She stepped under the shower and closed her eyes, letting the scalding water wash over her shoulders and back. The drug eased into her system and her bunched muscles relaxed. The last few days were the longest she could remember and the lack of sleep was taking a toll on her physical and mental energy. Although the psychological stalking had been satisfying, it was time to draw the game to a close and blow this saccharine-sweet town. She could rest for a couple of hours and hopefully wake refreshed and without the headache. After tonight, Arcadia would be only so much fluff in her navel.
Junie soaped her slender body and was studying the small patch of pubic hair she’d left during her last waxing when she heard a faint chime. She froze. Water sluiced over her as she strained to listen. The sound was a quiet tone from a box in her bedroom that told her when a connection over a door or window was broken. Her mind raced and she tried to remember throwing the deadbolt, sliding the chain, and turning the lock on the doorknob when she came home, but couldn’t. She blinked back the cocoon of pain relief, slipped from the shower and ran a towel over her body, fighting a sharp stab in her head. Alert for sound, she moved into her bedroom, dressed carefully but quickly, and reached under a pillow for her compact Glock 9 mm. She pulled a spare clip from a drawer in the bedside table and shoved it in her back pocket.
A creak sounded and Junie recognized it as coming from the tired linoleum in the kitchen. She took three light steps across the room and eased into the hallway, her back pressed against the wall. The pain in her head ballooned and she stood perfectly still, waiting for it to reach its crescent. When the sharp stab started to subside, she started toward the stairs.
CHAPTER 127
EMMET SWORE UNDER HIS breath when the floor creaked. The pipes groaned as water ran through them, covering the sound of their movements. Emmet motioned for Joseph to take the door on the left side of the kitchen and indicated that he would take the door directly in front. They would clear the first floor and work their way up to and through the second floor.
Holding his breath, Joseph eased forward, testing the boards before he let his full weight come to rest on them. Emmet nodded approval and did the same. Joseph’s door swung open without a sound and he found himself in a laundry room. A basket of clean, folded clothes sat on the olive green dryer. A peeling door with a rusty knob was ajar at the far end of the narrow space and Joseph moved toward it. He steeled himself and peeked around the open door to see faint light shining through the filthy glass panels flanking the front door. Another creek sounded and Joseph’s heart raced. Emmet’s determination to end this today seemed profoundly more insane than heroic. An image of his mother and brother’s bodies flashed across his mind and Joseph swallowed hard against the fear rising hot in his throat.
He pressed his cheek to the door and held his gun in a two-handed grip like the cops did on television. The door swung open with a nudge. A staircase sat at the far side of the small foyer and he tiptoed over and leaned around the banister. The stairs were empty, dust motes almost motionless in a pale shaft of sunlight. He wiped a drop of sweat from his eye and took two steps toward a second door leading off the foyer when he sensed movement and felt a cold pressure against his skull.
Joseph froze. The pressure of the weapon eased as a figure leaped lightly over the handrail and landed behind him with barely a thump. The smell of soap followed.
Breath brushed the back of his neck. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Emmet.”
Joseph swallowed. “I came alone.”
The gun bumped the back of his head with enough force to smart. Joseph winced. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“In the house?”
Joseph hesitated and the weapon jammed the back of his head again. “Yes.”
“Hold the gun by the barrel and lift your hands.”
He did so and caught the pale flash of Junie’s silhouette as she snatched the weapon from him. “Now or later, I have no problem blowing your brains out, Moses.” She nudged him. “Forward.”
He complied, turning the knob with one hand while keeping the other at shoulder height. The door swung open with a small squeak of the hinges and Joseph stopped in his tracks.
Emmet swiveled and aimed his weapon at them. “Shit.”
“Place the gun on the floor and kick it to me.”
With a blazing glare, Emmet did.
“The door to your right. Open it, go inside, and sit on the couch. One bullet to Moses’ brain Emmet, and then I’ll kill you, so play nicely.”
