by Mary Burton
‘Not exactly.’
Richard flexed his fingers. ‘So you’ve found something?’
‘Claire Carmichael.’
His patience wore thin. ‘I don’t know her.’
‘She owns the New Age bookstore about five blocks from the restaurant where Jimmy lost Christina.’
‘Why do I care about her?’
‘She’s part of this network of people who help abused women disappear. She speaks regularly at community centers in your area.’
Months of pent-up rage burned in Richard. ‘Abused women. Christina wasn’t abused. I gave her everything. I love her.’
Vincent nodded his head in deference. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest she was.’
Richard drew in a deep breath. ‘So you think this Carmichael woman helped Christina?’
‘Yes. Your wife’s driver remembered taking her to a Bay Area church several weeks in a row. I checked. It was a support group run by Claire Carmichael. I want to talk to her.’
Richard shook his head. ‘The bitch interfered with my marriage. Give me her address.’
Vincent looked doubtful. ‘Wouldn’t you rather I take care of it? Better to let me do the dirty work.’
‘I like the dirty work.’
*
Richard downshifted the gears of his BMW and pulled into a parking spot in front of the New Age bookstore located near San Francisco Bay. The store was housed in an old row house that had survived the big earthquake a hundred years ago. Tall with a sharp roof, square bay windows, and lots of gingerbread trim, the building was considered a treasure, but by his way of thinking it was an old pile of junk.
He’d never have given the place a second glance if not for Claire Carmichael.
He shut off the car engine and got out. Inside the store, he spotted Claire. She was about thirty, olive skin, not tall. She wore a frumpy, flowing dress that hid her curves, and she had pulled back curly hair into a high ponytail that highlighted sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. Not his type, but loosen the hair and ditch the dress and she might be worth a spin.
Richard grew hard.
He imagined her eyes lighting with desire as he shoved inside her. And then he pictured the passion shifting to fear as he wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed the life out of her. She’d fight to breathe. She’d kick, try to scream. But in the end, the life would fade from her body.
It was almost closing time and it didn’t take long before the store emptied of customers.
Richard had all night to chat with Little Miss New Age about Christina.
When she disappeared behind a curtain into the back room of the store, he went inside, careful to keep the bells on the door from jingling. Softly he shut the door, locked it, and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
Richard moved behind the counter and unplugged the phone.
‘Hello, is someone out there?’ Claire called.
He reached into his pocket and let his fingers slide over the cold steel of his knife.
Claire heard the creak of footsteps in the store. The hair on the back of her neck rose. She’d had trouble with shoplifters in the last few months and didn’t like to leave the store unattended.
She took off her glasses and laid them on the ledger on her desk. She stood and crossed to the curtain separating the back room from the retail portion of the store. She pushed through the curtain. ‘Can I help you?’
The man standing by the display of healing crystals wasn’t what she’d expected. He was hardly a teen thug looking to grab up what he could. And he wasn’t remotely like her regular patrons.
He was smartly dressed in a stylish suit that looked handmade. His white open-neck shirt was made of crisp linen. His nails were buffed and his short black hair was brushed off his face. Strong jaw. Tanned skin. Nice to look at.
The man raised his head and met her gaze. His eyes were so dark that the pupils all but disappeared. She’d never glimpsed the face of Evil but now she sensed she was looking right at it.
The man tossed her a quick smile. ‘I hope you can help me.’
A lump formed in the pit of her stomach. ‘What do you want?’ Her tone had grown hard, losing all hint of welcome.
He set down the expensive crystal he’d been cradling. ‘My wife. Christina Braxton.’
Claire remembered the woman vividly. The bruises on her arms and neck testified to the trauma she’d suffered at the hands of her husband. Claire had sensed the fear and the goodness in Christina. It had been an easy choice to give her cash and the keys to the secondhand car. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Richard nodded almost as if he were pleased by her answer. He pulled the switchblade from his pocket and he flicked the blade open. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t talk too quickly.’
Panic exploded inside Claire. She snatched up the phone and discovered the line was dead. She bolted to the back of the shop to the back alley exit.
Richard moved quicker than a cat. He reached her just as she made it to the door. He grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back. He drew the knife blade along her cheek, slicing flesh as he went. Pain burned her face as warm blood oozed down her cheek.
‘Where is my wife?’ he whispered against her ear.
‘I don’t know.’
Claire wasn’t going to tell him where Christina was hiding. And she knew the cost of her silence was going to be her life.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday, July 8, 3:20 P.M.
Kendall was very pleased with herself. She and Mike had shot her evening report and it had gone better than good. Lindsay’s past made great television. This newscast was going to get Kendall noticed.
Her phone rang. Without taking her eyes off the road, she pulled the phone from her purse and flipped it open. ‘Kendall Shaw.’
‘You’re a hard woman to find.’ The deep male voice sounded smooth, confident, but she didn’t recognize it.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Detective Jacob Warwick, Henrico County Police. Your phone has been busy all morning.’
Damn. She thought about the film footage of the delivery truck at the shelter. That was the kind of information she should have shared with the cops first thing this morning. An obstruction of justice charge would not help her career.
