by Julie Miller
T? MERLE SAT at his desk—tie loose, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked as if he’d been working all afternoon, but it was an illusion. That crazy fake redhead had gotten under his skin and disrupted his concentration by saying one stupid letter!
How did she know about his past? Who had she been talking to? Could she be the disgruntled relative of one of the investors his father had cheated and abandoned twenty years ago? If so, it had to be the cleverest way he’d come up against yet for one of his father’s victims to take a strip of retribution out of his hide.
Merle stared at the data on the computer screen, seeing nothing but the capital Ts jump out at him. “How the hell…?”
Thomas Banning was the name he’d given up years ago, when he was just a boy. He’d given it up because Thomas was his father’s name. His mother stopped using it and had taken to calling him by his middle name.
Thomas had been a curse at his house.
Merle wasn’t much better. Merle was an old man’s name. A nerd’s name. Sometimes even a girl’s name. It was a name that invited teasing on elementary playgrounds and in junior high locker rooms. It was a name that high-school girls giggled at and college professors mispronounced.
It never quite fit. Yet he’d been stuck with it.
The only time he tolerated Merle without a hint of resentment was on his mother’s lips or in his partner Ginny’s sweet, succinct voice.
Thomas Merle Banning, Jr.
That was his name.
But he couldn’t use it.
She’d come close. Too damn irritatingly close.
Merle tossed his pen onto the open file in front of him and sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He rubbed his fingers back and forth across his chin and jaw, and tried to sort out his thoughts. He wasn’t just feeling defensive or distracted here. He had a good dose of guilt working on him, too.
The fact that Kelsey Ryan had somehow uncovered his first initial bothered him almost as much as the fact she knew he’d only been humoring her by taking her to lunch and asking a few questions. Technically, he’d obeyed Captain Taylor’s request, but he hadn’t really done his job.
Flake or not, he should have listened to her story, thanked her, then sent her on her way. Not voiced his opinion of her dubious “vision,” get her pissed and then let her storm off without so much as a thank-you or apology.
But she’d pushed his buttons. Not just the this-feels-like-a-practical-joke button. The computer geek desk jockey wants to see some action? Let him interview the wacko. Sergeant Watkins and the other guys he’d met in the break room that morning seemed to find it terribly amusing that The Flake had been assigned to him.
She looked like an overdecorated Christmas tree, said one. Take her to a New Year’s Eve party and use that hair to light off fireworks, said another. Sergeant Watkins had been even more direct. “I’m surprised the doctors let that looney out.”
For some reason, though, Merle hadn’t felt like laughing. Their crude jokes and unapologetic stares had triggered the chivalric streak inside him. He outranked the blue suits and could shut them up with a command. And he’d earned enough respect from his fellow detectives for them to honor his request to let it drop.
He hadn’t laughed because Kelsey Ryan had gotten to something deeper inside him. Maybe he saw a little of that skinny, four-eyed kid he used to be in her. The kid whose daddy had stuck a gun in his mouth and killed himself because he couldn’t repay the funds he’d embezzled or face the consequences of his actions. He’d been the kid who hid behind books and rebuilt computers so he couldn’t hear the teasing.
He’d outgrown the skinny phase, graduated valedictorian and had his pick of colleges. He and his mother, Moira, had worked for years to rebuild the estate that had been decimated by his father’s debt, so he had a little money to his name. He’d become a cop after earning the first of two degrees, and had made detective on his first application. He’d made his share of mistakes along the way, but he’d solved crimes. He’d taken bullets and killed men in the line of duty.
Thomas Merle Banning, Jr. wasn’t anybody’s victim anymore.
But he’d never forget what it felt like.
And he’d never fail to recognize it in someone else.
Kelsey Ryan had been hurt somewhere along the way in her life. Now she dyed her hair and lost her temper and put on airs because she didn’t want anyone to see how much she hurt.
