Closer Than You Think

by Karen Rose

  Roza grew grim. ‘And I get to kill him.’

  Corinne sighed. ‘Just put on your shoes, sweetie.’ She struggled to her knees, every joint in her body aching – Suck it up, soldier – and shuffled to the window. All clear.

  As shelters went, it was primo. Good visibility. Dry. Six feet off the ground, they were protected from the critters that were almost certainly out there. If I had a rifle, I’d stay here and shoot his sorry head off. But she didn’t. She had a few kitchen knives and a shovel.

  And she had to pee. ‘I’m going to go down first. You stay here until I call you. If anything happens to me, you run, understand? You go back to the sign and you run the way that points to Route 60.’

  She waited until Roza nodded before gripping the windowsill and pulling herself to her feet. She gritted her teeth, let the agony pass, then grabbed the shovel and the knives, just in case the critters came too close. ‘Take this,’ she said to Roza, handing her a knife. ‘Hold on to it. We might need it.’

  Roza took the knife solemnly. ‘I won’t lose it, ’Rin.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Corinne made it down the ladder and found a little privacy behind a tree. She was just about to step back into the open when she heard footsteps behind her. She whirled, her pounding heart in her throat.

  And was horrified to see him standing there.

  It’s him. He found us. She backed away, stumbling when her too-big boot tripped over a tree root. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said soothingly, coming closer. ‘I’ve been searching for you.’

  I’ll bet you have. Corinne studied his face, catalogued every feature. Tightened her grip on the knife, turning her arm so that the blade wasn’t visible to him.

  He kept coming closer, palms out, like he really meant no harm.

  She waited . . . waited . . . And when his hand started to move, she struck, arcing her arm up and plunging the knife into his gut, slashing as far as she could.

  His face went flat with shock and he stared down at the knife stuck in his gut. ‘You fucking stabbed me!’ He took another staggering step forward and pulled out the knife.

  Corinne feigned left, then darted right to grab her shovel. He was moving more slowly now, one hand clamped over his wound, but he was still moving. Gathering her strength, she ran at his back, holding the shovel with the handle straight out like a bayonet. She hit him hard, then jumped to the side, letting momentum carry her away as he went down on one knee.

  ‘Roza!’ she yelled. ‘Run! Run!’

  Roza ran out of the door, took one look at Corinne and obeyed, running down the stairs and back the way they’d come.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘Don’t do this. I came to—’

  Corinne shifted her hold on the shovel, holding it like a ball bat, and swung, hitting him squarely in the back of the head.

  He went down. He finally went down. He was lying still, face down.

  Corinne bent over, bracing her hands on her thighs, panting, sweating. Shaking like a damn leaf. ‘I know what you came to do, you sick sonofabitch,’ she spat.

  Get his keys, she thought. And his phone. And don’t forget his gun. She edged close to the man, bending down to his pants pocket.

  He moved like lightning, his hand grabbing her ankle like a vise. Or a shackle. Without hesitation, she brought the shovel down on his head again. Then she ran like hell and didn’t look back until she’d caught up with Roza at the sign.

  ‘Is he dead? Did you kill him?’ Roza asked, panting.

  ‘I don’t know. I think I knocked him out, but he kept getting up.’ She grabbed Roza’s hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go before he finds us. Run.’

  Cincinnati, Ohio, Wednesday 5 November, 9.03 A.M.

  ‘Uncle Jordan!’ Faith stood up when her uncle approached, waving him to their table.

  ‘He doesn’t look terribly impressed with our hospitality,’ Deacon murmured. Cincinnati PD’s cafeteria was really a glorified break room with a few tables and a lot of vending machines. Too many cops ran on caffeine and sugar, and most mornings Deacon was one of them. This morning, however, he’d woken to Faith and his blood was still rushing through his veins.

  Jordan O’Bannion, on the other hand, looked as if he’d swallowed a prune.

  ‘Jordan likes fine china and silver teapots,’ Faith said with a smile. ‘He’s always said that his idea of roughing it is a Holiday Inn without room service.’ She waited until Jordan reached them before leaning up to kiss his cheek.

