by Karen Rose
Ashen, Bowie looked at Daniel. “What do you need from us, Daniel?”
“Hair from her brush. We’ll need to fingerprint the room she uses when she’s here.” He hesitated. “The name of her dentist.”
Bowie blanched, but swallowed and nodded. “You’ll have it.”
“Oh, God. We never should have let her have that apartment in Atlanta.” Mrs. Bowie was crying, rocking, her hands covering her face.
“She has an apartment in Atlanta?” Daniel asked.
Bowie ’s nod was barely perceptible. “She’s with the orchestra.”
“She’s a cellist,” Daniel said quietly. “But she comes home on weekends?”
“Sunday evenings, mostly. She comes home for supper.” Bowie tightened his jaw, struggling for composure. “Not so much lately. She’s growing up. Away. But she’s only twenty-two.” He broke, dropping his chin to his chest, and Daniel looked away, giving him privacy in his grief.
“Her room is upstairs,” Michael murmured.
“Thank you. I’ll have a CSU van out here as quickly as possible. Patricia, I need to know everything you know about Janet and her boyfriend.” Daniel put his hand on Bob Bowie’s arm. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
Bowie jerked a nod and said nothing.
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 12:55 a.m.
“What’s going on here?”
Daniel stopped short. A wave of anger swept through him and he tamped it back. “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Sheriff Loomis. Let me introduce myself. I’m Special Agent Daniel Vartanian and I’ve left you six messages since Sunday.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Daniel.” Frank scowled at the small army that had descended on Bowie Hall. “Goddamn GBI has overrun my town. Like locusts.”
In truth, only one car and one van belonged to GBI personnel. Three of the police cars were from Dutton’s small force and one was from Arcadia. Sheriff Corchran himself had come, offering his condolences to the Bowies and his help to Daniel.
Deputy Mansfield, Loomis’s second in command, had arrived shortly after Ed’s crime scene van had pulled into the drive, outraged at not having been the one to process Janet’s bedroom, in direct contrast to Corchran’s helpful attitude.
Of the other cars that lined the drive, one belonged to Dutton’s mayor, two others to Congressman Bowie’s aides. Still another belonged to Dr. Granville, who was currently overseeing the near- hysterical state of Mrs. Bowie.
One of the cars belonged to Jim Woolf. The Bowies had given him no comment and Daniel had held him off with the promise of a statement when the ID was confirmed.
It had been, just minutes before. One of Ed’s techs had brought a card bearing the victim’s fingerprints with him and had almost immediately matched the prints to those taken from a crystal vase next to Janet Bowie’s bed. Daniel himself had confirmed the news to Bob Bowie and Bowie had just climbed the stairs to his wife’s room.
Shrieking from the upstairs bedroom told Daniel that Bowie had told his wife. Both he and Frank looked toward the upstairs, then back at each other. “Do you have something to say, Frank?” Daniel asked coldly. “Because I’m a little busy right now.”
Frank’s face darkened. “This is my town, Daniel Vartanian. Not yours. You left.”
Again Daniel tamped down his temper, and when he spoke, it was evenly. “It may not be my town, but it’s my case, Frank. If you really wanted to be of some help, you might have returned any of the messages I’ve left on your voicemail.”
Frank’s gaze never faltered, becoming almost belligerent. “I was out of town yesterday and today. I didn’t get your messages until I got back tonight.”
“I sat outside your office for nearly forty-five minutes today,” Daniel said quietly. “Wanda said you couldn’t be disturbed. I don’t care if you needed to get away, but you wasted my time. Time I could have been looking for the man who killed Janet Bowie.”
Frank finally looked away. “I’m sorry, Daniel.” But the apology was stiffly delivered. “The last week has been difficult. Your parents… they were my friends. The funeral was difficult enough, but the media… After dealing with reporters all week, I needed some space. I told Wanda not to let anybody know I was gone. I should have called you.”
A little of Daniel’s anger melted away. “It’s okay. But Frank, I really need that police report-the one on Alicia Tremaine’s murder. Please get it for me.”
