by L E Fraser
“That idiot Staff Inspector Mansfield isn’t any closer to finding Bart.” Harry’s voice caught. “They have nothing.”
“Police withhold information from the media during an active investigation,” Reece said. “But they found evidence at the crime scene this time. She’s getting sloppy. They’ll catch her.”
Harry grunted. “Reece, I’m on my knees. Find my son.”
Reece considered the good news he’d received yesterday afternoon. Interfering in Bryce’s investigation now would result in career suicide. “Bryce is a good man,” he said. “I promise you there’s nothing I could do that his team isn’t doing. They’ll bring Bart home.”
“Margaret told us that Bart’s girlfriend lied about her name,” Harry said. “She said you have a picture of her. I’ve read about facial recognition software. Why can’t the police identify her?”
“I’m sure they have,” Reece said with false optimism. “They’re closing in.”
“Why can’t you and Sam look for Bart?” Harry asked. “That’s what you do. You find people.”
“My hands are tied.” Reece tried to find something he could offer. “But I’ll call homicide later today and see if they’ll share anything.”
“If that’s the best you can do, we appreciate it.” Disappointment resonated from Harry’s voice. “Thanks.”
Reece put down his phone and ran his hands through his hair.
“Is this law career of yours worth losing everyone in your life?” Sam asked from behind him.
He spun around. “It’s not like that.”
There was no expression on her face. “Harry is your best friend.” She leaned over the paper and read the front-page story. “Bart could be next.”
“There’s time.”
She stared at him. “Not if she accelerates. The longer she keeps them alive, the higher the risk. She could end this cycle with two victims.”
The doorbell rang and Reece was enraged to find Eli standing outside the door. He had intended to confront their lying intern yesterday morning, but before he began the conversation, he’d received Gretchen’s call and had to leave.
“What are you doing here?” Reece asked.
“Uh… Danny said the service is today.” Colour rushed to Eli’s cheeks. “I hired a car.” He glanced over Reece’s shoulder. “I am very sorry for your loss,” he said to Sam.
“Thanks,” Sam said. “What’s that?”
Eli held out a pewter urn inlaid with mother of pearl. “If you do not like it, it is okay.” His eyes zipped around. “I did not think you would remember to purchase one for the ashes,” he muttered.
She took it, turning it over in her hands. “This must have cost a fortune.”
“Not really,” Eli mumbled.
Another lie, Reece thought bitterly.
She hugged the deceitful little worm. Reece resisted the urge to drag him off her.
“I figured you would not want to drive.” Eli’s eyes darted to the ceiling and his hand twitched at his side. “I am very sorry if Danny overstepped yesterday.” He paused. “Or if I am now.”
“You are,” Reece retorted. “Your sister shouldn’t have planned the funeral and you shouldn’t have bought that.” He pointed at the urn.
Sam scowled at him.
Eli licked his lips and turned to Reece, avoiding eye contact. “You ran out so fast yesterday that I did not get a chance to congratulate you on your articling position.”
Sam’s expression was a mix of anger and shock. “What articling position?”
The timing of his announcement couldn’t be worse, but Eli had left him no option. “The Crown Attorney’s office accepted my submission,” Reece said.
“Reece was so excited when he got the call,” Eli said.
“Got the call,” Sam echoed.
“I had to meet to discuss next steps.” He hurried to add, “That’s why my phone was turned off.”
“You were with Gretchen Dumont yesterday,” Sam said.
To Reece’s utter astonishment, she laughed.
Eli grinned and slapped Reece on the shoulder. “You two deserve good news.”
Either Eli had no idea that he’d incited a shit storm or it was a talented show of naivety. Reece wanted to throttle the kid.
“You hired a car?” Sam asked Eli.
He nodded.
She stuffed her wallet in her jacket pocket. “Great. Let’s go.” Over her shoulder, she said to Reece, “You should take your own car. You might need to leave.” She disappeared out the door.
“I think I am missing something,” Eli mumbled.
Reece poked him in the shoulder. Hard. “You and I are going to talk. Be at the office this afternoon.”
Eli looked baffled. “Okay.”
Reece shoved him into the corridor and slammed the door shut. If Sam hadn’t hated his guts before, she had every right to now. It appeared that he’d been celebrating with Gretchen while Brandy died. Reece blew his breath out in a puff of exasperation and grabbed his keys.
In the back parking lot, his jaw dropped and his keys fell from his hand.
Someone had totalled Sam’s vintage Grand Am. All four white-lettered tires were in shreds. The chrome bumper was torn from the rear of the car. A web of cracks surrounded a deep indentation in the rear window. Pebbles of glass from the smashed side windows littered the ground. Reece circled the car. The headlights and taillights were all broken. Deep scratches marred the glossy black paint. Huge dents peppered the hood and roof. Rage boiled up in his chest as he picked up a broken side mirror. Reece peered inside the coupe and gasped. The vandal had hacked up the burgundy leather interior.