Emmet grew still. “Who are you?”
“We have a lot to talk about, the three of us. Go inside and sit down.” Joseph hesitated, watching Emmet for some sign to act. The gun’s barrel stabbed his head and he stumbled forward, feeling blood trickle down his scalp.
CHAPTER 128
“I’M CHANGING THE TERMS of his parole,” Fran Starkowsky huffed. “First floor apartments only.”
Cass waited as Fran eyed the last three stairs to Rob Conroy’s landing. Her dark funeral clothes were devoid of sequins and suitably somber, if still capacious. Fran lifted the skirt of her caftan, revealing shapely ankles and black patent stilettos, and marched up the steps. Cass was glad she’d taken the time to change into her usual button-down shirt, Dockers, and boots at the station.
Fran positioned herself to one side of the door and reached into the depths of her garment, extracting an ID wallet and gun. Cass motioned the apartment complex’s manager farther along the balcony. At Fran’s nod, Cass pounded on the door. “Police, Conroy. Open up.”
Slathering barks sounded through the door.
Cass raised her voice. “Come on Rob, open up. We know you’re in there.”
Still nothing. Fran cooed and the barking changed to an excited whine. Cass reached for the doorknob. It twisted at her touch and she looked up at Fran, whose expression sobered. She nodded and Cass pushed inward, squatting and stepping inside, a surprisingly agile Fran at her back. The large black woman swooped the pit bull up in her arms and shushed the dog.
The apartment’s interior was in gloom and it took Cass’s eyes a moment to adjust. A hump on the sofa turned out to be a ratty blanket and a stack of cushions. Fran moved lightly to the opposite side of the room, the now placid dog cradled in one massive arm, and lifted a pile of clothes with the tip of a shoe and grimaced. The apartment manager’s head popped into view in the open door and Cass waved him back. “Where is he?” she whispered.
“I’ll check the kitchen,” Fran said. “You take the bedroom and bathroom. Don’t think I could stand it in there.”
Cass pushed open the only door off the living room to see a naked body sprawled facedown across a bed. A snore sounded and Cass sighed. She checked the closet and bathroom, grimacing at the filth. Holstering her gun, she pulled on a latex glove and lifted a corner of one dirty sheet to cover Conroy’s moon-white bottom. She nudged the bed with her knee. “Wake up.”
He grunted and flipped over, flailing his arms and legs and giving Cass an unfettered view of his partial erection. “Oh, Lord,” she groaned, tossing a pair of sweatpants over the offending appendage. “Conroy!”
One eye fluttered when the fabric landed on his midsection. He knuckled the sleep gumming his eyes and then reached for his ears, extracting a pair of wax darkened plugs. A happy confusion clouded his face. “Now this is the kind of dream I’m talking about.”
“Get up and put some clothes on. I’ll be in the living room with Frannie.”
He blinked. “A three-way? Is it Christmas?”
“Your pecker would explode, Conroy. Get dressed.” She retreated and ordered over her shoulder, “Take a shower first. You reek.”
CHAPTER 129
DARLA STONE GASPED. SHE was standing behind Scott Truman and Bernie Winterbottom, staring as an image filled the computer screen. “Who is that?”
“Calvin Whitehead,” the young officer answered. “In his younger days. Why?”
“He doesn’t,” Mitch answered. “Not according to the sheriff in Thayerville.”
She turned back to the computer screen. “Hugo Petchard’s girlfriend Junie is a dead ringer for this man.”
Munk pulled Mitch’s wheelchair to the corner where Truman sat, and they examined the shot of the young Calvin Whitman. “I’ve only seen her once or twice,” Munk said. “But she’s got the same dark hair and eyes, and her face is the same shape.”
“If Whitehead didn’t have a daughter, do you think she’s a relative?” Mitch asked.
“Mitch Stone, I swear to you that this girl is Whitehead’s daughter.” Darla tapped Truman on the shoulder. “She must be in her late thirties or early forties, right?”