“I’ll get it for you first thing in the morning,” Frank promised, “when Wanda comes in. She knows how everything’s filed in the basement. You’re sure it’s Janet?”
“Her fingerprints match.”
“Dammit. Who did this?”
“Well, now that we know who she is, we can start investigating. Frank, if you needed help, why didn’t you call me?”
Frank’s jaw squared. “I didn’t say I needed help. I said I needed space. I went up to my cabin to be alone.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“Okay,” Daniel murmured, trying not to feel stung. “Frank?”
Frank looked back. “What?” It was very nearly a snap.
“Bailey Crighton. I think she really is missing.”
Frank’s lip curled. “Thanks for your opinion, Special Agent Vartanian. Good night.”
Daniel shook off the hurt. He had work to do and couldn’t afford to worry about Frank Loomis. Frank was a grown man. If and when he needed help, Daniel would be there for him.
Ed came up behind him. “We’re dusting her room. I found a few old diaries in a drawer. A few matchbooks. Not much else. What did you find out about the boyfriend?”
“His name is Lamar Washington, African-American. He plays in a jazz club. Patricia didn’t know where.”
Ed held out a baggie filled with matchbooks. “Could be one of these places.”
Daniel took the bag. “I’ll write down the names, then give them back. Patricia said Janet made it sound like a fling, that Janet never intended to bring him home.”
“That could make a man mad enough to beat a woman’s face in,” Ed said. “But it doesn’t explain copying the Tremaine scene.”
“I know,” Daniel said. “But it’s all I have for now. I’m going to check out the jazz clubs once I’m done here.”
“We’re going to check out Janet’s apartment.” Ed held up a key ring. “Janet’s brother Michael got us the key to her place.”
When Ed was gone, Daniel went into the sitting room, which was standing room only. Michael Bowie was the only family member in the room. He’d changed into a black suit and his face was haggard in his grief, but he was ever the politician’s son. “Can you give them a statement so they’ll go?” Michael murmured. “I just want them all to go.”
“I’ll make it fast,” Daniel murmured back, then cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” He’d already introduced himself when he’d taken their statements and whereabouts at the time of Janet’s death Thursday night. A few postured, but all complied. “We’ve tentatively identified the body found in Arcadia Sunday afternoon as that of Janet Bowie.” No one was surprised at this point. “We’ll run confirmatory DNA testing and I’ll schedule a press conference when we have definitive findings.”
Jim Woolf stood up. “What was the official cause of death?”
“I’ll have an official statement as to cause of death tomorrow.” Daniel checked his watch. “I mean later today. Probably after noon.”
The mayor smoothed his tie. “Agent Vartanian, do you have any suspects?”
“We have some leads, Mayor Davis,” Daniel said. That title felt odd. He’d played football with Garth Davis in high school. Garth had been a thickheaded jock back then, one of the last people Daniel would have expected to run for mayor, much less win. But Garth did come from a long line of politicians. Garth’s daddy had been Dutton’s mayor for years. “I’ll have an official statement tomorrow.”
“Toby, how is Mrs. Bowie?” Woolf asked, directing his question to the town’s doctor.
“Resting,�
�� Toby Granville said, but everyone knew that meant “sedated.” Everyone had heard the poor woman’s shrieks when her husband told her the ID was official.
Daniel gestured toward the door. “It’s very late. I’m sure everyone here means to offer their support, but you all need to go home. Please.”
The mayor held back as everyone exited. “Daniel, do you have any suspects?”
Daniel sighed. The day was catching up to him. “Garth…”
Davis leaned closer. “I’m going to have all the residents of Dutton calling me as soon as the Review hits their front porches. They’re going to be worried about the safety of their families. Please give me something more to tell them than you’ve got leads.”
“That’s all I can tell you because it’s all we know. We’ve only just identified her in the last two hours. Give us a day, at least.”
Frowning, Davis nodded. “You’ll call my office?”
“I promise.”
Finally everyone was gone and it was just Daniel and Michael and Toby Granville. “I thought they’d never leave,” Michael said, his shoulders sagging wearily.