Merle nudged the beat-up shoe box sitting on the corner of his desk. He might not believe her story about the doll triggering visions of murder. But he should have believed her intentions. A woman like that wouldn’t knowingly set herself up to be ridiculed. She wouldn’t take that risk unless she believed what she was saying.
It wasn’t all that long ago that he’d worked his tail off to get someone to listen to his ideas, to take him seriously. To give him a chance to prove his worth to the world.
Mitch Taylor had given him that chance.
He’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t offer Kelsey Ryan that same chance.
Merle pulled the box closer and read the name of the defunct local shoe company imprinted in faded green letters on the box. Clearly, the doll wasn’t in its original packaging. Flipping over the lid of the box, Merle poked at the multicolored afghan wrapped around the doll inside and wondered who had knitted it. Probably Kelsey herself, judging by the rainbow palette of colors. He pulled out the bundle and unwrapped it on his desk.
He had to believe she really thought there was some kind of answer here.
Merle peeled back a layer of worn newsprint, taking a moment to check the faded date. December 24, 1994.
“The day before Christmas.”
He frowned as the encyclopedia of random facts he carried around inside his head tried to tell him something. Slipping on his wire-frame glasses, he scrolled through the data on the computer screen until he found the first victim in the file—a Jane Doe prostitute the original investigators had dubbed Jezebel.
He scanned the information, then rechecked the wadded paper around the doll. He checked the computer again. “Gotta be a coincidence.”
Jezebel’s strangled, nude body had been discovered in an alley the day after Christmas.
1994.
Merle sat straighter in his chair, pulled a pair of plastic gloves from the bottom drawer and put them on.
Most coincidences could be explained away by facts.
Beneath the old newsprint he found a layer of tissue paper wrapped around the doll. The doll itself looked like some sort of collectible, with a face and body crafted of wire and silk and stuffing. It had feathery golden hair and wore an embroidered gown trimmed in beads of glass and mother-of-pearl. Pretty nice handiwork.
Pretty nice gift for someone back in 1994.
Probably given to someone the very same day Jezebel was murdered. His brain hovered around the information, absorbing what he read on the screen and saw in the box, trying to make a plausible connection.
“Taking up a new hobby?”
Merle glanced up at the deep, laughter-filled voice, and watched the Odd Couple of the Fourth Precinct—Josh Taylor and A. J. Rodriguez—stroll past to the pair of desks beside his.
“Right. I’m into playing with dolls now.” Pulling off his glasses, Merle shook his head. “I’m trying to figure out if this is evidence or just a bad joke.”
Josh—a big, blond goofball who was always into everybody’s business—dumped his coat in his chair and propped his hip on the corner of his desk. “I heard you got the honor of dealing with The Flake this morning. Does that have anything to do with her?”
“She brought it in. Said she had a vision—” he held up his hand and corrected himself the way she’d corrected him “—excuse me, a psychic impression, of one of the Holiday Hooker murders. She said this doll was the key to interpreting that impression.”
“Cool.” Josh, Captain Taylor’s youngest cousin, was nothing if not direct. “You buy what she said?”
“Claiming she was inside the victim’s skin, feeling her pain and terror as she was being murdered? No.” He smoothed the newsprint between his plastic-gloved fingers. “But the date on this packaging matches the time frame of the first death. It’s as good as anything else I have to go on. Which isn’t much.”
“Might be worth checking out.” A. J. never said much. But then, the dark-haired, compactly built detective didn’t have to. Merle had quickly learned that with his instincts and street smarts, and an eerie patience that allowed him to sit back and let the other guy show his hand first, A. J. didn’t need to waste time with idle words. He waited until he had something to say. And then smart people listened.
If he thought this was a lead worth pursuing…
Merle had already made his decision. But it was nice to know he had some backup on his opinion. “If you gents will excuse me?”