  Jordan eyed the duct-taped vinyl bench seat with apprehension, making Faith laugh. ‘I wiped it down before you got here,’ she said. ‘It’s clean.’

  Her uncle sat across from Deacon, the way he’d planned it. He’d arranged the chair so that the only place the man could sit was furthest away from Faith. He planned to take no chances, even within the police station’s walls.

  Jordan’s eyes were less puffy today than they’d been the day before, and he appeared to be sober. That was promising. But his face was flushed and sweat beaded on his upper lip and his brow. There was a general edginess to him that Deacon recognized from the few times his own father had tried to kick the habit. He must really need a drink.

  ‘Mr O’Bannion, thank you for being willing to see us here,’ he said. ‘It’s easier to keep Faith safe here.’

  ‘Of course. I completely understand.’ O’Bannion took a moment to study Faith’s face. ‘You’re looking much better today than you did yesterday. I hope you’ve gotten some rest.’

  ‘I did, thank you. Agent Novak said you might have some information for us.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure what it is you’re looking for, and in many cases what I was looking at. But first, I want to give you this.’ He pushed an older-model cell phone across the table. ‘I’d like to be able to reach you myself, without going through Agent Novak. It’s not a new phone with fancy features, but you can receive calls and send texts.’ He gave her a chiding look. ‘Your father asked me to get you a phone because he was worried. I had an old one in my desk drawer that still had some minutes on it.’

  Deacon took the phone and looked it over, feeling a sudden prickle of unease. ‘Why did you have a pre-paid phone in your desk drawer, Mr O’Bannion?’ he asked.

  ‘It was my housekeeper’s. Mary’s never been able to afford a smartphone, so I gave her Mother’s.’ His shrug was rueful. ‘Mother’s not using it anymore.’

  It was a reasonable explanation, Deacon thought, and Faith’s uncle had an alibi for all the times anyone had been attacked. Still his unease persisted. He hoped it was only Jordan’s edginess rubbing off on him. ‘Thank you for the phone. I was going to pick one up for Faith today, so you’ve saved me a trip. Okay, now what is your information?’

  ‘I spent the evening going through Mother’s papers and I found the name of the company you asked me about yesterday, the company that maintains the estate. It’s Maguire and Sons and they have an office in Mount Carmel.’ He handed Faith an invoice. ‘She paid them every six months. Paid them pretty well, too. I was surprised to see how well. Had I known, I would have put a stop to it long ago.’

  Faith handed the invoice to Deacon. ‘Can I have all the receipts, Jordan? If I end up keeping the house, I’ll want them for reference.’

  Deacon hid his surprise. Either she’d drastically changed her mind about the house, or she was putting on a show for her uncle.

  Jordan didn’t hide his surprise at all. ‘Are you seriously thinking of keeping that house, Faith? It’s a huge responsibility. It cost Mother far too much to keep up when it was empty. Living in it would cost a small fortune.’

  ‘I was planning to keep it when I came up here. Now I don’t know, but I’m thinking that even if I decide to sell, it may be a while before anyone buys it. I’ll have to maintain it in the meantime. Maybe I’ll find out if the historical society can help defray the cost.’

  Jordan frowned. ‘They’ll want to put the house on the
national registry, and Mother wouldn’t have wanted that.’

  ‘Why?’ Deacon asked. ‘I’d think she’d want the house to be protected and enjoyed.’

  ‘She did – by O’Bannions. She didn’t want to share it with the public. She wanted Faith to have it, hoping she’d get remarried and have lots of children to fill it up.’ He smiled at Faith affectionately. ‘You know how she was. She kept holding out hope.’

  Faith rolled her eyes. ‘I know.’

  ‘Why did she allow the cemetery to be registered, then?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘It was outside and she knew she couldn’t keep Civil War buffs from visiting it. She figured if the historical society was protecting it, it would be less likely that anyone would vandalize it. She loved that old pile of bones, all the way back to Colonel Zeke—’

  ‘O’Bannion of the 6th Ohio Infantry,’ Faith finished. ‘I know. I heard all the stories, if not from Gran, then from my mother.’

