“Not at all. Actually, Janice knows her a lot better than I do, but Mary did back my campaign.”
That would explain why Henry rushed over at her request, but it didn’t explain why Mary had wanted him here. “Strange that she’d make an urgent call to you instead of, say, a close friend,” Max observed.
Henry tugged on his already loose tie. “No stranger than calling me all day about Bernie Brusco. The weird thing is that she’d get mixed up with a man like him in the first place—or that he’d get mixed up with her.”
“Were you here Friday night when Bernie collapsed?”
Henry hesitated, immediately arousing Max’s suspicions.
“I was here. So were several dozen others.”
A fact that Max was all too aware of. He asked a few more questions, then thanked Henry and told him he’d get back to him later if he thought of anything else.
“Call me anytime, Max, but I’ve told you all I know. Keep me posted, though. Find Mary’s killer and I’ll prosecute him. Any man who’d kill a woman like that should definitely pay.”
Max stood at the kitchen window and watched Henry round the pool and go out the back gate. Lalane was known as a highly effective district attorney, as tough on crime as a person could be. Not the type you’d ordinarily think of as a serial murder suspect, but these were not ordinary murders.
And Henry had lost a daughter in a random shooting. Since then, both he and his wife had become outspoken advocates for getting guns off the street. Some people considered Henry a radical on the subject. So he had motive and opportunity—neither of which proved a damn thing.
Max rejoined his CSI team around the pool. Once they’d combed every inch of ground out there, they’d start on the house, but Max’s guess from his preliminary observations was that they would find no sign of forced entry. Whoever killed Mary was likely a friend.
If this was the work of the Avenger, the threat the killer posed had moved up to the next level. He’d crossed the line between targeting the guilty to killing the innocent. Perhaps he’d even crossed the thin line that separated sanity from madness.
Which meant the murders could accelerate at an alarming rate, and no one who crossed the Avenger or got in his way would be safe. Courage Bay would be on high alert.
“THAT HAD TO BE HORRIBLE for you,” Mikki said. “Just walking up and finding the body in the pool like that.”
“It’s not something I’ll forget anytime soon,” Callie admitted.
“I’m sure. Do you need company? I can be there in under a half hour.”
“Thanks for the offer, but actually, Max Zirinsky is on his way over.”
“Ooh. Better comfort than I can offer.”
“I don’t think comfort is part of his agenda. He wants to ask more questions.”
“Agendas can be modified.”
“You’re right. He could decide to arrest me.”
“Not a chance. Anyway, you take care, and remember, I’m available if you need me. All you have to do is call.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Callie hung up the phone and walked out to the back deck. “No walk tonight, Pickering,” she said, patting him on the back of the head. She could use the walk to settle her rattled nerves, but Max was due any minute.
She stared at the sunset. Beautiful as it was, it brought no feelings of peacefulness tonight.
Restless, she walked back inside, scanned the day’s mail, then reached for the Cravens’ invitation. She’d left it out to remind her to call in her regrets since she wanted to visit the Keller Center that day.
She wondered if the Avenger had received an invitation to the garden party. The Avenger could be anyone, anyone at all. A madman in their midst. Even as Callie dropped the invitation into her pocket, a plan was forming in her mind—one Max Zirinsky would likely not agree to without a fight.
IT HAD BEEN AFTER EIGHT when Max arrived at Callie’s, later than he’d intended, but he’d stayed at Mary Hancock’s with the CSI team until they’d completely finished. He liked to be thorough in his investigations, and evidence seemed to stick in his mind a lot better if he saw it for himself instead of merely reading a report.
He’d finished his second round of questioning Callie in twenty minutes, and now he was lingering, thinking that coming to her house had been a mistake. Sitting on the deck with the backdrop of the breaking surf stole his edge and made him susceptible to his own weaknesses—weaknesses that came into play whenever Callie was involved.
The breeze was gentle and warm and it tousled Callie’s hair as if it were strands of silk. She pushed an errant lock behind her right ear, then flicked away a flying insect that had landed on the arm of her deck chair. “Were you able to track down the person from the catering staff who was on her way to see Mary when I talked to her last?” she asked.
“Just by phone. She never made it to Mary’s.”
“What stopped her?”
“Nothing. She said Mary kept insisting, so the woman just told her she was coming over to get Mary off her back. Mary wanted the server to look at pictures and point out guests who might have wandered into the kitchen during the party.”
“She could still do that.”
“She could, but she claims people were in and out all night, and she didn’t pay enough attention to any of them to give reliable feedback.” Max moved his feet to accommodate Pickering, who’d decided to sleep by Max’s chair for a while. “I talked to the director of catering, and he said Mary had called them four times today, demanding to talk to various wait staff. I’ve asked him to assemble the full staff that was at Mary’s that night. I’ll question them as a group and then do some personal interrogation.”
Callie frowned. “Then the catering angle might be another dead end?”
“Could be, but it’s worth pursuing. I would have done so even if Mary hadn’t contacted them herself.”
