by Kylie Brant
“No formalities, Gauthier, it’s too damn hot for them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Despite his agreement, he waited until she’d sat before resuming his seat. Manners were too ingrained in him to be relinquished easily. “I guess that means I don’t need to offer you some of that strawberry Nehi we started stocking lately.”
She let out a bark of laughter. It hadn’t taken him long to discover her sweet tooth, or to start pandering to it. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t turn one down.” While he was sending Tommy to fetch one, she slipped off her shoes and rubbed the arch of one foot. “I’m just on my way home from a conference in Shreveport. There’s not another thing in this world that would convince me to put on panty hose and a dress in this miserable heat.” She accepted the bottle from Tommy gratefully and tipped it to her lips.
“I’m assuming you have some test results for me.”
“You’d be right about that, Sheriff. Don’t know what you’ll make of them.” She put the bottle down with visible reluctance, and opened the briefcase she’d carried into the room. She withdrew a file and handed it to him, then reached for the bottle again.
“That’s the analysis of those fragments we took out of the victim’s knees and shins. Some splinters were so deeply embedded, I would have had to do surgery to remove them. Didn’t see the point. They certainly paled in significance compared to her other wounds.”
“Redwood chips,” Cage murmured, then lifted his gaze to the doctor.
“That’s right,” she affirmed. “The same kind used for landscaping around shrubbery. What do you make of it?”
Cage flipped the file closed and leaned back in his chair, hooking one foot over his knee. “There wasn’t anything like that around the apartment building she lived in. It was a condo unit right on the street. No trees, no courtyard.”
Dr. Wu’s dark eyes sparked with interest. “You think this guy did her outside his house?”
“If he did, this evidence isn’t going to help us locate where he lives. Half of suburbia probably uses redwood chips in their yards. Damn.” He tossed the file onto his desk and raked his hand through his hair. “I was hoping for something that would provide a better lead.”
Dr. Wu grunted. “The only clue this gives you is what the victim was kneeling in hours before her death.” Swallowing the last of the soda, Dr. Wu set the bottle on Cage’s desk. “Sorry we didn’t come up with anything more substantial. I did find one more thing that was kind of curious. Not sure if it will be any more helpful, though. There was glue residue on the victim’s fingernails.” At his uncomprehending look, she explained, “The kind they use to attach false nails.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “The victim wasn’t wearing false fingernails.”
Placidly, Dr. Wu raised her eyebrows. “No, she wasn’t, was she?”
His mind racing, Cage rose as the doctor did. Taking one of her hands in both of his own, he bent over it. “Margaret, it’s been a pleasure.”
She gave another bray of laughter. “Always the charm, Sheriff. You were born a century and a half too late.”
His gaze shifted to the photo of Janice Reilly hanging above his desk. “I hope for her sake that’s not true.”
Cage followed the doctor from his office to the front door. As she exited, he turned to look at Patsy. “Where’s a woman go to get her nails done?”
The older woman looked unfazed by the question. “Well, Norma over at the Beauty Mark always does mine. Charges me an arm and a leg for it, too, and truth to tell, she isn’t always as careful as she should be. That polish she uses chips so easily, I swear I’m going to start bringing my own—”
“Patsy.”
She blinked at his interruption. “What?”
“Where would a woman go for false nails? The kind they have to glue on.”
Wheeling her chair away from her desk a little, she shot him a frown. “Well, Norma would put those on, too. I just don’t go in for that kind of thing myself. But she went to a special class to learn how.”
“What about in the cities? Say, Baton Rouge. Do they still do that kind of thing in the beauty parlors?”
Cocking her head, Patsy considered the question. “I expect so. I know there are some specialty places in the malls and such, but lots of the hair salons have someone, too. It’s more convenient for a woman to just have it done the same place she gets her hair fixed. ’Course, most would shop around a bit, look for the best price….” Her voice trailed off as she realized she was talking to his retreating back. “And you’re welcome, too,” she grumbled, swinging her chair to face to her desk.
