Before Another Dies

by Alton L. Gansky

  “I never claimed to be special—”

  “It’s time to shut up and listen, Maddy. You can walk out if you want, I won’t chase you. My battery is almost dead so I wouldn’t make it very far if I did. You lost a husband, I lost most of a body, Jerry lost a wife to someone she thought was better. The list goes on. Celeste almost lost a mother last year and even though she lived, both Celeste and her mom lost the sense of security we all need. I suppose some losses are more painful than others, but you’d be hard pressed to convince some people your pain is greater.”

  “I’ve never tried to do that.” I was getting angry.

  “Of course not. I’m not saying you have, and I doubt that was West’s intention. You do, however, keep some people at a distance, even those who love you.”

  “I do not.”

  Nat said nothing. The air between us soured, and my heart began to beat like I was on my treadmill. I was already worn to my last thread. I didn’t need pop psychology. The comebacks came to me, sharp phrases that would put an end to the conversation. I used none of them. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings—Who was I kidding? It wasn’t her feelings I feared hurting, it was mine. Maybe if I wasn’t so tired. Maybe if I wasn’t so wearied by work and concern over the crimes I had seen. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe.

  “Maddy,” Nat said, her voice just a decibel or two above a whisper, “you have a great career and a better-than-average chance of walking the halls of congress. You have friends and family who love you. And you have two men interested in you. One brings you brownies and the other offers pie. Frankly, if Quasimodo showed up at my doorstep with an invitation for pie, I’d go.” She gave me a look warm with love. “Have some pie, woman. Have some pie.”

  I watched as Nat drove off in her van, thankful to God that someone could speak to me in a way that I could hear. I hated every moment of that conversation, and it still tightened my stomach, but I loved and admired the woman who forced it down my throat. My final words to her that evening were, “I don’t know if God—and by the way there’s only one God—put me in your life or not, but I am certain he put you into mine.”

  I took a chance and pulled into the police station. It was almost nine and I assumed that West had gone home. I was wrong. He was at his desk, his head down, an open file before him.

  “Excuse me, Officer. I believe I was promised coffee and a slice of chocolate-cream pie.”

  He looked up, smiled, and the light in his eyes danced. “You sure?”

  “I am as long as we don’t spend the time apologizing to each other.”

  He stood and reached for his coat. “That’s more than fine with me. I found a little place south of the pier. It isn’t much to look at, but it has great coffee and better-than-average pie.”

  “Butch’s?”

  “Yeah, that’s the place. How’d you . . . Oh, that’s right, you’re mayor of this place.”

  “He made a nice contribution to my last campaign. We’ll have to tip heavy.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  chapter 33

  Ask me about the murders and your security,” West said. He sipped decaf coffee from a white mug that looked like it had been on duty for many years.

  “Why?” I had just finished the last bite of chocolate-cream pie and there was nothing else for my fork to do. I set it down. I took my own cup of decaf. It was close to ten, and Butch’s was still buzzing. A good dessert menu will do that. It was also one reason I avoid the place. I didn’t need more temptation to eat. Lately it seemed that my life revolved around my office and the next restaurant.

  “Because if asked, I want to say we discussed the case and your security.”

  “Okay, but I have a different question. You were making a case that Hood’s wife Katie could be the killer, but earlier you said the bruising on the victims’ jaw indicated a man had done the deed.”

  “That occurred to me also. She had rather large hands but not what I would have expected. Still, a set of bruises are not the same as a handprint. Different people bruise at different rates and in different ways. It’s a puzzle, but not enough for me to write her off yet.”

  “Even if she has the ability, what would her motive be? Boost ratings? That seems extreme.”

  “Motive is for the prosecutors to determine. My job is to link evidence to a suspect and make an arrest.”

  “And what evidence do you have? Anything new from today’s autopsy?”

  “I’m still waiting on the SI team but we don’t have much. You’re not going to believe this, but the marina has a video-security system. It wasn’t working and hasn’t been for weeks.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Not at all. People watch television detective shows and think that everything falls into place. My experience has been that it’s the other way around. It’s Murphy’s Law: if it can go wrong it does. Take security at city hall. A man is killed in the front lot and the guards who are supposed to patrol the buildings and grounds don’t find the body, you do.”

  “I’m still waiting on an answer about that.” I made a mental note that three days was more than enough time for the security company to come up with an excuse.

  “No need to bother. I called today. I’m impatient about these things.”

  A moment of regret upset my content stomach. I was supposed to follow up on that and had promised to do so on Monday. It was now late Wednesday night. “And?”

  “And, the guard who was working that night started vacation the next day. Jim Lynch, head of Atlas Security, was furious. Apparently the guard wanted to get on the road a little early and left his post sometime after one that morning. He had worked it out with the guard who was due to relieve him to help cover his early departure. There are two guards out of work now.”

  “Is the world filled with that many incompetents?”

  “Based on my experience, yes. Now let’s talk about your security. This connection you dug up between Hood’s topics and the murders has me a little on edge. For your safety, I think you should stay somewhere else tonight.”