Granville tugged on his tie. “I’m going to go check on your mother before I head out. You call me if she needs anything during the night.”
Daniel shook both men’s hands. “If there’s anything you or your family needs, Michael, please call me.” He stepped through the Bowies ’ front door and was immediately hit by a strong gusty wind. A storm was blowing in, he thought as he looked down the big hill to the street where three additional news vans had now congregated. The reporters swarmed from the vans when they spied him up on the stoop. Like locusts, Daniel thought with an inner wince. He could kind of see Frank’s point, in the smallest of ways.
He steeled himself for the onslaught as he made his way down the hill past a Mercedes, two BMWs, a Rolls-Royce, a Jag, and a Lincoln Town Car to where he’d left his own state-issued vehicle. Reporters from the news van had been interviewing Garth, but they swarmed toward him as he passed by.
“Agent Vartanian, can you comment…” Daniel lifted his hand, silencing them.
“We’ve identified the Arcadia victim as Janet Bowie.” Lights flashed as they took their pictures and rolled their video and Daniel put on his best press face.
“Has the congressman been notified?”
Daniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, or I wouldn’t be telling you now. No more comments for tonight. I’ll be scheduling a press conference for tomorrow. Call the PR hotline at GBI headquarters for the time and venue. Good night.”
He started walking and one of the reporters followed. “Agent Vartanian, how does it feel investigating a murder in your hometown just a week after your brother’s murder?”
Daniel stopped and blinked at the young man holding the microphone. Simon hadn’t been murdered. To use that word was an affront to victims and their families everywhere. Simon had been exterminated. But that word was inflammatory in its own right. So Daniel said only, “No comment.” The man opened his mouth to push and Daniel gave him a look so cold the reporter took a physical step back.
“No more questions,” the man said in answer to the threat Daniel had left unvoiced.
It was a look Daniel had learned from his father. Freezing men with a single look was one of Arthur Vartanian’s many skills. Daniel didn’t employ the skill often, but when he did, it was effective. “Good night.”
When he got to his car, Daniel closed his eyes. He’d dealt with grieving families for years, and it never got easier. But it was Frank Loomis’s behavior that bothered him the most. Frank had been the closest thing Daniel had had to a real father. God knew Arthur Vartanian hadn’t filled that role. To be the object of Frank’s… scorn. It stung.
However, Frank was human, and learning of Arthur Vartanian’s duplicity in Simon’s “first death” must have been hard to take. It made Frank look foolish, and the press had exacerbated it all, making Frank appear a hokey hometown sheriff who couldn’t tie his shoes without help. It was no wonder Frank was angry. I’d be angry, too.
He pulled away from the news vans headed toward Main Street. He was exhausted and he still had to find Lamar Washington’s jazz bar before he finally got to sleep.
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 1:40 a.m.
They were leaving, Alex thought, standing at the window of the bungalow, watching all the cars come down the hill. Wondering from whose house they’d come. She pulled her robe closer, fighting a chill that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
She’d dreamed again. Thunder and lightning. And screams, jagged piercing screams. She’d been at the morgue and the woman on the table had sat up and stared through sightless eyes. But her eyes were Bailey’s, her hand Bailey’s as she reached out, her flesh waxy and… dead. And she’d said, “Please. Help me.”
Alex had woken in a cold sweat, shaking so hard she was sure she’d wake Hope. But the child slept heavily. Unsettled, Alex had come out to the living room to pace.
And to worry. Where are you, Bailey? And how do I take care of your baby girl?
“Please, God,” she whispered. “Don’t let me mess this up.”
But there was no return whisper in the dark and Alex stood, watching car after car come down the hill. Then one slowed and stopped in front of her bungalow.
Her stomach tightened in fear and she thought about the gun in the lockbox until she recognized the car and its driver.
Daniel’s car rolled down Main Street, past the park with the carousel, stopping outside Alex’s rented bungalow. He’d lied to her tonight and it was eating him up.
