The waitress returned with Mikki’s soup. Mikki took a few bites, then toyed with the spoon, making circles in the thick chowder.
“What’s wrong with the soup?” Callie asked.
“Nothing. I’m just not very hungry.”
“Could you say that again? I know I heard it wrong.”
“Soup’s fine. I just don’t have my usual appetite for some reason.” Then, apparently forgetting Callie’s reservations about her blind date, Mikki started talking about Jerry again.
The waitress arrived with the rest of their order. In spite of Callie’s uneasiness over Jerry Hawkins, she dove into her salad. The morning’s exercise had left her famished. Mikki forked a bite of salad into her mouth, then stared into space.
Silent and experiencing a loss of appetite? Mikki had it bad, Callie realized. Max had said there was no reason to consider Jerry a suspect, and Mikki obviously agreed. But paranoid or not, Callie couldn’t shake her doubts. There were too many things about Jerry Hawkins that didn’t add up.
She might be able to check out one of them herself. Her med school friend Lindsey Evans was chief of staff at one of the major hospitals in Sacramento. She could find out if Jerry Hawkins had been treated in her hospital for an injury. If so, Callie would be satisfied he had a valid reason for being in town and would feel a lot better about his dating Mikki.
She took one last bite of salad, then pushed her plate away. Her appetite had vanished, too. Besides, she was eager to make the phone call to Lindsey. Sunday afternoon should be a good time to catch her at home, where she’d have time to talk.
“…my luck.”
Callie looked up. She’d been so lost in her own thoughts, she’d missed the first part of Mikki’s statement. “I’m sorry. I missed that.”
“I was just lamenting my luck,” Mikki said. “Finally I meet a man I can go for who’s not gay, married or carting a ton of baggage, and he has to live in Sacramento.” She sighed. “Still, it could be worse.”
It could be a lot worse, Callie thought. He could be the Avenger.
CALLIE DROVE to the hospital to retrieve Lindsey’s number from her office Rolodex. Fortunately, Lindsey was home, relaxing with her husband, Drake, and their toddler daughter.
“Jerry Hawkins.” Lindsey repeated the name Callie had given her. “Would that be Gerald Parker Hawkins of Hawkins and Reilly Design and Construction?”
“As a matter of fact, it would. You sound as if you know him.”
“Drake’s done some business with him and I got to know him last year. So, how do you know Jerry?”
“He’s in Courage Bay for a few weeks visiting his mother and recovering from an injury.”
“What kind of injury?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could check out for me.”
“I don’t understand. Is he a patient of yours?”
“No.” This was turning out to be more complicated than she’d expected. “He’s dating a friend of mine, and I just have a feeling he’s lying about the injury, mainly because his activity level doesn’t seem affected in any way.”
“So you think he might be lying to her about other things, like having a wife in Sacramento.”
“Something like that.” Not being completely honest with Lindsey bothered Callie immensely, but she couldn’t let Mikki continue to date Jerry if he posed a threat to her.
“I don’t know anything about Jerry being injured, but his partner fell from some scaffolding last fall. The accident left him brain dead and comatose. He hung on for weeks before he died, and Jerry was at his bedside almost constantly. That’s when I got to know him. He’s quite a guy, and he’s not married.”
And here Callie had been imagining him capable of cold-blooded murder.
“He felt really guilty about the accident,” Lindsey said. “He took it hard when his partner died. Maybe that’s what he’s getting over.”
“Why would he feel guilty?”
“He was on the scaffolding with his partner when he fell, and Jerry blames himself for not saving him. He came so close to reaching him that from the ground, it looked as if Jerry had pushed him, at least that’s what a passerby reported. His partner fell four floors onto the concrete. It was amazing he lived at all.”
From the ground, it looked as if he’d pushed him.
Those were the only words that registered in Callie’s mind, and they echoed like an avalanche thundering through a mountain pass. If Jerry was their Avenger, his killing spree might have started with his partner, then spread to Courage Bay.
Realistically she knew Jerry could be as innocent as she was. Yet that didn’t stop her mind from coming up with all kinds of macabre possibilities.
She had to talk to Max. After a hurried goodbye to Lindsey, Callie punched in Max’s number. The second he answered, she gave him a blow-by-blow of what she’d just learned.
“Slow down, Callie. You’re not making any sense.”
“Then meet me at the Courage Bay Bar and Grill. I can explain better in person.”
“When?”
“An hour from now.” That would give her time to see a few patients while she was here at the hospital.
“I’ll be there.”
Callie leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk. She had to get a grip, stop obsessing over these murders and get back to her own life. Medicine instead of murder. Patients instead of suspects. Calm control instead of suspicions and fear.
But there was one suspicion she couldn’t overcome. Paranoid or not, she had to convince Mikki not to see Jerry Hawkins again until they knew for certain that he was not the Avenger.
MARJORIE CRAVEN strolled through her garden on Sunday afternoon, silently lamenting that her annual party had not seemed nearly as pleasurable as in recent years. She just couldn’t get Mary’s death out of her mind and she was certain many of the other guests couldn’t, either.
