She said nothing.
Breathing. Audible, but not loud. With a faint, faint sibilance.
She closed her eyes, trying to sharpen her ears.
It didn’t match J.D. Carson. Not the sound, not the rhythm.
She shook her head.
For God’s sake, thinking she could recognize someone’s breathing? Make an ID by breathing? It was nuts.
“Carson?” she demanded.
An intake held the breathing, then it released in a soft hiss.
Click.
She replayed that reaction in her head. Surprise? Displeasure?
Could it have been Roy?
True she had dented his considerable ego, but would he resort to such childish tactics? Absolutely. He’d certainly know how to avoid leaving a trail in the phone records.
Or could the reaction have been something altogether different? Pleasure…?
Shit.
She could no more interpret that sound than she could ID breathing. She was grasping at straws.
What if he’s innocent?
The voice spoke in her head as it had at the trial.
Except it wasn’t the voice she’d first heard while she’d awaited the verdict in Commonwealth of Virginia v. J.D. Carson. That voice she would never forget, always hate.
This was the unknown voice from the second time she’d heard the question.
Where had that come from? Why now and—?
“No.”
She said it aloud, breaking the thoughts.
It was a memory. Stirred by rereading the transcript.
Sleep. She needed sleep.
* * * *
Maggie jolted awake to blood-thudding, ears-humming, muscle-tensing physical preparedness. Her brain tried to catch up.
The phone rang a second time, and she recognized the cause of her reaction.
That pissed her off — at herself, at the caller.
“What?” she snapped into the receiver, refusing to grant a polite “Hello.”
“Well, shit, don’t take me head off,” groused Vic Upton, as she realized it was her phone she was answering, not the guesthouse phone.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She slumped against the pillows. That put her in position to see the alarm clock. “Six o’clock? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m already up and on the way to the gym. If you got on a regular schedule, you’d be up being productive, too. That’s what I called about.”
“My circadian rhythms?”
“Being productive. You’re not. Not while you’re there.”
“You agreed to Sheriff Gardner’s request for me to help.”
“Not indefinitely. You’re too good to go off on a tangent like this, Frye.”
Nancy would be screaming — or at least mouthing — manipulator at this point. And she’d be right.
But Vic might be, too. Was this brief sabbatical derailing her hard-built career? Probably not. Though she might be putting a kink in the rails. But she’d survive. She was sure she would.
“I’m staying through the weekend, Vic. There are a number of lines of inquiry we’ve started.”
“We?”
She pushed the pillow more firmly behind her back. Fog turned the windows into blank walls. “That’s the investigatory we, similar to the royal we. Judge Blankenship’s well-connected in the state. It doesn’t hurt to have a representative of the office here.”
He humphed, but she’d scored. “At your desk, first thing Monday morning.”
He hung up.
* * * *
8:18 a.m.
The Addingtons would not only not hear her apologies for imposing on them so early, they insisted on feeding her breakfast.
It wasn’t quite Evelyn’s standards, but it sure beat her usual small carton of old yogurt, if she remembered at all.
And they were pleasant company.
Seeing and listening to them here, interacting, it was almost like she could imagine the Pan Wade of the static wedding photo brought to life as a blend of these two people, with a dash of her special individuality, walking and talking … and living.
That made it harder to contemplate shifting the focus to the circumstances that had ended Pan’s life.
As if sensing her reluctance, Theresa said, “Well, now, what did you want to ask us about?”
The talk with the Addingtons mostly gave her more background, several strikeouts, and one possible nugget.
The background included that the animosity between Carson and Wade went back to childhood. It also confirmed that they remained certain Carson hadn’t harmed their daughter.
Their recollections of Pan interacting with Laurel remained sparse and vague.
They had no memories of Pan talking about a new person in her life, someone who might have been a mystery arrival at the clearing. Their daughter would have told them if there had been someone important. She always did.
The nugget was that, yes, Pan might have been receiving odd phone calls before she was murdered. How bad was it that she considered might have been a nugget?
That came after she’d heard herself telling them about the calls she’d received.
First, Kevin said, “She didn’t talk to me about any. Theresa?”
“I think there were calls,” she said slowly. “But it was mostly an impression. They didn’t scare her. More like an annoyance. And a puzzle.”
How many calls or when or anything else about them was not in their memories.
“But if we think of something, we’ll call. In the meantime, you be careful.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Maggie’s phone rang as she got back in the car.
The irrational thought that the caller somehow knew she’d been talking to the Addingtons about him … or her? … came before she could stop it.
She grabbed the phone.
Caller ID was one she knew, not to mention this was her cell, not the guesthouse phone. Still, she let out that breath and drew in a new one before answering. “Hey, Bel.”
“What’s wrong, Maggie?”
“Nothing.”
“You sound tense.”
“Frustrated.”
“Hah. We told you about starting from scratch.”
“Yeah. Did you call to gloat?”
