The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “I like Mather’s theories,” she replied.

  “That’s not what I’m asking,” Cabrera said. “What’s going on here: Rules of the Kill, psychotic murderer going rogue on psychotic murderer—what kind of lunatic are we looking for? I’ve never come across anything like this before.” Ever the ham, he rested his arm on my shoulder. “A little direction from you would be a great comfort to two dedicated federal agents groveling for clues.”

  I smirked. Similar questions were running through my mind at the same time Cabrera posed his questions to Glutt. “Let’s start with the premise that Drade was a psychopath and that he killed these two women. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that he killed others. What do we know about the other two mutilated men, Phillip Patrick and John Doe? Rebecca, you said that Patrick didn’t have any living family and that someone else in the behavioral science unit interviewed the psychologist who worked with the police on his brother’s case.” I shrugged. “Phillip Patrick—what did the original profiler have to say?”

  “The report stated that he was a laborer, but there wasn’t much in the file that would help us to identify his killer. He grew up and spent most of his life in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.”

  “But that’s not where he was murdered?”

  “No,” she continued. “His body was found not far from here. He left Rehoboth Beach some time ago and just sort of disappeared; no tax records, no police files—he flew under the radar. The Rehoboth Beach and Delaware State Police looked for him exhaustively when his brother, Connor, was indicted on murder charges, convicted, and sentenced to death, but they never found him.” Her particle respirator mask was hanging under her chin. She took it in hand and was about to fit it in place over her nose. “I guess I’d better get this over with,” she said dispassionately. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, send a search party in for me.” She turned to Cabrera and gazed into his eyes. “You’ll look out for me, won’t you, 007?”

  “Most definitely,” Cabrera said with a smug expression. “I like my profilers shaken, not stirred.”

  She grinned and then walked away.

  We watched as Glutt strode toward the storeroom. He turned to me. “She’s an interesting woman, don’t you think?”

  “Interesting as in daft with a huge set of emotional luggage?”

  “I don’t know. Is that her story?”

  “Don’t show her the least bit of interest, Cabrera. Beneath that demure façade lurks the soul of a man-hungry saber-toothed tiger. I only tell you that so you won’t succumb to her feminine wiles.”

  Cabrera’s eyes opened wide. “Her? She’s got feminine wiles?”

  “Yeah. It’s called a vagina, and it turns most men into blathering nincompoops. Don’t shit where you eat. You’ll get your ass in a sling.”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t mess around with her. I mean Lorraine and I … I mean things are pretty good between us right now, and I wouldn’t want to mess it up.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “Although …” His eyebrows rose and fell twice. “In an odd and MILFy kind of way, I do find her sexy. Maybe it’s her smart mouth.”

  I shook my head with disbelief. “You’re right, she does have a smart mouth, so don’t let her smart mouth get anywhere near your newly mended johnson.”

  “Aw, come on, Mather, can’t I have a little fun? Besides, I know better—homely women are like boomerangs, they always come back and smack you in the head.”

  The son of a bitch made me chuckle despite his unconscionable insensitivity. “As a misogynist you disgust me, yet you always manage to make me laugh.” I threw my arms up in the air and began walking away.

  “Hey, was it something I said?” He snickered.

  I gave him the finger as I marched toward my car.

  “Don’t be like that. Where are you going, Mather?”

  “To book a flight,” I hollered. “I’m going to Rehoboth Beach.”

  Chapter 24

  It was a five-hour drive from Liberty, New York, to Rehoboth Beach, a trip I wasn’t eager to make, so I got on the horn with the bureau’s travel desk and booked a ride south. Cabrera had brought me a care package from home with clean duds and lavatory supplies, so I was all set for the excursion. My go-bag was packed and in the car. It was nice having someone pack for me, but being the anal marine-brained psycho that I was I had to open the bag and check to make sure that Liam had packed my things so they wouldn’t wrinkle. God, sometimes I think I need to medicate for OCD.