She’d asked him straight out what he knew and he’d told her there was nothing to tell. Which, he averred, was not a total lie. He didn’t have anything to tell her yet. He certainly wouldn’t show her the pictures of her sister being violated. Alex Fallon had been through enough without seeing that.
He thought about Wade Crighton. I’ll see you in hell. Her stepbrother had known Simon, and that could never be good. Wade had tried to rape Alex and for that alone Daniel was glad he was dead. Alex thought she’d kept her story light, but Daniel had seen the truth in her eyes.
And if her stepbrother had tried to molest her once thinking she was Alicia, maybe he’d done so again. Maybe it was Wade in the picture with Alicia Tremaine. The man had two legs, so Daniel was positive it was not Simon, but if they’d known each other…
And who were the other girls? It had been nagging him. Maybe they were local girls. Maybe they’d gone to the public school. Daniel wouldn’t have known them, but Simon might have. Daniel wondered if there were any other small-town murders he just hadn’t heard about yet. He wondered if the other girls in the pictures were dead, too.
Give the pictures to Chase. The thought had been circling his mind for a week. He had turned the pictures over to the Philly police, which was the only thing that was letting him get any sleep at all. But Daniel was sure Vito Ciccotelli hadn’t had time to do anything with the envelope full of pictures he’d given him less than two weeks ago. Vito and his partner were still up to their asses cleaning up the mess Simon had left behind.
I’ll see you in hell, Simon. Daniel wondered what messes Wade and Simon had left behind, although any crimes they’d committed would be more than ten years old. He had a brand-new crime. He owed his concentration to Janet Bowie. He needed to find out who hated her enough to kill her in such a way.
Then again, Janet Bowie might have simply been a convenient target and not the object of any rage or revenge. Or… Daniel thought of Congressman Bowie. The man had taken some tough stances on controversial issues. Maybe somebody hated him enough to kill his daughter. But why the tie to Alicia? Why now? And why leave a key?
He’d put his car in gear when the bungalow door opened and Alex stepped onto the porch and his breath caught in his throat. She wore a sensible robe that covered her from her chin to her toes. It should have made her look dowdy and plain, but all he could think about was what lay underneath
. The wind had kicked up, tossing her glossy hair, and she scooped it back with one hand to stare at him across the tiny front yard.
There was no smile on her face. The thought registered as he killed his engine and crossed her yard, single-minded in his intent. To leave her, to drive on by, never entered his mind, only to have now what he’d wanted earlier, what the call from the Fun-N-Sun security chief had kept him from taking. He needed to see that wide-eyed wonder again, the look in her eyes when she’d finally understood what he wanted from her. He needed to see that she wanted him, too.
Without slowing for a greeting, he took the porch stairs in one step, took her face in his hands, covered her mouth with his, and took what he needed. She made a hungry sound deep in her throat and leaned up on her toes, trying to get closer, and the kiss exploded into motion and heat.
She let go of her hair and her robe to clutch at the lapels of his coat, propelling her mouth into his. Daniel let go of her face to pull her arms around his neck. He splayed his hands across her slender back and pulled until her body was flush against him and he took what he wanted as the wind whistled and screamed around them.
It had been too long, was all he could think, all he could hear over the wind and the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Too long since he’d felt like this. Alive. Invincible. Too damn long. Or maybe never.
Too soon she slid back down until her heels hit the porch, ending the kiss and taking her warmth with her. Needing more, he ran his lips over her jaw and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. He shuddered, breathing hard as her hands stroked his hair, soothing. And as his pulse slowed, his mind returned and his cheeks heated in embarrassment at the depth of his need. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, lifting his head. “I don’t normally do things like that.”
She traced his lips with her fingers. “Neither do I. But I needed it tonight. Thank you.”
Annoyance bubbled up through him. “Stop thanking me.” It was almost a snarl and she flinched as if he’d struck her. Feeling about an inch tall, he bowed his head and caught her hand, bringing her fingers back to his lips when she tried to pull away. “I’m sorry. But I don’t want you thinking I’m doing this for any other reason than that I wanted to.” Needed to. “I wanted to,” he repeated. “I wanted you. I still do.”