by Lisa Gardner
“She?”
“That’s my guess. Mac wants a boy. Major league pitcher, I think. What’s with you guys?”
“Sports matter,” Sal said seriously. “What else would we do on Monday nights?”
Kimberly dug into her cottage cheese. She had a lot to report, but figured it was only fair to let Sal call the shots. He probably had some aggression to work out. Sure enough, he got straight into it.
“Nice, Quincy. Tossing me a name like that. Just enough information to make me feel like you cared without actually putting out. I have to say, at least when I got screwed, it was by a class act.”
“Think I shoulda told you ’bout the ring, huh?”
“It crossed my mind.”
Kimberly spread her hands. She’d given this some thought, and this was the best she could offer. “Look: We can spend the next fifteen minutes with you feeling pissy because I didn’t share the ring, and me feeling pissy because you tried to muscle in on an informant who’d already asked for me, or we can agree that we’re both aggressive investigators, and get on with the matters at hand.”
“I don’t trust you, you don’t trust me, but because we’re both untrustworthy, we oughtta get along fine?”
“Exactly.”
Sal considered the matter. “Fair enough,” he conceded. “Proceed.”
He finished his sandwich, dabbing at his face. He missed the mayo on his cheek, and without thinking, she reached across the table and got it with her finger. The intimacy of the gesture struck her after the fact, and she sat back, embarrassed.
“So, ummm”—she dug around in her cottage cheese, fishing for a blueberry—“Delilah Rose gave me a class ring that allegedly belonged to Ginny Jones. I traced the ring to Tommy Mark Evans, who graduated from Alpharetta High School in oh-six. Ginny Jones was one of his classmates.”
“They were an item?”
“Coach Urey didn’t think so. His memory was that Tommy had been dating a girl named Darlene Angler for most of the season, but maybe broke up before graduation. He wasn’t clear on that detail. I spoke to the school secretary, however, and she’s getting her hands on a yearbook for us. Hopefully that’ll arrive by end of week. She looked up Virginia Jones for me—”
“Without a warrant?” Sal asked in surprise.
“I was using my nice voice. Besides, that’s why you ask the secretary. They’re preprogrammed to look up files for everyone at any time. They don’t stop to ask why.”
“Good point.”
“So, Ginny attended Alpharetta for four years, but didn’t graduate. Dropped out in February. Never returned. According to her files, calls were made to her home, but never answered. Finally, there’s a yellow sticky with a handwritten note—‘family appears to have left town.’ Guess that was the end of matters.
“Ginny had one parent listed as guardian. A mother, Veronica L. Jones. I made a couple of quick phone calls: Veronica L. Jones used to work as a waitress at the Hungryman Diner, but according to the manager, she no-showed her shifts and they never heard from her again. They do, however, have a last paycheck for her to pick up, should I locate her current whereabouts.”
Sal’s eyes widened. “She left behind a paycheck? That doesn’t sound good.”
“Don’t think it is. The Joneses owned a house in Alpharetta. The town filed a lien against it in the spring of oh-seven to collect back property taxes. House is now in foreclosure. I couldn’t find any trace of a missing persons report filed for either Veronica or Virginia Jones, and yet both of them are clearly gone.”
“As of February oh-six?” Sal asked with a frown.
Kimberly shrugged. “February is when Ginny stopped attending school, so I would assume somewhere in that time frame.”
“But according to your friend Delilah Rose, Ginny didn’t disappear until three months ago, November oh-seven. So color me confused.”
“Ah, but this is where the phone call gets interesting. Assume for a moment that the woman on the tape is Ginny’s mother, Veronica Jones.”
“She says she is, so good assumption.”
“Well, let’s say she was kidnapped in February oh-six. Now, Ginny comes home, but it’s an empty house. And night after night, it remains an empty house. Ginny could do the sensible thing and contact the authorities, but what kind of teenager does that? Instead, she splits. Maybe she has friends in Sandy Springs, or thinks it’ll be great to go clubbing for a bit, live on the wild side, never have a curfew …”
“Takes off to party, gets sucked into the scene, never gets back out.”