Standing in the chilly morning sun, he gawked at the ruined car. Her father’s classic car was Sam’s pride and joy. She couldn’t see it like this. He had to do something. Reece called her garage. As he described the damage, her mechanic went ballistic. After spewing a graphic depiction of what he’d do to the vandals if he caught them, the mechanic told Reece he’d send a tow truck and arrange a loaner car.
Next, Reece called the police and waited for the officers to arrive to take the incident report for the insurance claim. His stomach churned as he snapped multiple pictures of the extensive damage. Finding authentic replacement parts would be tough, if not impossible. It would cost thousands of dollars to fix the vintage car and it would never be the same.
The cops were finishing their report when the tow truck arrived. The driver whistled at the damage and the group of men stood around commiserating over the senseless destruction. Finally, everyone left Reece alone in the parking lot. This wasn’t the act of kids or a random attack. The vandals hadn’t touched any other car. The perpetrator had targeted Sam.
Reece got in his car and drove to the pet cemetery. He’d missed most of the service but he might be able to sneak in before it ended. When he pulled into the parking lot, his heart took another nosedive. Lisa was outside the chapel doors, holding the pewter urn.
He parked and walked over to her on heavy legs. “Where’s Sam?”
Lisa took his arm and led him to a bench. “Can we talk? It’s important and we don’t have much time.”
He sat, expecting Sam’s best friend to scold him for missing Brandy’s funeral. “Someone totalled her car,” he blurted. “She doesn’t know yet.”
Lisa’s eyes widened in horror. “How bad is it?”
“Very bad,” he said grimly. “I didn’t want her to see it. I had to wait for the tow truck.”
“My God.” Lisa rested the urn in her lap.
“What did you need?” Reece asked.
“Jim’s been trying to reach you,” she said. “He’s in court and couldn’t be here but it’s urgent.”
Jim had left two messages last night. Reece had assumed he was calling to congratulate him on his articling position.
“What’s going on?”
“Jerry Lutz’s stepdaughter called Jim from Albania,” Lisa said. “She’s enraged because her lawyer told her that Jim is defending L
utz at appeal.”
Reece was stunned.
“He isn’t,” Lisa rushed to say. “But Lutz has a letter. It’s typed on the firm’s letterhead.” Her lips thinned to a slash across her face. “Jim’s signature is on it.”
“Someone forged it?”
She nodded. “And took it to Millhaven. A CO scanned it and put it in Lutz’s file. Jim talked to the Warden.”
“Who would do that?” Reece asked.
“It was Sam.” Lisa hung her head. “The prison logged the letter she declared at the visitor centre. She must have stolen letterhead from Jim’s home office when she visited me.”
Shock prevented Reece from saying anything. He put his elbows on his knees and lowered his face to his hands.
Lisa rubbed his back. “The letter states that Jim is taking the case pro bono. That violates his partnership agreement. He has to tell his partners. There’s no guarantee that he can convince them not to press fraud charges.”
Forging official documents from a law office was serious. Reece couldn’t understand why Sam would do something so reckless.
“But we have bigger problems than the letter,” Lisa said. “This Aleksia woman is blackmailing Jim.”
Reece sat up and stared at her.
“Aleksia claims she has evidence that Sam knew about Jerry’s cabin days before the showdown at the warehouse. She alleges that Sam was inside the primary crime scene and she can prove it.”
“No,” Reece said. “That’s impossible. Lutz was stalking her client. Sam followed him to protect Lorna but she didn’t know he was Incubus until he bragged in the warehouse. Sam never went inside that cabin,” Reece insisted.
Lisa shrugged. “Not according to Aleksia. If Jim represents her stepfather, she’ll turn over what she has to police. Withdrawing from the case wouldn’t be a problem, except for—”
“The forged letter,” Reece said.
What the hell was Sam thinking? The only ethical way Jim could retract his offer was to disclose to Lutz’s attorney that he didn’t write the letter and implicate Sam.
Lisa gripped his hand. “How does Lutz’s stepdaughter know we’re close friends with Sam? She must know, right?”
Reece’s confusion escalated. Blackmail only worked if the person receiving the threat wanted to protect someone. Aleksia must believe that Jim would protect Sam. But none of this made any sense.
“If Aleksia provides the court with evidence that Sam lied to police, Lutz’s appeal team will have grounds to argue the validity of the evidence collected at the cabin,” Reece said. “So why is she doing this? Incubus could walk on appeal.”
“Jim tried to tell her that. She wouldn’t back down. Jerry killed her mother and her sole focus is to make sure that a renowned defence attorney doesn’t accept his case,” Lisa said. “Jim says he can’t judge the threat against Sam until Aleksia discloses her evidence. But…” She trailed off with a sigh.
“She’d have to release it to authorities.” Reece scrubbed his hands against his face. “If this proof shows that Sam withheld evidence in a serial killer investigation, it also proves she committed perjury during the trial.” The consequences were dire.