Kendall kept her voice smooth. ‘Sorry. Running down leads on a story. What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to chat with you about the shelter murder and review your tape from yesterday.’
She kept her voice cheerful. ‘Sure. What time works for you?’
‘Now would be nice.’
The steel behind the words left little room for argument. And she wasn’t about to piss anyone off at this point. ‘I can swing by the station and get a copy of the footage.’ No need to mention she had one at home. ‘It will take me at least a half hour to get the tape and meet you at my office.’
‘I’ll meet you at the at station office.’
Her mind turned. Maybe she could even score a quote or two from Warwick. ‘See you in a half hour.’
Kendall arrived at the television station fifteen minutes late. When she rushed into the lobby, she spotted the detective immediately. He was staring into one of the station’s trophy cases, his hands clasped behind his back. He had a relaxed way that she suspected was deceptive. ‘Detective Warwick?’
His smile didn’t reach his piercing eyes. ‘Kendall Shaw.’
Kendall crossed the lobby and accepted Warwick’s hand. His grip was powerful. ‘Good to meet you.’
‘I appreciate the help.’
‘If you will follow me, I’ll take you upstairs. I can burn a copy of that footage onto a CD for you.’ The west wing of the Deco-style building was littered with ladders and plastic tarps. ‘Excuse our mess. We’re undergoing a huge renovation.’
‘No problem.’
They wound down the narrow corridors. ‘Would you like a tour of our newsroom?’
‘No thanks.’ He flashed even, white t
eeth. ‘Maybe another time.’
‘Sure.’ Under his easygoing demeanor was steel. ‘When the renovation is done, all this is going to be gone. From what I hear, it will all be very sleek.’
‘Really?’
So much for small talk. She led him to a news edit bay, a small glassed-in room off the hallway furnished with a computer station. She sat down on the swivel chair in front of the computer. ‘The station’s new P2 cameras are equipped with hard drives, so there’s rarely a tape anymore. With luck we still have the footage. Generally, when we’ve filed the story, we dump the raw stuff to clear space on the computer.’
Warwick frowned. ‘Let’s hope it’s still here. The other stations didn’t have anything.’
Kendall punched a few buttons and opened a file. ‘You’re in luck. The footage is here.’ She burned a CD and handed it to him.
‘Thanks.’
She rose and had to look up to meet his gaze. ‘No problem.’
When he nodded and started to turn, she said, ‘I hear Lindsay had a rough past. Think there is any connection between this murder and her mother’s death?’
The comment surprised Warwick. ‘You’ve been doing some homework.’
‘That’s my job. Do you think the two killings are linked?’
His expression was unreadable. ‘We don’t discuss the details of an active case.’
‘Just seems odd. Her mother is the casualty of a domestic murder and this latest body is dumped behind a women’s shelter.’
‘Can’t help you.’
She’d have better luck getting blood from a stone than information from Warwick. ‘Thanks.’
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday, July 8, 4:25 P.M.
Lindsay stood behind Zack as she watched the uniformed officer crate up her office files. Impotent rage roiled inside her. She’d worked for a year to make this shelter into something worthwhile, and in twenty-four hours it had fallen apart.
‘Do the cops have to mess everything up?’ Lindsay asked, unable to remain silent.
Zack turned. ‘Lindsay, wait in the kitchen. When Warwick returns, we’ll all talk.’
Frustration ate at her. A few hours ago, they’d shared a meal. She’d laughed with his sister. Now, he was all cop again. ‘Can I have my purse? I’d rather go back to Mental Health Services. At least there I can be productive.’
‘I’ll bring it out to you,’ Zack said.
The wall was back between them. ‘Great.’
She went into the kitchen. This time of day the kitchen should have been teeming with activity. Kids would be running around, residents would be talking, and the phones would be ringing off the hook. Now it was dead silence.
Needing something to do, she went on the back deck to the potting table. There were four six-packs of marigolds, a pot, and soil. All the supplies were still damp from yesterday’s rain. Careful to keep her back to the murder scene, she opened the bag of soil and poured rich, dark dirt into the pot. It felt good to have her hands in the soil. She gingerly removed a marigold from the plastic container and pushed it into the soil. She was reaching for the flower pack to get another when the back door opened.
‘Ms O’Neil,’ Warwick said, ‘could we talk?’
She shoved out a breath, wondering when he’d returned. ‘Sure.’ She headed back into the kitchen and washed her hands. Zack came into the room and the three sat at the kitchen table.
Warwick opened his notebook to a clean page. ‘We’ve got our warrant, which gives us open access to your files. You can help us by telling us those that should be red flagged.’
Lindsay had thought about that a lot last night. ‘It’s hard to say.’
‘We’ll get the names with or without your help. But your help will make the investigation go faster.’
She sighed. The sooner Harold’s killer was caught the sooner the shelter would reopen. ‘We’ve had some rough cases the last few months. Give me your notebook and I’ll write the top ten.’
Warwick pushed the notebook and a pen toward her. She scratched out the worst of the abusive spouses she’d dealt with.
Once she’d finished, Warwick studied the names. ‘Do you think any of these men could be the Guardian?’
