by Lauren Carr
“She’s on the run.” Bogie grabbed his radio.
“Don’t worry,” Mac said. “I know where she went. She’s got one more loose end to tie up.”
Officer Fletcher looked up from where he was reading a magazine at the door to David’s room when Chelsea and Molly came out. “Going home for the evening?”
“They won’t let me stay.” She frowned before grinning. “But he can come home tomorrow.”
“Chief is really lucky,” Fletcher smiled into her light blue eyes, “in more ways than one.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. “He’s got a great team keeping an eye over him. Thank you for taking good care of him.” She gestured for Molly to follow her. “Come along, Molly.”
With Molly at her side, Chelsea went on down the hall and pressed the button for the elevator.
When the doors opened, Fletcher stood up at attention when a shapely blonde in a nurse’s uniform came off.
Chelsea and Molly stepped onto the elevator. Molly uttered a low growl that startled Chelsea. “Molly, behave,” she ordered as the doors shut.
The nurse’s long thick blonde hair was tied back into a braided ponytail that draped down past her shoulders. The top button of her uniform was undone to expose her abundant bosom. She carried a tray with a paper cup and pill cup on it. As she approached, she flashed Fletcher a broad smile that lit her face all the way up to her big blue eyes framed in thick lashes.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” she said in a deep southern accent. “I haven’t seen you about these parts.”
Flattered, Fletcher stood up tall and stuck his chest out. “I haven’t seen you on this floor.”
“I’ve been on vacation.” She pointed at her name tag pinned to her bosom. “My name is Grace, but everyone calls me Gracie.” She tapped him on the chest. “You can call me anytime.”
Like a flustered schoolboy, Fletcher laughed along with her.
“Is this the police chief’s room? David O’Callaghan? I have orders to give him a couple of sleeping pills to help him sleep. Nasty business getting shot and all. He’s been in a lot of pain. I think that’s just awful—trying to kill our officers who go out there every day trying to protect the rest of us.”
“Well, those of us on the front lines know it’s a dangerous business we’ve chosen, but someone has to do it.” Fletcher opened the door for her. “Go on in … Gracie.”
With a girlish giggle, she slipped on inside. David was sitting up in bed when she came around the curtain. She paused to look at him. A slight smile crossed his face when he looked at her lovely figure.
“Hello, darling. Your doctor gave us orders to give you something to help you sleep.” She came up to the bed and set the tray on the bed stand.
“Oh, good.” David shifted on the bed. “The pain killers are wearing off.”
She looked into his face. “My, you are one good looking piece of beefcake.”
A blush came to David’s cheeks. “Thank you.”
She handed him the cup of pills. “Down the hatch and you’ll be out in no time.”
David shook the pills out into his palm and tossed them back. He swallowed. She then handed him the cup of water. His eyes met hers while he gulped it down.
A slow chuckle came to her lips. “Good bye, David.” She reached for the tray only to have him grab her arms.
Before she could jerk away, he had twisted her around and pinned her crossways down on the bed. “Now it’s your turn, Genie,” he breathed into her ear while pressing down on top of her.
“No,” she laughed loudly, “it’s your turn. The cyanide should take affect just about now.”
“Do you mean this cyanide?” Pinning her down with his knee against her shoulder blade, David held up his hand and opened his fist. The two pills dropped down onto the bed. “Oops, I forgot to take my medicine.” He yelled toward the door. “Fletcher!”
With a scream, she grabbed the tray from the bed stand and whacked David in side of the head. When he fell back, she rolled out from under him.
When Fletcher came in with his gun drawn, she plowed into him. They both fell to the floor. The gun slid across the floor.
With her blonde wig crooked on her head, she scrambled across the floor for the gun. With a loud, high-pitched laugh of triumph, she clamped her hand onto the weapon, only to have her hand crushed by the weight of a foot slamming down on top of it and pinning it to the floor.
She gazed up the leg and body to Mac Faraday’s face. “You should have taken me up on my offer to take a vacation at the Spencer Inn, Karin.”
“Book her, Fletcher,” Bogie ordered the officer who was already slapping his cuffs on her. “Are you okay?” he asked David who was digging through the covers. The side of his hospital gown was stained red with blood from his torn sutures.
“I have a couple of cyanide tablets for you to take into evidence,” David said.
Chelsea came in with Molly on her leash. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.” She glared at the woman in handcuffs. “Molly told me you were evil. I should have listened.”
“I had it covered, Chelsea.” David handed the tablets to Bogie. “She never would have made her move with you here.”
“That’s what you think.” Karin laughed when Fletcher removed a switchblade from her pocket. “Within hours, the police would have been looking for Chelsea Adams, David O’Callaghan’s scorned girlfriend who killed the chief after catching him having a fling with a nurse.”
“You had all your bases covered,” Bogie said.
“Not all of them,” Chelsea said. “David had you pegged.”
“Not always.” Her laugh frightened them with its evil tone.