He flipped through the pages of his notebook, reluctantly accepting that his dealings with Kelsey Ryan hadn’t ended. Locating the cell number she’d given him, he punched it in. As he waited through several rings, he worked to adjust his attitude. This wasn’t just another crazy trip into la-la land; it was an opportunity to make amends and ease his conscience. An opportunity to do the job Captain Taylor expected of him. Maybe he could find a few answers along the way, as well.
“Hello?” The soft, almost timid voice at the other end of the line surprised him. But Merle recognized the subtle hint of a southern Missouri twang from their lunchtime conversation.
“Ms. Ryan? This is Detective Banning at the Fourth Precinct.”
He could hear her bristling up, donning that huffy, self-protective shield she wore. He could also hear the honks and hums of traffic moving in the background. “Detective.”
So much for conversational pleasantries. He didn’t suppose he’d earned any friendly overtures, so he kept his tone as businesslike and impersonal as hers. “I was calling to ask for the name of the shop where you bought the doll. Looks like there might be some loose ends I can follow up on, after all.”
“Too late, Banning. I’m a step ahead of you. I already talked to Mr. Meisner at the Westport Antique Mall where I bought it, and he said he purchased the doll from The Underground. That’s a pawnshop over on 10th Street off of Broadway. I’m on my way there right now to find out where they got it.”
“You what?” Every muscle in Merle’s body clenched.
Broadway and 10th was smack in the middle of no-man’s land, nestled between the new construction around the Bartle Convention Center and the reclamation of downtown. Merle checked his watch and wished he could look out a window. By four-thirty this late in December, the sun would already be fading. Legitimate businesses would be closing soon and, despite the winter chill, less legitimate entrepreneurs would be crawling out of their cubbyholes to open shop. The people who actually lived in the neighborhood didn’t always welcome strangers, especially ones who asked a lot of questions. And he had a feeling she wouldn’t be shy about asking.
Merle was already buttoning his collar and rolling down his sleeves. “You cannot go into that neighborhood by yourself. Especially after dark.”
“It’s okay, Detective Banning. The danger’s all in my imagination. Remember?”
Click.
She hung up on him?
He was trying to protect her butt and she hung up on him?
Merle shot to his feet. Unfamiliar frissons of anger mixed with a chilling pulse beat of concern. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and shoved things into his pockets.
“Problem?” asked Josh, looking up from his desk. He had A. J.’s attention, too.
“Yeah.” His problem was about five and a half feet of mouthy redhead who thought she could goad him into working with her. “This temporary partner thing isn’t working out.”
“You’ve got a new partner?”
“I’ve got a departmental consultant who doesn’t know when to quit.” He jerked the knot of his tie up to his collar. “If I don’t show up for work tomorrow, tell the captain I gave my all for a little good press.”
Josh and A. J. laughed as he shrugged into his coat and dashed to the elevators. Kelsey Ryan might know the how-to’s on following up leads, but she didn’t know squat about surviving out on the streets.
He intended to get her home, safe and sound, and then get her out of his hair.
Chapter Three
The Underground was a subterranean curiosity shop with grimy, street-level windows and the eye-watering odor of cat urine hanging in the air.
Despite the stench, Kelsey had spotted only one scraggly-tailed Siamese darting between the narrow aisles that had been crammed with more trash than treasures. She cringed at the possibility that the dearth of visible cats might have something to do with the collection of three boa constrictors that the proprietors—who’d introduced themselves as Mort and Edgar—kept on display in a glass case behind the cash register.
The place was dimly lit, probably to hide the fact it couldn’t meet health code or fire safety standards. Not to mention ASPCA regs. The steps leading down to the basement entrance door were lined with sooty snow that absorbed rather than reflected the light from the cold, fading sun and the street lamp on the curb above them.
It was the sort of place where that woman had been killed. Filthy. Cold. Dark. Damp. And not a friend in sight.
Only, the smells were different here. And the room she’d seen had been empty, not a wall-to-wall display of lewd posters and broken furniture and exotic trinkets. But this was where the trail had led her. If she could locate the doll’s original owner, she might be able to track down a murderer, turn him in to the police and put that poor woman’s psychic energy to rest.