“Nah. A lucky bonus. Heard a couple things you might be interested in.”
“A pebble?”
“Maybe. I got thinking about that search you asked me to do for similar murders in the region, and coming up with nothing. I checked your guy’s military record and—”
Her heartbeat tripped, picked up. Something she’d missed? Something—
“—decided to search where he’d been posted. At least the ones I could find out about. Half the time nobody but a couple generals seemed to know where he was. But I checked where I could.”
“And?”
Belichek huffed out a breath. Irritation at being rushed or reaction to what he’d found, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t care.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Her voice sounded thin to her.
Belichek didn’t comment. “One maybe, but it was two years before he got there. So, yeah, I’d call it nothing.”
“Okay. It was a good thought. Thanks. I—”
“Hold on, Mags. I’m not done. I figured as long as I was doing the tracking, I should do it right. I asked about attacks short of murder — assaults, rapes. Still nothing. Not where he’d been posted. But then I went back to folks around the region.
“I know the sheriff up there was checking murders around the state, but I thought it was worth a few calls to see if he’d checked other crimes. Most murderers don’t bat a thousand to start. With the limited physical evidence, it’s tough, but I used the calls and the description of the victim.”
“Bel—”
“Bingo.”
She pushed the microphone away from her mouth, in case her breathing sounded as harsh as it felt.
“A case two years ago. In the
western part of the state.”
“Roanoke.”
“No. Lynchburg.”
“Lynchburg?”
“Yep. Caught a break, too, because my buddy remembered the guy assigned to the case talking about it, and put me through to him. Seems a woman came in, real nervous, asking to talk to someone. She said how she’d thought this guy was great at the start, but then she got an uneasy feeling. When she tried to pull back, it got worse. She talked a lot about phone calls and how they escalated. And — get this — she said the guy tried to strangle her. She showed him the marks. But then, she not only wouldn’t press charges, she wouldn’t tell him the name of the suspect. He said she got real jumpy, and scooted out of there. He’s getting me a copy of the incident report. What he did remember is when he checked back, she’d moved right after she talked to him. Moved fast, no forwarding information, but a neighbor said she came to this area. I’m tracking her, but just my luck, her name’s Johnson. Darcie Johnson. She’s a teacher. When I find her, I’ll interview her.”
Maggie’s lips twitched at the when I find her — no doubt in Belichek’s mind that he’d accomplish what he set out to do — but her mind was still wholly occupied with Lynchburg. Not Roanoke.
“That’s good work, Bel. Real good work.” She reached around, tapped in a site one-handed and pulled up a map of Virginia. Lynchburg was a heck of a lot closer to Bedhurst County than Roanoke was. But why…?
“There’s more.” His voice yanked her attention from the map, even as her fingertip lingered on Route 460 connecting Lynchburg and Roanoke. “Not sure if it’s even a grain of sand, much less a pebble, and it could have nothing to do with any of this.”
Hedging was not like Belichek.
She waited.
“Three of the guys I talked to in Virginia gave me grief about triple-teaming them.”
“Triple?”
“The sheriff’s official inquiry about murders, my unofficial inquiry about short of murder. And, in between, an unofficial inquiry about murder cases from somebody saying he was doing a favor for an ACA.”
Carson?
Why would he do that? He could have Dallas call. Unless there was some reason Carson didn’t want Dallas knowing he was looking for a connection to other murders?
Rick Wade?
Investigating on his own? But why?
Eugene Tagner?
Could she imagine Eugene bestirring himself to make such calls? And why?
Charlotte? Oh. Or Ed Smith on behalf of Charlotte?
But, like Dallas, he wouldn’t need the excuse of saying he was doing a favor for an ACA.
“Maggie,” Bel’s voice stopped the whirl of speculation in her mind. “It was Roy.”
* * * *
She found Roy at the Piedmont Manor.
Dallas and J.D. had been right. She couldn’t have stayed here. She would have been calling the sheriff all night long to report the misdemeanors scattered over the parking lot, and the felonies surely lurking behind the ratty façade.
Roy, with his knack for compartmentalizing, had no trouble shutting a door labeled, “Not My Jurisdiction.”
That, she realized, was how he’d been genuinely surprised she didn’t agree his fling with Officer Hundley didn’t — for him — have anything to do with her.
Roy opened the door, impatient, wiping shaving cream from his jaw. Then he saw her. A moment’s hesitation before he extended one arm above his head and leaned on the door frame.
“Decide you were letting a good thing go?”
“If you ever use my office, my name, or me in any way whatsoever without direct, written authorization, I will pursue disciplinary charges against you as fast and completely as possible. Do you understand?”
“I’m trying to help. This podunk town doesn’t—”
“Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand. I understand you have a stick up your—”
She turned and left.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The instant Maggie walked into Dallas’ office, J.D. Carson stood from the sofa and demanded, “Why the hell haven’t you told us you’re getting phone calls?”