  Jordan’s eyes grew sad. ‘Maggie loved that old place too. But seriously, I think you need to reconsider the historical society. I found this letter that Mother wrote to them that made me contact you this morning. She never sent it.’ He handed it to Deacon. ‘I don’t know why she didn’t.’

  Printed on computer paper, it was dated the previous year and signed ‘Barbara O’Bannion’.

  Faith leaned over Deacon’s arm to read along with him. ‘She was unhappy with the gardener who was taking care of the cemetery,’ she murmured, then frowned. ‘She saw him coming out of the house? How? She never went out there, did she, Jordan?’

  Deacon reread the letter, his prickle of unease having just grown. A signed, unsent letter from Jordan’s dead mother turning up, giving them a new suspect . . . It could be real, but Deacon’s gut found it terribly convenient. It felt . . . wrong.

  ‘This was why I asked you to meet me,’ Jordan said. ‘I never took her out there. She had brittle hips. One fall and she would have been in traction. Did you?’

  ‘No! For the same reason.’

  ‘I didn’t think so, but I wanted to check. I was never quite sure what you two did together when you visited and I went to my studio to paint. So I thought maybe she’d talked you into it.’

  ‘She tried, but I always said no. I could never have gotten her down those narrow stairs in your townhouse to begin with. Really, Jordan,’ Faith added, perturbed, ‘how irresponsible do you think I am?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jordan said. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. The only other person who might have taken her was Henson Senior. She had him wrapped around her little finger.’

  ‘He said he hadn’t been out there since your mother was buried, Faith,’ Deacon said quietly.

  Faith picked up the letter, troubled. ‘This is my grandmother’s signature. Maybe she just thought she’d been out to the cemetery. I didn’t think her mind had grown muddy, but perhaps it had.’

  ‘I thought the same thing,’ Jordan admitted. ‘But he was there the day we buried her. The gardener, I mean. He stood by the gate, his hat in his hand. I was surprised, because it wasn’t his day to mow, but I figured he was curious, or maybe planned to lock the gate afterward. At any rate, I thought you should know. If the gardener had access to the house . . .’

  Deacon dropped the letter in an evidence envelope. Bishop had checked out the gardener, who was almost as old as Henson Senior and had an alibi. As did Henson Senior. Then again, so did Jordan, so why would he lie?

  The letter could be a perfectly legitimate piece of evidence. Deacon hoped it was. It still felt wrong. ‘We’ll check it out,’ he said politely. ‘Thank you, Mr O’Bannion.’

  Jordan leaned across the table to peck Faith’s cheek. ‘Be careful, kiddo. You and I are the only ones left. Call me when you get a chance today. I need to know you’re safe.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’ Still troubled, she watched him go, then turned to Deacon. ‘I didn’t think my Gran had developed dementia, but she was eighty-four.’

  ‘Before you go down that road, let’s see what the gardener has to say.’ He took the phone from her hand and dropped it in the pocket of his new leather coat, making a mental note to call Daphne to thank her. ‘What?’ he asked Faith, who glared at him.

  ‘Why did you take this phone?’ she demanded. ‘It’s not broken or compromised.’

  Deacon hoped that was true, but he was going to pay attention to his gut. ‘Because I’m a paranoid man who’s witnessed two attempts on your life.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You think Jordan is the murderer? He’s got an alibi. You said so yourself. And don’t you think I’d know? Good God, Deacon.’

  She sounded so flabbergasted that Deacon almost gave her back the phone. The truth was he didn’t think Jordan O’Bannion would get his shiny Ferragamos scuffed, much less rip the organs from the dead victims’ bodies.

  ‘He does have an alibi, and no, I don’t put him anywhere near Stone and the others in terms of suspicion. But let Tanaka check the phone, okay? For my peace of mind.’

  ‘All right.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘I almost think you want me to be phone-less. Then I’m more dependent on you.’

  He waggled his brows. ‘You caught me.’

  She rolled her eyes again. ‘You better be glad you’re charming, Novak.’

  Deacon threw back his head and laughed. ‘Charming? Nobody has ever called me that before. Usually I’m just a pain in the ass.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t see you like I do,’ she said smugly.

  He dropped his voice, gratified when she shivered. ‘Or like you did two hours ago.’