“I should have pressed Mary for a name when she said she thought she knew who killed Bernie.”
“Don’t kick yourself around about that. It’s not likely she found conclusive proof of Bernie’s killer in one day when the police have been looking for the Avenger for months and come up with nothing. More likely, she jumped on a hunch and convinced herself she had the man.”
Callie stared at him questioningly. “Why would someone kill her unless he was afraid he was about to be exposed?”
“We checked her phone records for the day. She talked to more than twenty people, some of them several times, and I’m fairly sure most of the conversations concerned Bernie. She may have accidentally hit close to the truth and caused the killer to panic.”
“And based on that he came to her house, strangled her and threw her into her pool.”
“It’s the best scenario we have at this point. It’s all supposition.”
“Which would mean it was likely a guest and not hired help.” Callie stood and walked to the railing, staring out into the deep purple twilight. “Mary was vibrant, vivacious and with such a zest for life. Now she’s gone, possibly killed by someone she considered a friend.”
The pain in Callie’s voice crawled inside Max, hacking away at his carefully planned resolve. He walked over and stood beside her, aching to slip an arm around her shoulder, knowing that if he did, he’d release a surge of emotions he might not be able to handle.
“She called and asked me to come over, and I put her off,” Callie said. “If I hadn’t, she might still be alive.”
“It’s not you’re fault, Callie. None of this is your doing.”
“But what if I’d been there?”
She turned to him, her eyes moist with unshed tears.
Max stepped away, fighting the desire that ripped through him with savage force. Callie needed comfort, not the advances of the chief of police who’d come over to question her. Only this had nothing to do with his being a cop. It had to do with the fact he’d had a crazy, impossible thing for Callie Baker ever since the day he’d stood in her wedding party and wat
ched her marry another man.
He dropped his hands to the railing, wrapping his fingers around the smooth wood until his knuckles grew white from the pressure.
“There’s a garden party at Judge and Marjorie Craven’s house on Saturday afternoon,” Callie said, long after the silence had grown awkward. She reached into her pocket and pulled out an embossed invitation. “I think you should go.”
Max took a deep breath and tried to figure out how they’d moved from a sensually charged moment to a garden party. “I wasn’t invited,” he said, thankful for the easy out.
“My invitation is addressed to me and a guest.”
Now he was more confused than ever. Callie could find a lot more suitable escorts than him to accompany her to a fancy social affair. “I’ll buy you a beer any day of the week, but don’t ask me to make small talk with a bunch of women in big-brimmed hats.”
“This isn’t a date,” she said, as if she thought that was going to make him feel better. “At least not in the traditional sense.”
“So what is it? Payback for my sins?”
“Garden parties aren’t that bad.”
“Unless you’re talking about getting down and dirty and digging up some damp earth, they are. That’s the only kind of gardening activities I’d consider, and I don’t have time for those until the Avenger is off the streets.”
“That’s just it, Max. Mary said if her suspicions were right, the whole town would be shocked at the identity of the killer. I take that to mean the person is not your typical criminal, but someone with money or clout. And the Craven garden party is one of those annual events where everybody who’s anybody attends.”
“Then they won’t miss me.”
“But you could miss the Avenger. Chances are good the Avenger was at Mary’s party, so it’s reasonable to assume he could be at the Cravens’ get-together on Saturday afternoon. And even if he’s not, he’s likely a member of that social circle. You can mingle and chat with people who might know him personally and maybe pick up a lead. If not, what’s the worst that can happen?”
The worst? He could lose control and jump Callie’s bones in front of everyone who was anybody. “I’ll waste an afternoon snacking on cucumber and watercress sandwiches,” he said, opting for a more acceptable answer.
“I’ll buy you a burger when it’s over. It makes sense for you to go, Max. If the Avenger is there, you should be, too.”
He gave it some thought. In theory, it sounded great. In reality, it sucked. He’d stick out like a sore thumb, and he’d feel like a clown at a children’s party in the kind of clothes he’d have to wear. And there were other issues as well. “Judge Craven won’t like having the chief of police show up and remind everyone that someone was killed at the last big Courage Bay social gathering.”
“You won’t show up as the chief of police. You’ll be my date.”
“Same thing. No one’s going to believe you and I are an item, not even a one-day item.”
She put a hand on his arm. Instinctively he pulled away.
“They’d believe we were dating if you’d…” She hesitated, then changed tactics. “I won’t expect anything of you, Max, if that’s what frightens you. You don’t have to stand around and gaze into my eyes as if we’re lovers.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is the problem?”
The problem was he didn’t need to go on a pretend date with Callie. He didn’t need his head to come unscrewed when they were in the midst of a murder spree. But there was another problem as well, one that was more pressing.
“I’ve already told you that I don’t want you involved in this investigation in any way.”
“I won’t be involved,” she protested. “I’m just accepting an invitation to a party that I go to every year. One garden party, Max.”
He dreaded the thought, yet Callie made a good point. Mixing and mingling in the same social set where the Avenger likely moved with ease might give him some information he couldn’t get anywhere else. And the Avenger might well be in attendance.