“Yeah. So mom’s victim number one.”
“And nearly two years later,” Sal filled in skeptically, “Ginny is victim number two?”
“Actually,” Kimberly said, “Ginny is victim number three.”
“Tommy Mark Evans graduated from Alpharetta in June oh-six. Star quarterback, magna cum laude, all-round hometown hero. Got a full scholarship to Penn State and took off for college in the fall. He returned for Christmas break. December twenty-seventh, he told his parents he was going out for a drive. Never came home.
“They found his truck three days later, tucked back on an old dirt road. Tommy was slumped over the wheel, dead from a double-tap to the forehead.”
Sal arched a brow. “Someone’s been watching The Sopranos. Any evidence the kid was into drugs? Using, dealing? Maybe the landscape changed while he was outta town, and the new kingpin didn’t like him coming back.”
“Coach Urey didn’t think so, but he believes the sun rose and set on Tommy’s shoulders, so I’d take his opinion with a grain of salt. Alpharetta PD handled the investigation. According to Urey, they never developed any major leads or made an arrest. The parents are still pretty torn up about it, losing their son at Christmas like that.”
“So now we got one missing parent and one dead classmate, both linked to Ginny Jones. Any other tragedies at Alpharetta I should know about?”
Kimberly shrugged. “Hell, it’s a big town. We’re probably only beginning. That’s why you should talk to the Alpharetta police.”
“Me?”
“They’ll take your call before mine. Besides, technically speaking, I’m not even on the case. I did all this out of the kindness of my heart.”
Sal appeared wary again. Kimberly didn’t blame him. What overworked fed ever did anything out of the kindness of her heart? Still, she thought a thank-you would be nice.
No such luck.
“I want the ring,” Sal declared. “My case, my evidence.”
“It’s secured in the evidence vault,” she assured him. “I’ll arrange for the transfer.”
“Anything else you haven’t told me?”
Kimberly started to say no, then realized she’d left out one other rather salient fact, and sighed. “Ummm, possibly Delilah Rose mentioned that Ginny Jones was last seen with a customer going by the alias Mr. Dinchara.”
“Mr. Dinchara?”
“An anagram for ‘arachnid.’ Apparently, Dinchara likes to bring his pets along. You know, nothing like a night out with your favorite tarantula.”
Sal appeared positively mesmerized. “No shit?”
“Not in the least. Guess no one else has mentioned him yet?”
“I think I would remember a story like that. What does he do with his spiders?”
“Oh, have them roam various body parts of the girls. Or, if he paid extra, watch.”
“Watch?”
“Ever get the feeling the world is becoming a freakier and freakier place?”
“Only every time I watch a reality TV show. So, a Mr. Dinchara with a pet tarantula. Hell, shouldn’t be too hard to get a bead on a customer that unique. What was his involvement with Jones?”
“He was a client. Guess the spiders didn’t bother Ginny; as you can guess they didn’t worry Ms. Rose—apparently she has a soft spot for all things with eight legs. However, in addition to last seeing Ginny with Mr. Dinchara, Delilah claims she found Tommy’s class ring on the floor of
Dinchara’s SUV. Ginny used to wear the ring around her neck on a chain, like a talisman. Delilah implied there was no way Ginny would’ve willingly left the ring behind.”
Sal was back to frowning. “If Ginny wore Tommy’s ring around her neck, wouldn’t that imply to you that they were more than classmates?”
“Generally, the wearing of a fellow’s ring is a sign of more than friends.”
“So clearly there is more to Tommy Mark Evans than Coach Urey suspects.”
“There always is. But if Ginny and Tommy were so tight, why did Ginny take off? Last I knew, landing a hunky, varsity quarterback boyfriend would give any teenage girl reason to stay. I mean, the bragging rights alone …”
“We’re talking ourselves in circles,” Sal said with a sigh.