‘I don’t know. But they’re all violent men. And none of them would want to help me.’
Zack leaned forward but remained silent. Clearly this was Warwick’s show.
‘When is the last time you saw Turner?’ Warwick asked.
She didn’t like his tone. ‘I told Detective Kier all this.’
Warwick flashed white teeth. ‘Again, please, for my benefit.’
She reviewed the details of her encounter with Turner.
‘And you confronted him at the party?’ Warwick said.
She felt that evening’s anger returning. ‘It wasn’t my intention, but, yes, I did have words with him.’
‘Remind you of your old man?’ Warwick said.
Angered that Zack must have discussed her past, she straightened. ‘Yeah, in a lot of ways Turner did remind me of him.’
Warwick tapped his index finger on the table. ‘It’s clear you love this place. The toys, the warm colors, and the flowers – they were all done by you, weren’t they?’
‘Sure.’
‘And you care about the women and children. I’ve leafed through a few files. Your notes suggest you really do want these women to succeed.’
She sensed a setup. ‘Cut the compliments. What’s your point?’
Warwick’s expression hardened a fraction and she had a sense he’d mentally taken off the gloves. ‘I went to your folks’s place in Hanover. It looked as if it had been a nice place at one time.’
A sudden weight pressed against her chest. ‘You were there?’
‘Kier and I read your mother’s murder file. We see how rough you had it.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Her voice was just above a whisper.
‘You grew up with an abusive man and then you run into someone like Harold, who reminds you of your father.’ He met her gaze head-on. ‘He gets in your face and in essence threatens to close the place you love. It would be reason enough to kill him.’
Zack said nothing, nor did he show any emotion. She’d never felt more alone.
‘I didn’t kill Harold,’ Lindsay said, teeth clenched.
‘You have no alibi, Ms O’Neil.’
‘I told you that I was home asleep.’
‘A fact you can’t prove.’
Jordan Turner may not have wanted her help but Nicole Piper did, and Lindsay wouldn’t tell the cops about her. Richard had contacts in the San Francisco Police Department, and she couldn’t risk inquiries from the guys on this end. She’d find a way out of this mess somehow. ‘No, I can’t.’
Warwick closed his notebook. ‘I suggest you get an attorney, Ms O’Neil.’
She glanced at Zack, expecting some kind of support. ‘I need an attorney?’
Zack showed no hint of emotion. ‘It wouldn’t hurt.’
Abruptly she rose. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some nutcase out there sending me body parts and now the cops are breathing down my throat. I didn’t kill Harold. But I’m the first to admit I hated the guy and I won’t lose any sleep over the fact that he’s dead.’
Zack stood but said nothing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rattled change.
Warwick was unfazed by her outburst. ‘Get a lawyer.’
‘Are you going to charge me?’ she demanded.
‘Not yet.’
Lindsay couldn’t believe this. All she’d done was stand up for herself when Turner had tried to browbeat her and now she was a murder suspect. ‘Can I have my purse?’
Warwick slowly rose. ‘Yes. It’s on the banister by the front door.’
‘Thanks.’ She started down the hallway.
‘Don’t leave town without calling me, Ms O’Neil,’ Warwick said.
She didn’t glance back. ‘Right.’
She sn
atched up her purse and dug out her keys. She didn’t bother with a sideways glance into her office at the jumble the cops had made of her files as she pushed through the front door.
Once in her Jeep, she cranked the engine and backed out. As she drove home the surge of adrenaline from her interview began to fade.
Lindsay felt weary and so alone. She couldn’t tell the cops about Nicole. The woman was just getting her life back. She prayed the real killer would be found soon so the spotlight would leave her.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled in front of her town house. She moved up her walkway and shoved her key in the lock. God, all she wanted now was a hot bath and a cup of tea.
‘Lindsay!’
Sam’s cheerful voice had Lindsay turning. He wore khakis, a white button-down shirt, and loafers without socks. The late afternoon light pulled red highlights in his thick sandy blond hair.
In a flash she remembered her promise to have dinner with him tonight. ‘Sam.’
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said.
She glanced forlornly at her home. God, but she wanted to get into bed and pull the covers over her head. ‘Oh, no problem.’
Creases formed around his blue eyes. ‘You forgot, didn’t you?’
She glanced down at her keys in the door and grinned. ‘Or maybe I saw you drive up and was headed out to meet you?’
He laughed. ‘We can go with that story, if you like.’
She could feel her blood pressure dropping. ‘Works for me.’
Sam’s eyes grew serious. ‘If you want to bag tonight, it’s fine. You look like you’ve had a tough day.’
Her hand went to her ponytail, which had sunk low on her head. ‘I’m good. I need a night out or I’ll sit at home and stew.’
He grinned. ‘Good. There’s a new French restaurant out on Patterson.’
‘I should change.’
‘Naw, you look good. Besides, it’s casual.’
She wasn’t hungry. Lunch had been filling. Still, an evening out that wasn’t emotionally draining would be welcome.
Sam guided her to a sleek Audi and opened the door for her.
Lindsay couldn’t help but smile. ‘You’re spoiling me.’