It was as if the confrontation she’d left behind at the motel morphed into a new storm coming at her full force, recharging the anger and adrenaline already churning her stomach.
“What phone calls?” Dallas asked from his desk.
Carson answered without looking away from her. “Hang ups, breathing, late at night, like Laurel got. Like the Wades say Pan got — now that they’ve been reminded by Maggie’s questions this morning. And like Maggie’s been getting and hasn’t told us about.”
Breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth, she boxed her reaction. “How could you know about my getting calls unless you’re making them?”
“Use your brain, Maggie. I know because Pan’s parents called me to add something they forgot to tell you. They assumed I knew all about it, since we’re supposedly working together.”
Another reaction surged in. It did little for the agitator in her stomach, but her head cleared.
“Is that what you’re pissed about? That I left you out of the loop because—”
“I’m not pissed you left me out of the loop. I’m pissed—”
“—I haven’t told anyone.”
“Oh, that’s a hell of a lot better. In fact, that’s fucking great. Are you trying to—?”
Dallas cleared his throat, a sound that carried to the back of any courtroom.
A beat passed, then two. J.D. took half a step back. “I told you,” he said in his normal voice. “I don’t want any more dead women in my county.”
“There’s no reason to think I’m in danger.”
“The hell there isn’t. You look like them. You’re getting the calls. And you’re going after whoever the killer is.”
“So’s the sheriff. And Dallas. And you.”
A glint like sunlight on metal came off his eyes.
She wouldn’t take back including him. Not because she didn’t suspect him, but because he knew she did. No reason to repeat it simply because she’d misspoken.
“If I may intrude,” Dallas said, “what was it the Addingtons had to add to their conversation with Maggie?”
“They remembered Pan had asked her cousin who works at the phone company to check into the calls. I talked to the cousin—”
“You didn’t think I was in such horrible danger that you failed to follow that up.”
“Pan was killed before her cousin could act,” he said with heavy emphasis.
“Unfortunate,” Dallas murmured. “But this does give us an interesting line of inquiry to pursue — discretely, of course — at the memorial service this afternoon.”
“I told Gardner about you getting calls,” Carson said.
“That was—”
Dallas interrupted. “Smart. The brief he gave us is to make connections and that’s a promising one.”
Since he was right, silence seemed her best course.
* * * *
The sheriff growled at her about not telling him about the calls, dismissing her “Three. Three calls is hardly a pattern.” But he limited it to one short growl because the briefing, in addition to its usual vague, was also early and short today, with the memorial overlapping their usual meeting time.
Although no matter when they met it probably would have been short because there was not much to share.
Nothing seen on security footage from around town.
Nothing unusual in Laurel’s financial records.
Nothing from the hairstylist in Lynchburg, except confirmation of Laurel’s exultation when Eugene agreed to her demands and a possible dip in her mood at her last appointment, when she said someone was trying to rain on her parade but wouldn’t succeed. Who, how, and all the other basic questions were unanswered by the hairstylist.
While Carson returned to the office — in what might have been a demonstration of tact or, more likely, for reasons of his own.
She and Dallas remained after the rundown to update Gardner on last night’s discussion with Rick Wade, who was not at the briefing. According to Gardner, no one had heard from him.
“Does that bring us any closer to linking these two murders?” the sheriff asked.
“No,” she said.
“Although the possibility of another person arriving at the clearing — someone Pan needed to talk to — does offer an interesting echo to Laurel’s other plane companion,” Dallas said.
“Echo.” Gardner looked as if he’d roll his eyes if he’d had the energy.
Dallas was in an odd mood in the walk back to the office. He hummed snatches of some old song and kept glancing at her, then away.
It made her edgy. Not enough to ask him what he was thinking — he’d tell her, and she didn’t want to know — but enough to have a solid base of irritation when Scott greeted her with the news that she had a call he’d put through to Dallas’ office and why didn’t Dallas come have a cup of coffee while she talked in private.
She should have asked Scott who it was. Presumably the caller’s identity prompted him to take those measures. It was stupid to feel asking him would somehow reveal weakness.
So, she was stupid.
If it was Roy, it was a couple dozen straws past a broken back. Was Vic on another rampage? Or — Quit speculating and find out. “Hello?”
“Maggie? It’s me.”
Jamie.
“Why are you calling this num — Is something wrong? Ally? Your folks?”
“No, no. Everybody’s fine. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Then why—” She stopped. Swallowed.
“I’ve called and called your number, but you never answer or return my messages. I know you don’t support — I know we don’t see eye to eye, but we’re still cousins. We still have memories — good memories when we were all together. Memories only you and Ally and I have now. They’re important. And a connection that won’t ever go away. Please, Maggie. Please, talk to me.”
“I’m really busy, Jamie. I have work I have to do.”
“I know. I know the work you do is very important. But this is important, too. And I’m going to say it, no matter how much you don’t want to hear it. You have to forgive—”
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