  Glutt had given me the name and contact of the shrink who had worked the Connor Patrick case, and I had phoned him to set up an appointment. I was sitting in Wurtsboro-Sullivan County Airport waiting for my puddle-jumper to take me to Eagle Crest Hudson Airport when my cell phone rang. I hadn’t spoken with Liam in twenty-four hours and was happy to see his name and silly Facebook photo pop up on the display.

  “Hey, babe, I was just thinking about you.” My opening statement wasn’t entirely true—I had actually been thinking about my upcoming interview with the psychologist Wendell Benoit, but Liam was never more than a nanometer outside of my thoughts at any given moment, so I figured it was okay to tell a little white lie.

  “How are you doing up north?” he asked.

  “Okay, but I’m heading south.”

  “Home?” he asked hopefully.

  “Sorry, no. I’m on my way to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, to interview a psychologist.”

  “Ugh. Did you say Rehoboth Beach?”

  I could actually picture Liam gritting his teeth. “Why, you get arrested for purchasing fireworks while passing through that burb? You have a wife and kids down there that you haven’t told me about or something else that might cause me to harm you?”

  “No, but I think you’re about to have a bad experience. Just a minute.”

  I heard keystrokes and pictured Liam at the weather center console. “Checking the weather maps?”

  “Yep … Just as I thought; better bring an umbrella. One minute … and rain boots and a slicker. Oh, just fuck it all and bring an ark. A nor’easter is going to blow right through there this evening—six to eight inches minimum. There’ll be flooding all over.”

  “Oh, that really sucks.”

  “Not if you’re a duck or other manner of waterfowl creature.”

  “I’m not laughing, wise ass. By the way, what’s the use of having a meteorologist for a boyfriend if he can’t guarantee three hundred and sixty-five days of sunshine and balmy breezes?”

  “What can I say, Chloe? I guess I’m an underachiever. Should’ve gone for an advanced degree like the guy with the long blond hair extensions, Thor.”

  “It’s okay, babe, you’re a thunder god in the bedroom. You don’t need a hammer.”

  “Aw, you really do love me. So how ’bout it, would you let me do you dressed as a Viking warrior?”

  “Sure. I’ll be your lusty wench any day of the week.”

  “God, you’re hot. I may have to stop on the way home for a bottle of lube.”

  The idea of Liam choking his chicken did not strike me as being particularly sexy. “Skip the lotion, babe. Let it build a couple of days and I’ll make it worth your while when I get back.”

  “Promise?”

  “Need I remind you that you’re talking to a jarhead?”

  “Fair enough. Say, did Cabrera get there with your bag?”

  “He sure did. Too bad I didn’t ask you to pack a mackinaw.”

  “Sorry, I only forecast the weather. I don’t manufacture it.” I heard him taking a drink. “I miss you.”

  “Yeah, this earning a living and ridding the world of its wrongdoers thing isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be. Maybe I should apply for a nice cushy desk job.”

  “Yeah, you’d do real well with that. You’d have to be sedated by the end of your first week. It’s okay; I’m bonding with Grace. She cooked a prime rib last night, and we opened a bottle of scotch. We started off with two fingers each, and by the
time we went to bed … All I can say is it’s a good thing I was on the late shift today, or I’d be so messed up I’d be forecasting blizzards in Miami.”

  “Why you silly drunken souse.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “How’s the grande dame holding up?”

  “She’s fine. She’s a tough old gal. She talked about you a lot last night. She’s a hell of a lot less guarded about her feelings with a bellyful of hooch. Your mommy loves her little girl.”

  I hadn’t called Grace Mommy in a really long time. She’d been Grace ever since my old shit father ran off. I’ve sometimes thought that it was her way of keeping me from getting too attached to her in case she one day crumbled under the emotional load of losing her husband and most of her family money. Yeah, he really screwed her over from top to bottom, took a lover, and sold her family’s business out from under her—what a swell guy. Grace still believes that he’s the reason I joined the marines. She thinks that I wanted to distance myself from the family, and perhaps her theory had some merit, but I’ve never been one to delve into all of that psychological gobbledygook.