  “The only connection to me is in the third hour of the program.” I called the description up from memory. “‘Mayor Judy Mor-rison discusses strange aircraft seen over her city.’ I’ll grant you that the word ‘mayor’ appears and it refers to a woman mayor, but it also refers to aircraft. More to the point, all the murders have been based on the topic found in the second hour, not the third. I doubt I’m a target.”

  “I’m not willing to bet your life on the difference between hour two and hour three. Stay someplace else—a friend’s, your parents’, a hotel.”

  I gave it some thought but then said, “No. I’ll be safe at home. I have a good security system. I should be fine.”

  “You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met.”

  “I hear that a lot.” I sipped my coffee. “It’s not that I’m stubborn; it’s that I don’t think evil should push us around. If we don’t rule it, it will rule us.”

  “That’s very noble and foolish, but I figured you’d say something like that. You have before, so I’ve made arrangements. I spoke to Chief Webb about your detective work—”

  “I bet that went over well.”

  “He mumbled something about an interfering woman intent on getting herself killed. Nonetheless, he’s ordered increased patrols of your neighborhood and those of every council member. I also asked Jim Lynch to arrange for a guard at your house. He was embarrassed enough to volunteer himself, but I convinced him that that wasn’t necessary.”

  “Don’t you think you should have spoken to me first?”

  “I considered it, but I knew you’d object, so I did it anyway. You can have the chief fire me in the morning.”

  I wanted to be angry. West was meddling in my life again, but as a charter member of the International Meddling Society I had little room to talk. “Lynch understood that I will be paying for that guard out of my own pocket and not the city coffers. I am to get no special tr
eatment.”

  “You are a hard woman to please, Maddy Glenn. Did you give your parents this kind of trouble when you were growing up?”

  “I was the perfect child. At least that’s how I remember it.”

  “I bet they tell a different story.”

  “I’m the apple of my father’s eye and the joy in my mother’s heart.”

  “And a royal pain in my—”

  “Watch it. I outrank you.” We exchanged a little laughter, and I looked at the handsome man across the table from me. He was gorgeous to behold, a pleasure to talk to, possessed an admirable intelligence and a noble dedication to his work.

  So why was I suddenly uncomfortable? Why did I feel out of place? Each time I saw West I had experienced a sense of joy and a soft feeling just behind my sternum. But this moment wasn’t right, and I didn’t know why.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes—of course—why?” Three statements in four words. I was overcompensating.

  “You seem . . . distant.” He leaned forward. “If you’re still bothered by things I said early today, don’t be. I said things more firmly than I meant to. Serial killings do that to me.”

  “You didn’t say anything wrong. I suppose I had it coming.” My uneasiness grew. Emotions detached from facts bothered me. If I was to be angry, then I wanted a reason for my anger. If I’m disquieted, then I wanted a reason for that. I had no reason for what I was feeling. I should experience joy and relief. I had finally let loose enough to go out with Judson West. So where was the schoolgirl euphoria? Had I been mourning the loss of my husband for so long that I could no longer have strong emotions for a man?

  I had just finished a piece of pie, but for some reason I wanted a brownie and hot chocolate. I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t need the sugar fix. I wanted the simple, relaxed emotion I felt with Jerry last night as we watched the surf roll in and the moon paint the ocean.

  This was a surprise, and I was too weary for surprises. That had to be it. I was just too worn out to process my emotions properly.

  “I’m beat,” I said. “Sleep hasn’t been my friend lately. I think I’d better call it a night.”

  West studied me for a moment, then reached for his wallet. Instinctively, I reached for my purse. “Oh no, you don’t. My male ego won’t allow it. Put that away.”

  “How do you know that I wasn’t just reaching for my keys?” We had chosen to meet at Butch’s. It didn’t make sense to drive there in one car, then drive back to city hall to retrieve my car so I could drive home. I’m nothing if not fixated upon efficiency.

  “I’m a detective, remember? That makes me a keen observer of all things human.” I put my purse aside and waited for the waiter to make change. A few minutes later I was in my car driving home and wondering at what point I had fully and completely lost my mind.

  chapter 34

  It was nearing ten thirty when I pulled onto my street and made my way toward home. My weariness was taking no excuses. I had put it off long enough. My blinks were getting longer, and I was glad that I only had a short distance to go. Sleep was what I needed and sleep was what I intended to get, if I could get my mind to cooperate. It was still mush, little more than Jell-O in the sun. My time with West had been disappointing, and I still didn’t know why. He had been the perfect gentleman, witty, humorous, and concerned. It should have been the perfect date, but it never felt right, ill-fitting. I began to think that I needed psychiatric help.

  I slowed as my house came into view. The front porch light shed yellow light across my tiny front lawn and spilled out on to the street. I decreased speed more than normal. West had said that an Atlas Security guard would be waiting for me. I didn’t want to startle him. The house was dark as I expected it to be at this hour and the front yard was empty. No guard. I pulled into the drive and waited, assuming that he must be around the back of the house. A guard isn’t much of a guard if he doesn’t check the parameter. Nothing. Finally, I pushed the button that sent a signal to my garage door opener and waited for it to finish its slow rise, then I pulled in.