“Lack of information will do that to you.”
“Bottom line, we now have ten missing females, one dead high school quarterback, one class ring connecting Missing Female A with Dead Male B, and one creepy-crawly mystery man. Anything I missed?”
“Ten dead bodies.”
He scowled. “Anything else?”
She shrugged, more serious this time. “The only real lead we have.”
“Which is?”
“Delilah Rose.”
FOURTEEN
“… the venom was used primarily as a paralyzing agent to inactivate the prey, which may actually remain alive for four to five days. The spider then feeds at its convenience.”
FROM Biology of the Brown Recluse Spider,
BY JULIA MAXINE HITE, WILLIAM J. GLADNEY, J. L. LANCASTER, JR., AND W. H. WHITCOMB, DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY, DIVISION OF AGRICULTURE, UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS, FAYETTEVILLE, MAY 1966
It was after six when Kimberly left the office. Traffic was piling up, the highway one long tangled snarl. She thought of heading back to work, waiting out the worst of the congestion. God knew she had a million calls she could make, 302s to process, reports to review. She didn’t, though.
She drove to Alpharetta.
She didn’t know the area well. Atlanta was so large she could spend decades here and still not make a dent in the explosion of sprawling townships that marked the city’s phenomenal rate of growth. The city felt like a web to her, one that was constantly being spun larger and larger, gobbling up chicken farms and country lanes until a scenic drive one year became the location of the latest mall the next. And yet the state absorbed the booming developments relatively easily, peace still two hours away in the northern mountains, or three hours away on the southern beaches. Mac claimed there was no place else on earth he’d rather live.
She was still considering the matter herself.
She was armed with a map, a cell phone, and a nearly photographic memory. How lost could she get?
The drive to Ginny Jones’s house wasn’t bad. The abandoned residence formed a small, gray mound against the darkening sky. Windows boarded up. Yard desperately overgrown. Yet it wasn’t the most neglected-looking property on the block.
Kimberly worked her way through side streets, as lots became larger, houses more sprawling, lawns more perfectly manicured. It took her half a dozen wrong turns and about twenty minutes, then she found the next address on her list: Tommy Mark Evans’s home.
It was a stately brick Colonial situated atop half an acre of emerald-green lawn. A silver BMW SUV was parked in the driveway. Expertly shaped corkscrew hedges lined the drive. That told her enough.
So Ginny was the poor, fatherless girl; Tommy the rich football hero. Now, was the situation more like Cinderella meets Prince Charming, or Lady and the Tramp, with the genders reversed?
Kimberly started to see the possibilities. Such as Tommy dating Ginny Jones, but feeling pressure from his peer group/parents to keep it quiet. Perhaps Ginny was feeling a little tender on the subject. All the more reason to run, once Mommy stopped coming home at night?
Kimberly had a final stop to make. It was now completely dark, making it difficult for her to read the map and drive her car. She took it in half-mile batches, looping through a maze of side streets, office parks, and residential areas until she nearly lost herself. She thought she was closer to Ginny’s neighborhood than Tommy’s, but could no longer be certain. A left at the oak tree, a right by the large birch.
Tires left pavement. She bumped along on the dirt. One of the last few rural roads in the area. Probably be developed by this time next year. Then there’d be nothing left to indicate where a young man had died.
She found the exact spot without difficulty. A white cross stood gleaming in the dark, a Christmas wreath drying out at the base, red bow flapping lightly in the wind.
Kimberly pulled over twenty yards back. She grabbed her jacket and walked the final distance to the memorial.
It was past seven-thirty now. She was not far from civilization, but the trees formed an effective buffer, and standing in this spot, she couldn’t hear the sound of passing cars or make out the distant lights of a bustling community. With the new moon floating dark and hidden overhead, the only illumination came from her vehicle’s twin headlights. It was quiet, still.
In spite of herself, she shivered.
Tommy Mark Evans, it said down the cross. Then, along the arms: Beloved son.