  Her cheeks pinked up prettily. ‘And how I hope to see you again very soon. So hurry up and solve this case, Deacon,’ she said lightly, but then her smile dimmed. ‘Please,’ she added in a whisper. ‘We need to make him stop.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cincinnati, Ohio, Wednesday 5 November, 9.45 A.M.

  Faith sat in Deacon’s chair, staring at nothing. How messed up was this situation that he felt like he had to prove a gift from her uncle wasn’t a Trojan horse meant to ensnare her?

  How messed up when two of the photographs in the SUSPECTS column of their bulletin board were her own kin?

  And what about Combs? Where was he? How did he fit into any of this?

  She dropped her gaze to her laptop on Deacon’s desk. And why hadn’t she heard back from her new boss? Resolutely she picked up Deacon’s office phone and dialed her boss’s number.

  ‘Mr Burns, this is Faith Corcoran.’ She’d filled out all her paperwork with the new name, telling them the change was due to her divorce. ‘I sent you an email yesterday advising you of an auto accident that prevented me from coming into the office. Did you receive it?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Corcoran, I did.’

  This is bad, she thought when he said no more. ‘I’d hoped the situation would have resolved itself by now, but it has not. What is the company policy in situations like this?’

  An awkward silence on his end. ‘We have reconsidered your employment. I’m sorry to tell you that we’ve chosen to separate ourselves from you.’ More awkward silence from her boss.

  A furious silence from her. Because as positive as she’d been with Deacon about Kimble’s rogue inquiry, she really didn’t want to lose her job. At least I have a house to live in, she thought sarcastically. ‘Based upon what, exactly?’

  ‘Based on a call we received from a homicide detective yesterday, citing you as a suspect in a murder case.’

  I’m not the suspect, you holier-than-thou asshole. I’m the goddamned intended victim.

  ‘I’m afraid you were given inaccurate information. I am not a suspect. Did you even consider that it might not be true?’

  ‘We don’t have the luxury of taking the chance. We are an old institution and have shareholders to protect, none of whom will accept this kind of taint.’

  Taint? ‘Very well. I would like your decision in writing.’

  A slight pause. ‘For what p
urpose?’

  ‘For my records, of course. And because most reporters want documentation.’

  ‘Reporters?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘Goodbye, Mr Burns.’ She hung up and stared at the phone.

  And realized that she wasn’t trembling. Her stomach wasn’t churning. There was no bone-chilling fear about how she’d pay her bills. Other than a mild annoyance at Kimble’s interference and a ton of fury for the how-does-this-affect-me attitude of the bank, she really didn’t feel upset.

  She wasn’t worried. Wasn’t fretting. It was liberating, actually. When this nightmare was over, she could go back to doing what she did well – helping victims.

  She owned fifty acres of primo property. She could sell it and live quite comfortably. And if the notoriety made the property hard to sell, she’d hold on to it until the furor quieted.

  She might not sell all the land in any case. She might leave some around the house itself for a memorial to the ten women who’d died there.

  She did a quick search on her computer and chose a real estate agency local to the area, bypassing the realtor Mr Henson Senior had recommended. The whole situation with Maguire and Sons had showed her that, best case, he was blind to the dealings of his firm, particularly those involving his grandson. Worst case, he was dishonest. Either way, she’d choose her own service providers from here on out.

  Normally she’d list the realtor as a contact on her phone, or file a memo to herself on her phone. ‘It’s a sad day when a modern woman has to resort to pencil and paper,’ she muttered.

  Deacon’s desk was completely clear. Bishop, however, had a University of Cincinnati Bearcat mug filled with pens. Faith borrowed one and looked for something to write on. The only other thing on Bishop’s desk was a thick folder with a rubber band around it. The sticky note on the folder read: Det. Bishop – a copy of the papers you requested from C. Longstreet’s dorm.

  Faith searched around it, trying not to pry, but one of the pages in the folder caught her eye. Legal size, it stuck out of the top, the sender’s logo barely visible but very familiar. She leaned in to get a closer look at the logo and immediately knew why it was familiar. She’d seen it only the night before, when she’d taken the deed from her safe to give to Deacon. It belonged to her grandmother’s attorney’s firm – Henson and Henson.