The young officer shrugged. “Probably.”
“And Calvin Whitman didn’t come to Arcadia until 1980 or so?”
“’Seventy-nine,” Munk answered.
“Then this is his child from Alabama. Maybe she was born out of wedlock, but she’s his.” Darla studied the young Calvin Whitman again. “I’d bet a dinner of my fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, butter beans, and a Texas sheet cake on it.”
“With pecans in the icing?” Mitch asked.
Darla nodded.
“Bernie, what do you think? Could Junie be Calvin Whitman’s daughter?”
The English forensic anthropologist studied the photo of Calvin Whitman. “I don’t believe I know the young lady in question. I’d need an image of her to compare to Whitman.”
Darla opened her phone. Mitch groaned and she shrugged. “I was discreet, and I wanted to compare her to Angelina Jolie.”
Bernie asked Truman to load the photograph onto the computer. He did so, and displayed the images side by side.
“Amazing,” Mitch said.
“There’s a strong resemblance,” Bernie agreed. “They could easily be from the same family. Did Calvin Whitman have any brothers or sisters?”
“According to the sheriff in Thayerville, no. Neither did Whitman’s wife.”
“So she isn’t a niece.” Bernie asked Truman to enlarge Junie’s picture. “Her features are similar to Whitman’s. The jaw, for example, is wide and rather square. See how it drops almost straight down from her ear and then angles to the chin? Just as Whitman’s does. And her chin has a flat base that gives it a square appearance. The eyes and nose are very similar to his. I can’t tell about her brow given that her hair is brushed forward.” He paused. “Actually, that’s a bit strange.”
“What’s strange, Bernie?” Mitch asked.
He cocked his head to one side. “I hesitate to mention this because I can’t tell if there’s an Adam’s apple given that she’s wearing a scarf around her neck, but these are very masculine features.”
“What are you saying?” Darla asked.
“My observations are inconclusive, my dear,” Bernie said. “But there is a distinct possibility that she is actually a he.”
CHAPTER 130
ROB CONROY EMERGED FROM his bedroom washed but naked and flexed for the two women. Cass winced. Fran Starkowsky held up a talon-tipped hand. “No sir, Robbie boy. We are not having this conversation with your tiny todger winking at us. Cover that little worm up. And the rest of you.”
Conroy ‘woofed’ and waggled his hips, then pranced back to his bedroom.
“He’s cheerful,” Cass said, grimacing at the sound of her shoes on the sticky kitchen floor. “You think he’s tripping?”
Fran chewed her darkly painted lower lip. “If he’s not using already, it won’t be long.”
He emerged again, this time dressed in saggy sweats and a grimy University of Texas shirt. He squatted to kiss Rosie on the head and the dog licked his chin. “I need coffee.”
“Why aren’t you at work?” Fran asked.
“They shut down for the funerals.” He sauntered into the kitchen and lifted the coffee pot from its machine. Brown sludge filled the bottom third. Conroy made a cursory effort to rinse the pot, then filled it with water and poured the goo back into the coffee maker. He pulled the basket out, dumped new grinds on top of the existing soggy pile and pushed the ‘on’ button. A box of sugary cereal was on the counter. Conroy stuck a hand in and ate them dry. He ran a forearm under his nose. “So, no sex?”
Cass flashed him a warning glance.
“Can’t blame a man for trying. What do you want?”
“You’ve threatened an officer of the law, Rob,” Fran said. “Do you realize what kind of trouble you’re in?”
“Threatened who? With what?”
“Moses Franklin, you idiot.”
Conroy rolled his eyes. “What a whiner. I said hello to the man at The Golden Gate this morning and told him I was sorry for his loss.”
“We know about the letters,” Cass said.
“What letters?”
“We’ve got your prints on a letter sent to Sheriff Hoffner.”
Conroy wrinkled his nose. “I don’t write letters.”