  I heard my flight being announced over the loudspeaker. “You two take care of each other. My flight’s boarding.”

  “Stay dry, Chloe, and catch some bad guys while you’re at it.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

  “If He were truly listening, Chloe, you wouldn’t be flying into a monsoon.”

  Chapter 25

  Liam’s forecast had been right on the money. My rental car hydroplaned as the nor’easter drove torrents of rain across Ocean Drive, a road that ran parallel to the Atlantic. My windshield wipers were on high but were unable to keep the windshield clear. I mean, the rain was coming down in buckets—it was cow-pissing-on-a-flat-rock kind of rain. Daring to take my eyes off the road for a moment, I saw that the sea was angry (Yes, stalwart Seinfeld fans—like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli). The chop was fierce, and the sky was just downright threatening. My car rocked as gust after gust swept by on its way out to sea.

  The seaside town of Rehoboth Beach looked dismal as I inched up a neighborhood street, searching for the home of Wendell Benoit, the psychologist who consulted with local police on the murder of Lindsay Harding, the woman who Connor Patrick had been convicted of slaying. It was only five thirty, but the sky was already so overcast that daylight was almost completely absent. I had to strain my eyes as I peered through the rain-beaten glass in search of his home. Lightning flashed in the sky—for a moment the fierce atmospheric disturbance bleached the narrow street in brilliant white light, and I was able to see the house numbers clearly. There it is. I pulled to the curb just as the heavens opened up, dropping so much rain that my visibility was reduced to zero. “It can’t last long,” I said to myself and opted to wait in the car until the rain let up a bit.

  It was a long wait. I lost hope after five minutes, pulled my FBI jacket over my head, grabbed my go-bag, and bolted from the car so quickly that an onlooker would’ve thought it was about to explode.

  Amazing! I thought with despair. I had traversed less than twenty feet from the car to Benoit’s door, yet I was soaked from head to toe as I stood dripping beneath the awning. My ID was in the back pocket of my jeans. I was reaching for it when the door opened.

  “Christ. Come in. Come in,” Benoit said with due urgency in his voice. “I saw you running from the car.” He was slight of build with thick, jet-black hair and a matching mustache. He stepped aside, allowing me to enter his home and drip like a wet rat upon his welcome mat. “Raining cats and dogs out there. Welcome to Rehoboth Beach.” He had a friendly demeanor and a soothing voice, which I assumed was SOP for most psychologists. “Can you believe Rehoboth Beach is a hot summer destination?”

  I thought about Liam’s joke, the one that hadn’t amused me. “For ducks, perhaps.”

  Benoit snickered. “I know that you’re with the FBI, but can I ask you to take off your shoes?”

  “Absolutely.” I stepped on the backs of my Piloti driving shoes and pried them off. I’m usually a lot more caring of my footwear, but between the snow in Saranac Lake and the Rehoboth Beach monsoon, my favorite driving shoes were now only fit for gardening detail.

  “I’ll get you a towel.”

  “Actually …” I began awkwardly. I held up the go-bag that Liam had packed for me. “Do you mind if I change my clothes? I feel like I just went for a swim, and I don’t want to ruin your furniture.”

