think of me as glue now—you’re stuck with me. We have to have answers. Especially after that lovely chat with Aldridge. My life is in danger. We have to stop these killers.”
* * *
Dr. Loeb met them out in the vestibule; Detective Barnes, he told them, had just left.
“Sad thing, sad thing. I just finished the autopsy on Darlene Dutton. Horrible, horrible! The girl had massive trauma to her skull, but it didn’t kill her. She drowned. She scratched her fingers to the bone trying to get out...well, unless someone had been there to see what was done, to get her out immediately...well, there was no hope. Even if the note that was tossed by the newspaper had been taken seriously...it was too late.” He sighed. “Miss Dutton, so it seemed, had no family. She took busses and hitchhiked her way up here.”
“We know someone who will tend to her,” Jackson assured him.
“I’m glad to hear that. Anyway, I’
ve had full reports sent to you,” Loeb told them. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“We wanted to know if you’d discovered anything else about the bodies found in the wall where Fiona West was found,” Griffin said.
“You think there’s a connection? I sincerely doubt whoever murdered those poor people is still alive. No justice to be found there,” Loeb said.
“We’ve had two scientists in from Harvard, as a matter of fact. Again, I’ve had the reports sent to you. We now believe they were all killed in a span of five years or so and...” He paused, glancing at Vickie.
“Go on, please,” she said.
“Well, here’s what’s sad and quite terrifying, really. Each was knocked out and stuffed into the wall...next to the last to die. Those poor souls saw what would happen to them before it did. They were left to die next to those already rotting. Truly terrible. They were smothered, we believe thus far, with different kinds of insulation—old newspapers, cotton and linen cloth—whatever was around. Anyway, it was enough to cut out an air supply; it would kill them—and silence them, should they not die quickly enough. I’m sorry that I can’t say death came easily for any of them.”
“If you learn anything else, Doctor,” Jackson began.
“I will call you immediately. We’re still waiting on some lab tests—on our newly dead, and, of course, the long-lost corpses.”
They thanked him and left. Jackson intended to head to the hospital and check in on Fiona West.
“Are you going with him?” Vickie asked Griffin.
“Oh, no. I’ll be with you. Just like glue,” he assured her.
* * *
Vickie had always been a fan of Duck Tours. They were fun, and she expected it would be especially fun with her group of teens.
They met at the Prudential Center where they boarded their vehicle, courtesy of a benefactor from Grown Ups.
It was even fun to see Griffin’s expression as he looked at their vehicle—and the kids all playing with their “quackers” or noisemakers. He looked at her a little bewildered and shook his head.
Dying Breath--A Heart-Stopping Novel of Paranormal Romantic Suspense Page 20