“The wolf man warned me that there was a shape shifter at the castle,” David said. “It took me a while to figure it out. Someone wasn’t who they were supposed to be and took on someone else’s identity. Out of everyone, the only one who would have wanted to kill me would have to have been someone I could identify. That someone had to be Genevieve Wagner because she was the only one I had met.”
She licked her lips while looking David up and down. “If anyone had to catch me, I’m glad it was you, David. You always were my favorite. That’s why I didn’t kill you when I had the chance before.”
“Are you talking about the shooting?” Mac asked.
She laughed loudly. “No, back when we were first together.” Her laughter became louder and more wicked. “You still don’t have it figured out.”
“You’re a black widow,” David said in a low tone.
Chelsea clutched him with both arms.
“Get her out of here,” Bogie ordered Fletcher.
“It was a blast, my love,” she cackled while the officer struggled to lead her away. “Thanks for the memories!”
“This week, it was Lacey and then Karin Bond.” Mac stopped them as they went past him. “Raymond Hollister recognized you at the hotel as Taylor Jones. What’s your real name?”
“No one will ever know.” She was still laughing when Fletcher led her away.
Chapter Twenty
“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” Mac told David outside the interrogation room.
Watching David leafing through the reports in the case files, he was beginning to think the police chief didn’t hear him when he replied, “It’s my job.”
“Mac’s right.” Ben Fleming made his presence known when he came down the hallway with Bogie behind him. “You’re too close to the case. Not only did the suspect, whoever she is, try to kill you, but you slept with her.”
“A dozen years ago,” David said.
“Fresh enough in her mind to make her take a shot at you,” Bogie said, “and then try to finish the job.”
“She’s flat-out admitted to killing almost
every man she slept with,” Mac said. “You and Kyle Finch are lucky … excuse my pun.”
“I don’t want you anywhere near her,” Ben said in his tone of official capacity. “This woman is a serial killer. We need to nail her to the wall. That won’t happen if you go in there to interrogate her, because her defense attorney is going to use your past relationship to their advantage to let her walk.”
“Mac has the most experience with suspects like this,” Bogie said. “He’s been close to the case from the get-go. Let him interrogate her.” He gestured down the hallway. “We’ve got Kyle Finch and his lawyer giving his statement. He’s going to be a prosecution witness.”
“Do we have a positive ID on her yet?” Ben asked.
Mac, Bogie, and David exchanged glances before Bogie said, “Her prints are nowhere in the system.”
“When she was pretending to be Karin, she told us that Lacey had grown up on the streets in Germany,” Mac said.
“Lacey never existed,” Bogie said. “She was a character this actress created to get close to Finch.”
“Was she?” Mac asked. “Was she completely fiction? She told us that Karin Bond had been out of work for two years. That was true. Actors will often use experiences from their past in order to bring realism to their performances. Why Germany? Why didn’t she use a more generic country like Europe? She specified Germany.”
“You’re thinking that since she was that specific, that maybe it could be true,” David said. “In which case, there may be a record of her in Interpol.”
“I’ll have them run her prints through the Interpol database.” Bogie was already running down the hallway.
Mac took the case files from David’s arms. “In the meantime, I’m going to nail our Jane Doe for murder.”
Having seen her in action, Mac was able to practically predict her next move.
He saw that his prediction was right when she was curled up in her chair, looking disheveled and pitiful, while her defense attorney, a maternal grandmotherly type, who Mac had recognized from the public defender’s office, patted her hand. He recalled that her name was Marietta Bissette.
Their killer was playing the insanity card.
Having seen her play the role of Lacey, a stunning super-model, and Karin, a dowdy, chubby assistant, and the shapely blonde nurse named Gracie; Mac was curious about what the real woman would look like.
The publicity still that the private investigator had emailed to him was of a slender young woman with wavy dark hair and green eyes. She was attractive, but there wasn’t anything about her that stood out enough to propel her to stardom. She maybe didn’t have the looks, but she certainly had the talent to take on various personalities to lure men to her bed, where she could strip them of everything before killing them.
The woman now sitting across from Mac was plain in her appearance. Without the benefit of wigs to change her facade, her real hair turned out to be ash-colored and cropped short. He surmised she wore such a style in order to wear wigs for long periods of time. Her slender figure made her able to pass for a model to some of her marks. At the moment, she couldn’t pass for that role in the orange overalls that she had been changed into after her arrest. Her makeup was streaked. She had black blotches under her eyes where the thick mascara she had worn as Grace smeared.
She was a shape-shifter in search of her next shape.
“Ms. Doe …” Mac placed the stack of case files on top of the table.
“First of all,” Marietta said, “my client intends to cooperate fully … as best she can.”
“Really?”
“I think we can all agree that she’s in need of medical attention,” the defense attorney said. “She has no memory of anything that has happened. She can’t even supply me with her name. It’s obvious that she won’t be able to assist in her own defense. That being the case, I am planning to plead her not guilty by reason of insanity.”