  “Of course—top of the stairs. I’ll get you that clean towel.”

  ~~~

  My fresh clothes were dry and much more FBI-like: navy slacks and a short-sleeve ecru-colored blouse. Despite the fresh garb, Benoit’s home felt damp from the air coming in through the marginally opened windows. His living room was tastefully decorated in earth tones and stocked with what appeared to be antique bric-a-brac. A lamp was illuminated, but the room was still dark and, I dare say, dreary, but with the weather being what it was …

  I could see him through the doorway. He was in the kitchen preparing something. I suppose he was just finishing up, because he entered the room moments later carrying a tray with steaming mugs of tea and those yummy Speculoos cookies that are all the rage.

  He set the tray down on the coffee table and took the upholstered wingback chair opposite me.

  “I feel like I’m in a therapy session.”

  He wrinkled his forehead and then I could see that revelation had come. “Oh, because I’m in the chair and you’re on the couch?” He smiled. “Force of habit, I guess. Would you be more comfortable over here?”

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks for the tea—pretty raw outside.”

  “And the forecast for tomorrow is seventy degrees and bright sunshine—go figure.”

  I don’t usually make small talk, but Benoit was being an exceedingly thoughtful host. “My boyfriend is a meteorologist. He warned me about the nor’easter.”

  “And you came anyway. Good for you.” He sipped his tea. “Chamomile—I hope that’s all right.”

  Between the tea, the dim lighting, and his palliative demeanor, I was worried about falling asleep. I sipped the steaming brew. God, I hope he’s not one of those boring longwinded types. “Oh, it’s great. Thanks again.”

  “So you’d like me to tell you about Connor Patrick—that’s what you said over the phone, isn’t it?”

  “Actually … His brother, Phillip, was murdered, and I thought learning about Connor’s background might help me to track down Phillip’s killer.”

  Benoit gritted his teeth. “Murdered, huh? It’s no wonder the police couldn’t find him. I actually thought that Patrick might have been tied up in the murder investigation Connor ultimately lost his life for. The authorities did a nationwide search for him but were obviously unsuccessful.”

  “Tied in with the murder? How so?”

  Benoit picked up a cookie and got comfortable in his chair. “Kind of a long story.”

  Thunder crackled outside, and the sound of the heavy rain hitting the roofs of cars sounded like the crashing of a million ironsmiths’ mallets on cold-rolled steel. If Phillip was perhaps connected to Lindsay Harding’s murder, I might learn something vital. Patience, marine, be a good listener. “Take your time. It doesn’t look like I’ll be leaving anytime soon.” Just then lightning flashed and the lights went out.

  Chapter 26

  “Connor Patrick was scheduled to die by lethal injection,” Benoit began.

  I don’t think the power outage bothered him one little bit. He lit some candles and filled a candy dish with trail mix. He had a captive audience and seemed intent on taking advantage of the opportunity.

  He continued, “It was a stormy night rife with crackling thunder and the sizzle of lightning. Just like today,” he said with a grin.

  He made me feel like a kid listening to ghost stories. I edged forward in my seat because Benoit was very dramatic. He was someone who could draw you in like a psychic f
orging a connection with the dearly departed.

  “I was dry inside and away from the brutal elements but felt no less vulnerable as I watched the man being prepared for execution.” He rubbed his arm to dramatize. “There was a stagnant chill in the air, which made goose bumps rise on my arms and the back of my neck.”

  I sensed that Benoit was an accomplished storyteller and that he’d wax on and on, but the storm outside was as savage as ever, so I kicked back and let the master go to work.

  “Connor was strapped to the table with his arms secured out to the sides on cantilever-type extensions, like Jesus strapped to a horizontal cross. A man of God gave him last rites, and then a needle was inserted into his arm.” He took another sip of tea. “Have you ever witnessed an execution, Agent Mather?”

  “Honestly, no, but I’ve seen a boatload of them on TV.”

  “It’s awful. I mean sitting there and realizing that someone is actually going to die. At that moment you forget that the accused ended someone’s life, and all you can think of is, ‘This guy is about to die, and I’m watching it.’ He was hooked up to an infuser pump that held three vials. Each contained a different drug to be administered in a specific sequence and, if carried out correctly, was supposed to result in a peaceful nondramatic death.

  I helped myself to some of the trail mix. “Hard to put myself in a condemned man’s shoes and feel what he must’ve felt.”

  “I’m sure that he knew what was about to happen, but he was so still and calm. It seemed as if he was already resigned to his coming death and was not about to protest his passing. I’m sure that he understood the concept of death, but the look on his face … He seemed so completely detached, as if he had absolutely no connection with reality. I’d seen that look on his face before, several times, in fact. The warden asked if there was anything he’d like to say. I really had to strain to hear what he mumbled, ‘An eye for an eye, the world is blind.’ And that was it.”

  “Unusual last words, wouldn’t you say? Did you have any insight as to what he meant?”