“Your fingerprints say otherwise,” Cass said. “If your memory is that bad, we can continue this discussion down at the courthouse.”
Conroy sprinkled cereal on the floor for Rosie, then filled his mouth. The coffee pot gurgled and Conroy poured, unstuck the top from a sugar bowl, and dumped a cascade of the white granules in his cup. “I’m not going anywhere. The only stuff I mail is bills.”
“How did your fingerprints get on the envelope of a letter about Moses?” Cass asked.
He frowned. “They could’ve transferred from one of my bills or something.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Well, maybe I touched it somewhere.”
“Like where?”
He sipped, and then his eyes brightened. “What did it look like?”
“What?”
“The envelope. What color and size? Handwritten address or typed? Stamped or franked? Return address or not?”
“Standard white envelope. Address handwritten. Stamped. No return address. Mailed from Arcadia.”
“I swear.” He poured the rest of the coffee in a bowl for Rosie. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“What are you talking about?” Cass demanded.
“All I did was pick up a letter for a woman. She dropped it and being the gentleman that I am, I picked it up.”
“What woman?”
“That hot chick who works at the café.”
“Last time I was in The Golden Gate, only Stan and Sally were there,” Fran said. “Who are you talking about?”
“A waitress. She’s been there a few weeks,” Cass answered absently. She spoke to Conroy. “Junie dropped a letter and you picked it up?”
“I tried to give it back but she asked if I’d put it in the mailbox. So I did.”
“When was this?”
Rosie finished her coffee and jumped up on Conroy, nosing him in the groin. He rubbed her ears. “I dunno. Few days ago. Day before yesterday. Yeah, Thursday. Why? Is she threatening ol’ Moses? Maybe she’s a better shot than the last person who tried to kill him.”
“Watch yourself, Robbie,” Fran said.
“I’m not threatening Officer Franklin. But somebody’s out to get him.”
Cass interrupted. “You think she’s hot?”
“She reminds me of a skinhead down in Huntsville. Dark hair, strong face, tall drink of water, and sexy as they come. He was a tough one, too. A bit aloof, but I like them that need breaking in.” He ground his hips in a provocative move.
“Enough,” Cass said. Her mind was reeling. She lifted her chin at Fran. “Can I leave you with him?”
“Oh yes.” The massive woman reached into her caftan and extracted a lidded cup. She shook it at Conroy and smiled. “It’s time for Tiny Todger to perform, Robbie. Drop ’em and pee.”
CHAPTER 131
PETCHARD WAS ENGAGED IN a lively conversation with himself about the likelihood that
Junie had the hots for Moses Franklin when he rounded a curve on the little country road and slowed to a stop. A green Camry was backed into a dirt track. He frowned as he recognized the parking sticker in the windshield. The woman who drove it taught at the elementary school where Petchard spent his mornings pulling crossing duty. Did she live out here?
He twisted in the seat, getting his bearings. Petchard had chosen to come the back way to Junie’s because she didn’t know that he knew where she lived, and he wasn’t sure he wanted her to know. From what he remembered, there were only remote farmhouses out this way. He stretched to look past the Camry and saw nothing but pasture and a busy bull mounting a cow. Why would a teacher leave her car out here? Petchard closed his eyes and pictured her face, trying to remember her name. The kids seemed to know and love her. Once when her Camry was first in line as he stopped traffic, a parent had encouraged her daughter to wave and say good morning.
“Say ‘hello’ to Mrs. Who?” Petchard muttered. “Sounded like wetter. Better. Cheddar. Deader. Edder. Fedder. Gedder. Hedder.” His eyes opened. Maybe it wasn’t the woman who was out here. Emmet Hedder was still missing. If Junie had a thing for Moses, was it possible she could be into Emmet, too? Petchard gasped as the green-eyed monster exploded in his gut. He clenched the steering wheel and punched the gas pedal, sending his truck fishtailing as he spun out toward the main road and Junie’s house.
Avengers of Blood Page 43