But so far, her interrogation skills had done little more than earn sneers of contempt and trigger a banter of inside jokes between the two men. Kelsey was dying to take a deep breath to steady her nerves. But that might result in gagging or fainting, and she was already at enough of a disadvantage as it was.
“The doll?” She tried to get them back on track. “Do you have a record of who pawned it? Can you remember anything about the person who brought it in?”
“Do I look like I know ’bout dolls?” Mort was a middle-aged man of indiscriminate heritage, yellow teeth and Oriental tattoos on every exposed region of his thin, wiry body. “I see what people bring me and if I like it, I buy it. If they don’t come back for it, I sell it. That’s what we do here, honey. Buy and sell.” He licked his lips in a way that could have been suggestive, or could simply have been a means to circulate the brown tobacco juice she glimpsed on his tongue. “We’re not much for talking.”
Kelsey looked away and swallowed hard, struggling to salvage her courage and keep her stomach down where it belonged. She glanced up at Mort’s partner. “What about you? Can you tell me anything more about the doll?”
Edgar was a defensive-lineman-size black man with shoulder-length corn rows and a fascination for shiny objects. Like the blue crystal pendant she wore around her neck.
He stared at the thimble-size crystal teardrop with a greedy interest that seemed to take in more than just the silver chain and handcrafted mount. She fought the urge to breathe hard, fearing that moving any female body parts would be seen as an invitation she didn’t want to give.
“Well?” she prompted, sounding tougher than she felt. “Edgar? Mort?”
The two men wouldn’t even talk to her unless she bought something or paid them for their time. She was pretty sure she didn’t want to touch anything in the shop or take it into her home. And since she didn’t carry large sums of cash with her, she’d unhooked the amber bracelet she wore and offered it as a bribe for information.
The yellow beads had gotten her an introduction and confirmation that the doll had indeed been purchased here over a month ago by Mr. Meisner. But Mort had settled in behind the register, claiming amnesia regarding the doll’s history before that. With her bracelet stretched around the span
of his knuckles, Edgar sidled up beside her in front of the counter, invading her personal space with his cheap cologne and curious hands.
The big man’s answer was to pick up the crystal in his meaty palm, letting his fingers slide with loathsome familiarity against her breasts. Kelsey flinched, unable to shake the feeling of violation. Panic poured into her veins, leaving the desperate need to bolt in its wake. Even through her coat and the layers of clothing she wore, the brief touch had felt as if he’d fondled bare skin.
Kelsey breathed hard, clinging to rational thought. Her breasts heaved. Edgar noticed.
Ho, boy.
This was a mistake. This was such a mistake. What the hell had she been trying to prove by coming here? Worse, who had she been trying to prove herself to? She didn’t want to even consider that answer. She’d sacrifice the bracelet as payment for her foolishness, cut her losses and run. She’d deal with her guilt at letting down that helpless woman later—when she felt a little less helpless herself.
She quickly made her excuses and pulled the chain from Edgar’s hand. “It’s after five. You need to close. I’d better be going.”
He snatched it back, closing his fist around the crystal and blotting out the protection it gave her. With a tiny push to her sternum, he backed her against the counter. “Give you fifty bucks for this,” he offered, flashing a diamond-studded gold tooth in the middle of his leering smile. “A hundred if you let me take it off you myself.”
He was already reaching behind her neck for the clasp when she jerked her grandmother’s pendant from his grasp and swatted his hand away. “It’s not for sale.”
Neither was she.
She tucked the pendant back inside her coat and prayed that her guardian angel, Grandma Lucy Belle, would keep her angry and focused instead of afraid. Since she clearly wasn’t going to wrestle her way past a man like Edgar, she’d have to rely on brainpower to get out of this mess. Kelsey tipped her chin defiantly and countered his offer. “I have a coin purse with a collection of different crystals and polished sicun stones in my bag. I’ll let you choose three of them if you tell me everything you know about that doll.”