After flipping through the volume of material they’d acquired in the course of the investigation, Cage found the information he was seeking. He reached for the phone and started making calls. When Delbert Fisher knocked and entered the room, Cage waved him to a seat.
Minutes later he replaced the receiver and sat slowly back in his chair, spearing a look at his deputy. Fisher waited stoically for him to speak.
When he did, his voice was mild. “How are you coming along on the meth investigation?”
“I’ve got Sutton and Baker tracking down all the suppliers of ether in the state.” Ether was a main ingredient in the manufacture of meth, and its sale was restricted. “They’re working their way down the list, contacting every place on the list that’s reported a robbery.”
“They’re showing pictures of each of the Rutherford boys?”
At the deputy’s nod, Cage went on. “If they strike out, have them start contacting the hospitals.” The man nodded again, and Cage switched topics. “I just finished talking to Janice Reilly’s hairstylist down in Baton Rouge.”
Placidly, Fisher said, “I spoke to her myself last week, Sheriff. It’s in the report.”
Cage nodded. “I saw that, Delbert. What I didn’t see in the report was any mention of the fact that the victim also made regular visits to the same establishment to have false nails applied and cared for.”
The deputy looked stunned. “I… That is… The lady I talked to didn’t offer that information.”
Cage studied the man soberly. It wasn’t his nature to pry, but this was a murder investigation. The stakes didn’t get much higher than these. “It’s not like you to miss something this obvious, Delbert. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask. I know the last few months have been rough on you. Is your personal life affecting this investigation?”
Fisher flushed a deep, dark red, and his hands clenched around the arms of his chair. “I missed something on that statement. I admit it. But don’t tie it to Betsy’s leaving, Sheriff. That’s a damn cheap shot.”
Cage inclined his head, studying the man closely. “I suppose it sounded like it. I hope you realize the reason I asked.” Silence stretched, seconds ticking by in a vacuum. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
For a moment he thought the man would explode. Every muscle seemed to tense, as if Fisher was preparing to eject from the chair in a furious burst of energy. Then, just as suddenly, the tension seeped away from the man’s body. His wide shoulders hunched, and he seemed to fold in on himself. “It’s been three months since Betsy left, Sheriff. That’s more than enough time for an intelligent man to figure she ain’t coming back.” His jaw worked furiously, and he looked away. “Suppose you heard the story. This damn town always seems to have the details. She’s living with some guy in New Orleans.” He let loose a bitter laugh. “A shoe salesman, for God’s sake.”
Giving a sympathetic grimace, Cage said, “Well, that’s enough to bust up a man’s life but good for a while, isn’t it? I’m not looking to kick you while you’re down, Delbert. You’re the best asset I have in the investigation unit. If you need to take some time, just say the word.”
Fisher’s gaze jerked to his. “The last thing I need is more time alone to think about Betsy. This job is about all I’ve had to keep me sane lately. I messed up when I questioned the beautician, Sheriff, but don’t blame it on my pe
rsonal life. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Nodding, Cage said, “If you tell me you’re fit to do your job, that’s good enough for me. Anyone can make a mistake.” Pausing a beat, he added, “But if you make another one on this case, I’ll have to remove you. It’s too damn important for me to take chances with.” Their gazes held.
“Fair enough, Sheriff.” Fisher nodded at the report lying before Cage. “Why don’t you fill me in on what I missed?”
His desk chair gave a protesting squeak as he leaned back in it. “Well, it appears as though the victim had false nails reapplied two days before her death. Coroner found the remnants of the glue on her natural nails.” He waited patiently for Fisher to process that information.
“We didn’t find any false fingernails on the body, at the crime scene or in the victim’s apartment.” Fisher looked grim. “You think the killer removed them?”
Cage inclined his head. “That’s what I think.”
“Well, you guessed the killer was highly organized. He must have thought we’d find traces of his skin beneath her nails.”