Why am I not surprised? Mac cast a glance across the table.
The corner of the black widow’s lip was curled up in a smirk.
Mac glanced over his shoulder at the two-way mirror. He wondered if David and Ben had caught the slip of her smile. “Your client is not insane,” Mac said. “She’s a cold-blooded serial killer.”
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” she said with a sob.
Mac ignored her response. “Tell us about Karin Bond,” he said. “Who is she?”
“The police report says that was the name my client was using here in Deep Creek Lake,” the defense attorney said.
“She was using the name and a disguise,” Mac said. “We found body padding in her room that she used to make herself appear heavier. She also wore a dark wig.”
“I don’t understand,” the black widow said. “That was my name. … It’s foggy, but I have a vague memory.”
“How long have you been using that name?” Mac asked her.
“Time is hard for me to judge,” she sobbed into her hands. The cuffs dangled on her wrists like dual silver bracelets. “It comes and goes.”
“You told us that you’d been out of work for a couple of years when you went to work for Lacey,” Mac said. “Where did you work before you lost your job?”
“I was a clerk at a video movie store,” she said. “When everyone started using cable television and Internet movies, the shop closed and I ended up out of a job.”
“Sounds rough,” Mac said.
“I guess the stress and pressure made me lose my mind,” she said. “I love movies. All the time I was alone and not working, I liked to escape into the movies and imagine myself as other people.”
“Like a black widow?” Mac asked.
“I’m not a black widow.” With wide eyes, she whispered, “I don’t know what I am—or even who I am.” The corners of her lips curled. “Who are you again?”
“As you can see,” Marietta said, “my client has developed multiple personalities. Maybe one of her personalities is a killer, but she’s not.”
“Did I kill someone?” She sobbed. “I couldn’t. I never knew what I was doing.”
“You have no memory of who you are or what you have done?” Mac asked.
“Exactly,” Marietta said. “This is a textbook case of insanity.”
“Unless she was fully aware all the time of what she was doing,” Mac said, “which can be proven with premeditation and careful planning.” He turned back to the black widow. “Tell me about when Lacey died.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You said she had texted you.”
She nodded her head. “I remember her sending me a text. It was nine-thirty the night before I came to Deep Creek Lake to meet her and Mr. Gould,” she added with a choked voice, “but they were already dead.”
“Where were you when you got that text?”
“At my place in New York,” she said. “I live alone. It’s a dumpy little basement apartment. Lacey has closets bigger than my place.”
“And you were driving down from New York?”
“I left a little bit after she’d texted me to bring her red dress,” she said. “So, I remember going to her and Mr. Gould’s apartment and getting the dress and leaving.”
“Funny,” Mac said, “the doorman doesn’t remember you picking up the dress that night. He does remember you picking it up the night before.”
“The doorman is wrong,” Mariette said.
“Could be,” Mac said. “But this isn’t.” He took a sheet of paper out of the top case file. “We do have a record of that text being sent from Lacey’s cell phone to Karin Bond’s cell phone shortly before nine-thirty on the night of the murders. The Medical Examiner puts the time of death between eight and ten o’clock. So that’s within the kill zone.”
“And my client was in New York a
t the time Lacey sent her that text,” Marietta said. “So she couldn’t have committed those murders.”
“Except,” Mac pointed at the report, “the cell tower is on the very next mountain across from Spencer Mountain. When that text was sent, it bounced off the tower and went right back to Spencer Mountain. That means Karin’s cell phone was in the same vicinity as Lacey’s.”
He caught the black widow’s eye. “You sent that text from Lacey’s cell phone to Karin’s to make it seem as if you were in New York.”
Marietta was still studying the report when Mac placed a copy of a receipt on top of it. “Gas receipt from Karin Bond’s credit card. She filled up her gas tank in La Vale, Maryland, forty-one miles away from Spencer, at five-thirty. That puts her in the vicinity at the time of the murder. Not only that, but she also filled up a five-gallon gas container.” Mac leveled his gaze on the woman across the table. “I have no doubt about that gasoline being used to set the fire at the castle, which points to premeditation.”
“Why would I kill Lacey and then set her on fire?” the black widow said with tear-filled eyes.
Mac laced his fingers together and placed his hands on the table “Because you’re a cold-blooded murderer. You killed Stan Gould for his money, Lacey. As his wife, he trusted you enough to tell you about his rainy day account. You got all the access codes you needed to make the transfer via your smart phone to your offshore account, where you have been stashing the spoils from your murders.”
Mac told the stunned defense attorney. “We got a warrant to go through your client’s belongings and found the smart phone with records of her accounts that show the transfers. Not only did we find over one hundred million dollars stolen from Stan Gould’s account, but money from what appears to be several other victims.”
He turned back to the black widow. “After killing Gould, you killed Karin Bond to cover your tracks. Unfortunately for you, fortunately for us, you made several mistakes. You’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“She killed … how many—” Marietta began to ask before her client interrupted with her loud insane laughter.