“Okay, Callie. You’ve got yourself a date. So what do men wear to the Cravens’ garden party?”
“It’s dressy, but not formal. White linen suits are popular. Some men wear light colored sports coats. But you can wear whatever you want. They won’t throw you out.”
“I might embarrass you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Guess I better get out of here before I agree to a night at the opera,” Max said.
“I have tickets to one,” Callie teased as she walked with him to the front door.
The moment had grown lighter, but he knew the day had been hard on her. “You take care,” he said. “And if you need anything tonight, or if you just want to talk, give me a call.”
“Thanks.”
There was no goodbye kiss, not even on the cheek. He left too fast to risk it. Date or not, he was quite sure Callie wasn’t ready to deal with the beast she awakened every time she got close to him. Neither was he.
Already thoughts of Callie were crowding his mind when all his attention should be on catching the Avenger. The passion she aroused in him had been buried inside him for eight long years. All he had to do was keep it in check until this was over.
Right now, as he backed out of her driveway, leaving her alone, that felt like an insurmountable task.
THE SAND SHIFTED beneath his bare feet and the ocean breeze prickled his skin. He loved standing on the beach at night. Liked the feel that it was only he and the crashing waves alone in a world of raw beauty.
Tonight it was more reprieve he sought than solace. He hadn’t wanted to kill Mary Hancock, but she’d brought it on herself by getting mixed up with the likes of Bernie Brusco. Women were so gullible where men were concerned. Flash a little money around and flatter them and they bought whatever lies you fed them.
Men like Bernie were masters of fabrication. They destroyed lives to pad their bank accounts, then built walls of pseudorespectability around themselves. Greed. It was all about greed. Money made the world go round and made a mockery of Lady Justice. Common criminals went to jail. The crafty and the rich found a way around it.
It was time to shift the scales in favor of innocent, law abiding citizens. He was sorry about Mary, really sorry, but she was prying into things that were none of her business, and she could have stopped him before he finished his mission.
He felt a quick, stabbing pain at the base of his skull. The sand and the sky seemed to change places, as if he were tumbling from the top of a skyscraper.
Something moved in front of him. White and ghostly. For a second he could have sworn it was Mary Hancock. He closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, the figure and the pain were gone.
The attacks came more frequently now. That’s why he had to work fast. The mission was all important, and he couldn’t let anyone stop him before he’d achieved his goals.
Not Mary Hancock. Not Max Zirinsky.
No one.
CHAPTER SIX
“YOU DO KNOW there’s a speed limit in California?” Callie asked, eyeing the speedometer of Mikki’s sports car as they drove toward the Keller Center.
Mikki slowed a little, then switched to cruise control. “Not my fault. Happens every time I put on that hot Latin CD.”
“Do the cops buy that story when they stop you?”
“No. I usually have to flash a little cleavage,” she teased.
Callie knew Mikki was intentionally trying to keep the conversation light. Mikki knew how upset Callie had been since Mary’s death and especially since the funeral. But whether Callie talked about the murder or not, it was on her mind. So was her plan. She’d vacillated between coming clean with Mikki or keeping it a total secret, but she really needed a friendly confidante in this.
Callie turned so that she could watch Mikki’s expression when she hit her with the latest development. “Max Zirinsky and I are officially dating.”
“We’re officially dating, but before you start planning the wedding shower, be assured this is all a ruse. Unofficially he’s only after one thing, and it’s not my body.”
“So what’s he after?”
“The Avenger.” Callie explained the situation. “You’re the only one I’m telling this to, Mikki. And I’m only telling you so you won’t badger me for details of the romantic encounters we won’t be having.”
“You might fool yourself with that bunk, but I felt the sparks the other night. If you two spend time together, there will be romance. Not that I’ll say I told you so when it happens.”
“Oh, no, not you. But I seriously doubt you’ll get the chance.” Not when Max backed away anytime she even slightly invaded his space.
“When’s the first date?” Mikki asked.
“This afternoon. We’re going to Judge and Marjorie Craven’s garden party.”
“That explains why you wanted to change our usual afternoon visit to the center to morning. But the good news is I’ll get to see you two in action,” Mikki said. “I’m going to the garden party as well—also with a date.”
“Anyone I know?” Callie asked.
“Not even anyone I know. Abby Hawkins has been after me to meet her son. He’s in town for a few weeks. I finally agreed. He’s probably a dud and a candidate for an emergency Extreme Makeover.”
Callie’s stomach muscles tightened. She had no real reason to be suspicious of Jerry Hawkins, especially since it turned out that the accusations he’d made about Bernie Brusco were true, but the thought of Mikki going out with him definitely made her uneasy.
“He is a dud, isn’t he. I can read it in your face. You’ve met him, and he’s a real loser.”
“I’ve met him.”
“Should I fake a sudden illness? What’s he like?”
“Sandy blond hair. Hard-bodied. Your basic hunk.”
“So what’s wrong with him?”
“Did I say there was anything wrong with him?”
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