“Seems to me that he’s more than organized.” More than lucky. More than smart. Cage scrubbed his hands over his face, acidic snakes churning in his stomach. Whoever killed Janice Reilly had been careful. Murder was a nasty business. It was his experience that killers tended to mess up. They got scared, or remorseful, or sloppy. Janice Reilly’s crime scene had yielded no clues to the identity of the killer. Which meant that the murderer had taken precautions to avoid detection.
“What do you mean, Sheriff?”
He heaved a sigh and wished to hell that he weren’t so certain he was right. “I mean he didn’t just get lucky. And I don’t think the lack of clues is merely the result of careful planning. I think our killer has had practice.” He looked at his deputy, watched the grim mask settle over his face. “I’m beginning to doubt Janice Reilly was his first victim.”
Chapter 7
Under the cover of night, the killer stalked, his movements swift and sure. There was no hesitation in his steps, no hint of caution. Detection was unthinkable, capture impossible. He was invincible.
The anticipation had started building the moment he’d chosen his next victim. He’d learned to savor that anticipation, to stoke it for days, weeks, until the timing was right. It made the final moments razor sharp, the culmination almost unbearably sweet. That first rush of power when he seized his prey, that pure, godlike feeling when he held the decision on her life and death in his hands. But there was really no decision to be made. He chose death, every time. Her death.
She walked by him, unsuspecting, as blind as all the others. He drew in a deep, soundless breath, letting the dizzying rush of his own power roar through him like an out-of-control locomotive. One step. And then his hands reached for her….
Zoey’s fingers stilled on the keyboard for a moment, and she raised her unseeing gaze as she considered what came next. Like a movie playing in slow motion, the next scene unfurled in her head and she automatically translated it into words. Her fingers poised again, then faltered.
It took long moments for reality to break through the self-induced world she was lost in. One instant bled into the next, as she stared through the window at the stranger’s face; saw the sun glinting brightly off the lethally sharp blades in his hand.
She stood abruptly, stumbling out of the chair in her haste. A scream rushed to her throat, balled there. In the next instant, even while panic was pounding through her veins, she felt the first thread of comprehension, swiftly followed by a sense of foolishness.
She watched as the stranger crossed her yard a few feet, bent over a bush, and brought up those shiny blades again. Pruning shears. She expected they came in handy when trimming bushes.
The breath streamed out of her and she propped one hip against the desk. There could be few things more humiliating than overreacting to a scene of her own making. The only thing that saved her from complete mortification was that there were no witnesses to her momentary flight from her senses.
There was a slight sound at her feet, and she dropped her gaze to where Oxy watched her hopefully, his new black collar lending him a dapper air.
“Some watchdog you turned out to be,” she scolded. “Shouldn’t you at least bark or something when someone is outside?”
The pup cocked its head and looked at her quizzically.
“It’s just the man Cage arranged to have do the lawn, but that’s no excuse. I don’t know who looks more stupid over this scene, you or me.” Oxy gave a doggy grin, his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. “Yeah, you’re right. I do know.”
There was a sound of a motor starting up outside, and she went back to the window for a look. The man had climbed on a riding lawn mower and was proceeding to cut her grass, which was long overdue for a trim. She looked from her computer to the window again, and then gave a sigh. The mood was definitely broken. She wasn’t going to get any more writing done until her lawn was finished, that was clear.
She pressed the Save command on the computer and turned back toward the room, nearly tripping over the dog, which had tangled itself in her feet. “You’re getting close, real close, to earning the second half of your name. And wouldn’t Cage just get a kick out of this scene,” she muttered, stepping around Oxy.
It would be satisfying to blame her stupidity on that infuriating man. Although he’d promised to have her lawn taken care of, he’d never given her a hint of when it would be done. But she knew she had only herself, and her sometimes-overactive imagination, to blame. Admittedly, it wasn’t the first time it had gotten the best of her. What, besides pure inventiveness, could ever have blinded her to Alan’s deviousness for so long? Others might make excuses for poorly formed decisions made in the name of love. Zoey didn’t make allowances readily enough to be any less unforgiving with herself.