  I switched off the engine, reached for my purse with one hand while pushing the same button that opened the door. It began its noisy descent, clanging and popping. There had to be a quieter contraption than what I had, and if there was, I would buy it in a heartbeat.

  Stepping from the SUV, I moved toward the door that opened into the house. The garage light was on a timer. It came on whenever the big door opened and then extinguished itself sixty seconds later. Since I didn’t want to be fumbling around in the garage looking for the light switch, I wasted no time entering the house. The Uniform Building Code requires that all doors leading from a garage into a house be fire rated and have a self-closing device. My house was no different.

  I stepped across the threshold and reached for the light switch that would turn on the foyer light. Instantly the gloom was replaced by warm illumination. There was a beeping. There was always an electronic beeping when I entered. It was my security system reminding me that if I didn’t enter a code in the next few seconds, calls would be made, police would arrive, and I might be facing a stiff fine for a false report. I obeyed my electronic master, approaching the living room control box and pushing buttons on the keypad to let the system know I belonged there. Red and green lights gave me information. Once the code was entered the beeping stopped and a green light shone next to the word Disarmed.

  While driving home I had considered a short walk on the beach. I frequently took leisurely strolls along the sand bathed in the ivory moonlight. But West’s concern had turned up my own, and I thought it unwise. Instead, I’d have a glass of milk and call it a night. Before I did, I had one more bedtime routine to perform. I punched in my code and a button with the word Stay printed on it. Once done the perimeter with its doors and windows would be armed but the internal motion detectors would be deactivated. A good thing, too. Having the alarm go off every time I get up to use the bathroom would wear thin real quick.

  I waited for the green light by the word Stay to come on. It didn’t. I reentered the code and pressed the right button. A red light stared back at me.

  “Now what?” I said to myself. I looked closer at the control panel. A red light was shining next to a label reading Doors. It meant a door was open. But how could that be? The alarm was fine when I entered the house and the only door I had touched was the one from the garage. It must not have closed completely. That was the problem with self-closers. Sometimes they didn’t do what they had been designed to do. I had a more detailed control panel in my bedroom. From there I could determine which doors and windows were open, but that was upstairs. I decided to check the door I had just used first. It couldn’t be anything else.

  My cell phone rang and I jumped. I opened my purse and found the annoying device. I looked at the caller ID. It was Jerry.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “It’s me. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”

  “I’m fine. I just got in and was locking up.”

  I turned and stepped toward the door. Sure enough, it hadn’t closed all the way and there would be no setting the alarm until it was completely shut. I raised my free hand and pressed it against the unclosed door. What was the children’s joke? When is a door not a door? When it is ajar—

  The door swung open with a bang, hitting me on the wrist, and crashing into the wall. I cried out in pain and instinctively backpedaled. My cell phone fell on the carpeted floor. I screamed in pain.

  “Maddy? Maddy!” Jerry’s voice sounded tiny and miles away as it percolated out of the cell phone’s speaker.

  Someone charged through the door, erupting from the black sepulcher of the garage and into the thin light from the lobby chandelier. I was doubled over, holding my throbbing wrist, which sent lightning bolts of pain up my arm and through my body. I felt sick to my stomach but that lasted less than a moment. The frigid water of fear filled my belly the next second. Before me stood a figure dressed all i
n black. A black ski mask covered his head and face. Equally black leather gloves were clinched into knotted fists.

  “Who—”

  The right hand opened and struck me on the right cheek. My head snapped to the left, then sensations ran amok. Pain filled the side of my head, my neck popped at the sudden movement, I tasted blood, and my brain seemed to rattle in my skull. All this before I hit the floor.

  For a moment, I forgot my wrist.

  “Maddy! Maddy! Talk to me.” Lying on the floor I could hear Jerry’s voice better but it didn’t matter. The phone was four or five feet from me and if my rational mind hadn’t just been slapped out of me, I might have reached for it. My uninvited guest had other ideas. A giant step later he had the phone in hand. Coolly, he pressed a button, closed the flip lid, and then threw it at the opposite wall, where it gouged the drywall and clattered to the floor, now more paperweight than phone.

  He watched it fall. I let him. I rolled on my stomach and pushed myself up, sprinting for the stairs, hoping to put some distance between us. I felt something move in my wrist; something I’ve never felt move before. It conjured up a fiery gorge of nausea. I pushed it down. There would be time to vomit later, if I lived. And if I didn’t . . . well, then it really didn’t matter.

  Driven by fear as deep as any I had ever felt, I made for the stairs. I took the first two in one stride, the third in one, then watched as the steps rose to meet me. My left leg wasn’t working. I commanded it to move but it was weighted. I turned. My attacker had seized my foot. I pulled. I yanked. I kicked. I stayed put. Then came the tug and it was hard. I felt the stairs dig into my ribs despite the carpet and padding. I clutched for the handrail and missed, but managed to seize one of the turned balustrades.

  He yanked my leg but I held on. The force was enough to make me certain that my knee would separate or my hip would slip out of joint. He stopped, and I turned in time to see he had chosen a different approach. He was starting up the stairs. I had only made a few risers so the trip was short.