Max Zirinsky’s presence hadn’t done anything to boost people’s spirits, either. Several guests were convinced that Max was there because he suspected one of them of being the Avenger. Marjorie had to agree, especially since Max wasn’t the type of man she’d expect a refined, sophisticated woman like Callie to date. But he was very masculine—too rugged for Marjorie’s tastes, but sexy all the same. And she’d thought him a very effective chief of police until the city had been plagued with so many unsolved murders.
Marjorie stooped and picked up a paper napkin trapped in the foliage of one of her prize rosebushes. She dropped it into the small bag she was carrying for just that purpose.
The cleanup crew had done an excellent job, but there were always a few things they missed. Scraps of paper stuck in the bushes, the odd crumpled napkin and used tissue blown into the flower beds.
Last year she’d found Henry Lalane’s American Express card in a potted fern. She’d never understood that one. And then two years ago she’d discovered a phone number scribbled on a napkin. A tryst in the making, she’d gleefully imagined, and she’d looked up all her friends’ numbers to see if there was a match.
Lawrence had made fun of her and teased her of being jealous that one of her friends might be engaged in a little extracurricular activity. But that would never happen, Marjorie thought. Lawrence was all the man she needed.
A bluebird sang to her as she neared the cliff that bordered the back of the garden. She stopped close to the edge and looked out over the bay. The view was magnificent. It was the main reason she and Lawrence had bought this house the day it came on the market, even though there was no beach access.
Marjorie stopped to watch a squirrel scurrying up a skinny birch that grew precariously among the rocks, then forgot the animal as she ran to grab a small square of paper before it sailed over the cliff. She did so hate litter.
Curious as always, Marjorie looked to see what was written on the note. It was a list of typed names. She noticed Bernie Brusco’s and Mary Hancock’s at once, then realized she was looking at a list of all the people allegedly killed b
y the Avenger. Someone was obviously keeping score, though they’d added more names than even the media were attributing to the guy.
Only one name wasn’t typed. It was scribbled in red just below Mary’s name. Number eight.
Marjorie’s hands tightened on the piece of paper, the same way her chest was tightening. This was a list of victims. But the last name on the list was still alive. Clutching the slip of paper, she rushed back to the house, wishing Lawrence was home and not playing golf with his buddies.
Not that his being home would have changed anything. This was a matter for the police.
MAX WAS CLEARING off his desk, preparing to go meet Callie, when one of the younger police officers stuck his head in the door of his office.
“I know you’re not officially in, but I have Judge Craven’s wife on the phone. She asked for you, says she has some important information on the Avenger murder case. You want me to take her statement or do you want to take her call?”
“I’ll take it.”
“Line three.”
He picked up the phone. “Max Zirinsky.”
“I’m so glad you’re in. I found this note and…It’s a list, Max.”
There was no missing the frenzied panic in her voice. “What kind of list?”
“Names.”
She read them off, her voice becoming shriller with each one. Except for the first on the list, the names were those of the Avenger’s victims.
“Where did you find this list?”
“At the far end of the garden. I caught it just before it blew over the edge of the cliff.”
So it could have fallen from the pocket of any of her two hundred plus guests yesterday, Max realized. And it didn’t mean a thing. The Avenger was the talk of the town these days. Too many people thought he was some kind of hero. And lots more were speculating about the who, how and when of the next victim.
“I appreciate the call,” he said, “but I don’t think you have a thing to worry about. Anyone could have made that list. It doesn’t mean the Avenger was at your garden party.”
“There’s one more name, Chief Zirinsky. At the end of the list. It’s not typed like the rest of them. In fact, it’s printed in large almost childish letters. I think…I think it could be the name of the next victim.”
That piqued Max’s interest. “Whose name is it?”
“Dr. Callie Baker.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAX WAS FIFTEEN MINUTES late arriving at the Courage Bay Bar and Grill. He’d stopped off at the Cravens’ on the way over and picked up the note.
It was safely stored in plastic now, but he was doubtful he’d be able to retrieve any prints off it other than Marjorie Craven’s. If she hadn’t messed up his chances when she’d handled it, the friction of blowing across the grass and plants for almost twenty-four hours probably had.
He spotted Callie the minute he stepped through the door. She was sitting at a table with two nurses. A million emotions seemed to hit him at once. He tamped them down as best he could. He had to play this cool.
Lots of luck. When had he ever played anything cool where Callie was concerned?
She introduced him to the two nurses, then followed him to the farthest table from the noisy bar area. There weren’t a lot of heavy drinkers this time of day, but cops, firefighters and hospital workers stopped in for a beer or a cup of coffee when their shifts were over, and most hung around awhile to shoot the breeze.
“Sorry I’m late,” Max said, sliding into the chair at a right angle to Callie’s.
“No problem. It gave me time to catch up on a little hospital gossip. Nothing too spicy. I think the nurses keep that among themselves. We doctors only get the routine stuff, like who’s getting married and who’s trying to get pregnant.”
“You sounded upset when you called,” he said. “I’m guessing it didn’t have anything to do with hospital gossip.”
“No. It’s about Jerry—” She stopped talking when a young waiter Max hadn’t seen before stopped at their table.