The puppy dashed to the front door, then turned back to her, waiting hopefully.
“Oh, all right,” she said, following him down the hallway and opening the closet for his leash. “We’ll go for a short walk. Maybe by the time we return he’ll be done.”
Oxy seemed to approve of the plan—at least until she fastened the matching leash to his collar. Then he gave a very good impression of a doorstop.
After several minutes of undignified tugging, Zoey dropped the leash and propped her hands on her hips, glaring at the dog. He remained where he was, haunches firmly planted on the floor. “You have to get used to the leash, because I’m not about to engage in a tug-of-war with an animal that seems to be losing IQ points as we speak.”
Unimpressed, Oxy gave a huge yawn and lay down. Zoey stared at the puppy from narrowed eyes. If she opened the door right now, he’d be outside in a flash. But he liked to make his visits to nature without the bothersome trappings of civilization, like leashes. And since she’d learned from experience that he had a streak of wanderlust in him, he couldn’t be trusted to stay nearby.
The answer, she decided, was in being smarter than the dog. She went back to the kitchen and opened the cupboard, taking out a box of puppy treats. The quiet clicking of toenails on linoleum told her that she had an audience. Oxy had already shown that he had disgracefully poor willpower where such treats were involved. While he watched, she took a handful, then slipped them into the pocket of her shorts. This time when she went to the front door, he was at her heels. Pausing for her sunglasses and a baseball cap, she swept all her hair up and pulled the cap over it. When she reached down to pick up the leash this time, Oxy came willingly.
She smiled smugly. She just needed to be smarter than the animal. Locking the door behind her, she led him down the porch steps.
It took a doggy treat every several yards to ensure Oxy’s continued cooperation. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to discriminate between part and whole treats, so she was able to feed him pieces each time. She knew she would have to conserve the blasted things in order to get him home again. There was
no way she was going to carry him back to the house when the time came.
Right now he was expending more enthusiasm than sense running in and out between her legs, tangling her in the leash and nearly tripping her.
Muttering a few disparaging comments about the dog’s parentage, Zoey stopped and unsnarled the leash. A car slowed on the road, and its electric windows lowered.
“Where’s that dog taking you, Zoey?”
She looked up, saw Tanner Beauchamp grinning at her from the driver’s seat. Giving a mental sigh, she gave one last hard look at Oxy. “He’s practicing walking on a leash.”
Tanner guided the car over to the side of the road, parked it and got out, leaving it running so the interior wouldn’t heat up again. Propping his hands on his hips, he surveyed the two of them. “It does look like he needs a lot of practice.”
The sight of the man wearing a lightweight summer suit of a quality she recognized made her grateful for her own casual clothes. The sun hadn’t diminished in strength, though it was already past five-thirty. She mentally estimated how long it would take Tanner to melt where he stood.
Oxy made a dash to sniff out the newcomer, and when the leash jerked suddenly in her hand, Zoey barely managed to avoid landing face first on the ground.
“I think his training may be beyond me. He’s going to need some classes.” She shot the dog a dark look. “A lot of classes.”
“Hey, fella.” Tanner squatted down and gave Oxy a vigorous ear scratching. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re a little on the slow side. Is that right?”
Uninsulted, Oxy closed his eyes and enjoyed the attention.
“He’s going to be a big one. Look at the size of those feet.” Tanner lifted his gaze to hers. “Are you figuring on taking him back north with you?”
It was the second time in as many days she’d been reminded of her home in Chicago. The second time she’d found that reminder strangely unappealing.
“He’s not mine.” Surely that wasn’t a pang of emotion for the little beast who was even now shaking himself off and investigating Tanner’s shoelaces. “I’m just keeping him for Cage for a while.” Under the man’s sudden scrutiny, she added uncomfortably, “Until he has more time for him.”