Kimberly looked around: at the thick cluster of rhododendrons, nearly higher than her head; the thin, scratchy outline of straggly pine trees, clutching at the night sky. She felt the deep ruts of the dirt road beneath her feet. Used her flashlight to illuminate the grooves of tire marks tracking in and out.
She could picture a young man joyriding down this lane, pedal to the metal, shrieking each time his monster tires hit a rut and sent him airborne. She could picture a young man and a female friend tucked alongside the road, necking hard and heavy, steaming up the windshield.
She could not picture a college kid coming out here alone, pulling over for no reason, and winding up shot two times to the forehead.
Tommy Mark Evans knew his attacker. She had no doubt in her mind.
An owl hooted. A squirrel burst out, making a mad dash across the lane. Kimberly watched the grass rustle on the other side of the road long after the squirrel disappeared into the brush, and the owl swooped by overhead.
She felt a fluttering kick in her side, her own child waking up. She pressed her hand against her lower abdomen, and for a moment, the powerful feeling of life while standing before a scene of such tragedy left her unutterably sad. She wondered how Tommy’s parents had made it through the holidays. Did they surround themselves with photos of their son? Or did they find it easiest to pretend his life had never happened?
How had Kimberly’s father done it? Looking at all those photos, visiting all those crime scenes of young girls and boys so viciously murdered, then coming home to his own family each night? How did you comfort your child’s tears over a scratched knee when you could picture another child missing all of her fingers? How could you tell your child there was no such thing as monsters when you witnessed their handiwork each and every day?
And how had he borne it, when the call finally came in the middle of the night: Sir, we regret to inform you about your daughter …
Kimberly herself rarely thought about her sister. Her mother, yes. But Mandy … That loss was more insidious in ways she couldn’t explain. A child expected to one day lose her parents. Her sibling, on the other hand … A sister was a companion, a peer. They were supposed to grow old together, standing up at each other’s weddings, swapping advice on child-rearing, while one day trying to determine how to best take care of Dad.
Once, Kimberly had been the younger half of a paired set. Now she was an only child.
You’d think she’d get used to it, but she didn’t.
Kimberly turned, started for her car, arms wrapped around her torso for warmth.
She had only taken two steps before her cell rang.
It was too dark, she thought. She was too alone, her mind filled with too many unsettling thoughts. Veronica Jones’s last desperate
screams. Her sister, head wrapped in white gauze on the hospital bed as the doctor flipped the proverbial switch and they stood together, she and her parents, to watch Mandy die. And then, just a year later, the House of Horrors that became her mother’s last stand.
Mandy had been lucky. She had not lived long enough to know that, with her death, she had sealed their mother’s fate. Had Veronica Jones understood? Had she truly realized what her anguished confession would mean for her daughter?
Her phone rang again. Kimberly wanted to walk away. But she was her father’s daughter, helpless to say no, even when she of all people knew better.
“Special Agent Quincy,” she answered.
Nothing.
She waited for someone to tell her hush, for another macabre scene to start playing out in the background. But second passed into second. She heard nothing at all.
She checked signal strength, tried again. “Special Agent Quincy.”
Still no words, but now, as she concentrated, she thought she caught the sound of breathing, low and even. She let the silence roll out again. The strategy didn’t work.
“I would like to help you,” she said presently. “It’s okay if you need to talk.”
Nothing.
“Is someone there? Are you afraid of being overheard? Just make a sound, like you’re clearing your throat. I’ll take that as an affirmative.”
But the caller remained silent.
She started to feel frustrated now, walking in a small circle.
“Are you in danger?”
Nothing.
“If you talk to me, provide information, I may be able to offer protection. You can’t just dial my number, however. You have to be willing to talk.”
Then, finally, that small voice again, high-strung, but hushed, like a child’s: “Shhhh.”
“Please, I want to help …”
“He knows what you’re doing.”
“Who knows—”
“He knows everything.”
“Can you give me a name?”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
“Listen to me—”
“You will be the next specimen in the collection.”