“What can I get you two?”
Callie ordered a cappuccino. Max went for plain coffee. Neither ordered food, though Max hadn’t eaten since breakfast—a couple of slices of cold pizza he’d found on the bottom shelf of his refrigerator.
No use to order food now. Ever since Mrs. Craven had told him Callie’s name was on the note, his stomach had felt as if it was being stomped by someone wearing army boots.
“Were you referring to Jerry Hawkins?” Max asked, when the waiter stepped away from the table.
Callie nodded. “I had lunch with Mikki today. He was all she could talk about.”
“I take it they hit it off yesterday.”
“Apparently.”
“You don’t sound too happy about that,” he said, reading the concern in her voice and facial expression.
“I know you said Jerry checked out, Max, but I have this feeling about him that I can’t shake, and it doesn’t seem unfounded to me. The first time he attended a Courage Bay social gathering with his mother, there was a murder attempt on a man that he admitted he’d like to see dead. And I’m not the only one he said that to. He told Mikki that the guy who killed Bernie should get a medal.”
“Lots of people in Courage Bay probably think that way now that they know how Bernie made his millions.”
“Maybe,” Callie agreed, “but I’ve learned more about Jerry, and it’s possibly even more condemning.”
Max listened to the story of Jerry’s partner falling from the scaffolding. The timing hit him as much as anything. Jerry’s partner had died last fall, and the first of the murders attributed to the Avenger had occurred in November.
At least that was what he’d believed until Marjorie Craven had given him the list of victims. The first name on the list was Dr. George Yube. Max would have to go back and give that case another look.
If Jerry had killed his partner in rage over some real or perceived injustice, it might have triggered the string of Avenger-type killings.
The waiter returned with two steaming mugs of coffee.
“Did you mention any of this to Mikki?” Max asked while Callie stirred a package of sweetener into her brew.
“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you about it first.”
“Good. I’ll follow up, but you have to leave this to me, Callie. You’ve done enough.” Too much, if the victim list in his pocket had been written by the Avenger.
“I can’t ignore the situation, Max. If Jerry is a deranged killer, then dating him could put Mikki in danger.”
“I’ll handle it. If on the very outside chance he does turn out to be the Avenger, Mikki is in a lot less danger if she doesn’t suspect a thing. Trust me on this, Callie.”
She exhaled slowly, her body language indicating her consent would be a major concession. “I’ll try—for a day or two. That’s all I can promise.”
He took a sip of his coffee and tried to get his thoughts together. She was worried about Mikki, but it was Callie Max was worried about.
“I stopped by Judge Craven’s house on the way over here,” Max said.
She peered at him over the rim of her cup. “Police business?”
“Yeah. Marjorie Craven called to tell me she’d found a note blowing about her garden this afternoon.”
Callie leaned in closer, obviously picking up on the change in his tone. “What kind of note?”
“A list of the Avenger’s victims.”
“Who needs a list? The names are mentioned on every local newscast and in at least one newspaper article a day.”
Max reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out the clear plastic bag, careful to touch only the edges. “This list is a little different. It’s got a couple of extra names on it.”
“Whose names?”
“Dr. George Yube for one.”
“Why would the list include him? Wasn’t he killed by Felix Moody?”
“The evidence was fairly conclusive that Moody was the trigger man, but we never
heard Moody’s side of the story since he was killed before we had a chance to take him to trial. And sometimes even what appears to be solid evidence can be misleading.”
“Why do I have the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”
Her gaze locked with his, and the vulnerability in her soft brown eyes made his heart plunge to his worn loafers. “There’s a possibility the note was written by the Avenger.”
“Why would you think that?” she asked. “Anyone could have written down the names of the victims and unknowingly included Dr. Yube. After all, he fits the profile of the Avenger’s victims. He walked away from a murder trial on a technicality.”
“I have to consider all possibilities.”
“You don’t seem inclined to consider Jerry Hawkins a suspect.”
“I never said that. I just don’t want you doing the investigating.”
“So who else’s name is on the list Marjorie found?” she asked again.
He held the bag so that she could see the list through the clear plastic, then watched as shock drew deep furrows in her brow and left her beautiful mouth hanging open.
But only for a second. As she took a deep breath, the look of shock was replaced with one of fury. “What kind of sick joke is this? I’m not a criminal. I don’t even cheat on my taxes.”
“It may not be a joke. You took me to the Cravens’ garden party. If the Avenger was there, he may have seen my presence as a threat. That’s why I have to consider it possible this list was written by the Avenger and he added your name to it.”
“If he did, he might not have done it just because I took you to the party,” she said. “He could think Mary told me something before he killed her.”
“That’s possible.” Callie was shrewd, which was why Max had to level with her. She’d never settle for less than the truth. “Anyone could have written that note and scribbled your name on it, but since there’s a chance it was the Avenger, we have to react to it that way.”
“Which means act as if he has me targeted as his next victim.” She toyed with her spoon, letting a drop of coffee drip from it onto her paper napkin. “I thought I had an intruder last night, Max. Not inside my house, but outside. It could have been the Avenger, casing the joint so to speak, deciding if I’d be an easy target.”
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