“It’s even worse,” Lisa said miserably. “Aleksia claims that Sam used Lorna as bait to lure Incubus. She says she can prove that Sam set up the date between Jerry and Lorna and sent them to the warehouse together. Aleksia says Lorna Maracle is willing to corroborate this.”
“Sam wouldn’t put an innocent woman’s life at risk,” Reece insisted.
“Wouldn’t she?” Lisa took his hand. “After Joyce’s murder, Sam became someone else. You weren’t here, but it was bad. Her hatred toward Incubus grew to monstrous proportions.”
“Why would Lorna change her testimony now?” Reece asked.
Lisa shrugged. “I don’t know anything about the woman. I remember at the trial that Lorna refused to speak with Sam. She acted as if she hated her.”
“Jesus,” Reece murmured.
“Sam did all this because of the stupid lily,” Lisa said. “Why Incubus chose that flower drove her into madness after Joyce’s murder.” She picked up the urn and hugged it to her chest. “During the trial, someone sent her white lilies every day. Incubus had to have been behind it.”
This was why Sam had found a white lily in the staircase of the loft. The same person had probably trashed her car. Incubus and his accomplice were playing mind games with her, trying to shove Sam over the edge and into madness again.
“Jim and I are worried.” Lisa wiped a tear from her cheek. “She’s not sleeping and she’s making bad choices. Just like three years ago.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Reece said. “We’ll figure this out.”
Lisa glanced up. “She’s coming. She won’t like it if she finds us talking.”
Reece reached for the urn but Lisa held onto it. “She doesn’t want it. I’ll take it home for now.”
Sam strolled over with a tight smile. “Nice of you to show up,” she said caustically.
“I should go,” Lisa mumbled and hurried toward her minivan.
Reece took Sam’s hand. “Sit down, please. We need to talk.”
She tugged her hand free. “I’m driving to the office with Eli. We’ll talk later.”
“It’s serious. Sit down.”
“What’s wrong?”
Reece had the ridiculous impulse to laugh. Everything was wrong. There wasn’t one positive thing in their lives. He could start with his confession over how he’d drugged her. He could inquire why she had forged an official letter. They could discuss the ramifications of tampering with evidence and committing perjury. A chat about how she’d used her unsuspecting client to trap a serial killer would be fun.
Sam studied his face without saying anything, then turned and walked over to Eli and his sister. Reece half expected her to get into the hired car and leave him sitting on the bench. She spoke with them and they got into the limo. Once it drove away, she returned to the bench and sat beside him.
Reece turned her stiff shoulders so she faced him. “Our lives are about to implode. We’ll fight what’s coming together. But I need you to do something for me,” he said.
“What’s that?”
He caressed the scars across the back of her hands. “Tell me what happened the day you caught Incubus.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Three Years Earlier
Sam
I’VE HUNTED INCUBUS for three days. After seventy-two hours of exhaustive investigation, I have found nothing in Jerry’s life that offers a psychological explanation for what he became. He’s a psychopath. They’re born, not created. For them, killing is as fundamental as a rational person’s instinct to eat and to sleep.
He works as a DNA analyst in a private lab uptown. He lives in an inconspicuous bungalow. That’s where he grows his lilies. Hydroponic light consumes extensive electricity, and the monster’s hydro bills are high—I paid a hacker to access his past bills. In addition to being intelligent, Incubus is methodical because it takes skill and precise scheduling to force the plants to bloom consecutively.
Jerome Karlheinz Lutz is an only child. He was born outside Regina, Saskatchewan in 1971 to a surgeon and a stay-at-home mom. In 1994, he obtained an honours degree in human genetics from McGill University. Three years later, he completed a Masters in forensic science with a speciality in DNA and serology from Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia.
In December 1995, two female students disappeared from the Marshall campus. Police found the body of one of them on the banks of the Ohio River but never recovered the second. A year later, authorities discovered the body of a woman from nearby Front Royal on the banks of the Shenandoah River. The police didn’t connect the murders. The only similarities were that the perpetrator hadn’t raped the women and had stabbed them multiple times in the abdomen. Jerry lived in West Virginia at the time of all three murders. I know in my heart that he killed those women.
Psychopat
hs evolve as they perfect their craft, but he’s displaying his work now for a reason. Staging his macabre art must rouse an omnipotent delusion that gratifies him. Maybe it’s the thrill of seeing his crimes retold in the news. Or perhaps it’s the sport of outwitting Toronto’s best criminal justice minds. When serial killers stage their victims with intricate style, they have a reason.
My sister’s ghost irrevocably ties me to Jerry Lutz for eternity. He is my obsession. I feel as if I’m floating senseless in a deprivation tank where the oppressive blackness strips me of all emotion except hate. When exhaustion fractures the wall of impotent rage that masks my rational sensibilities, I fear this obsession will be my destruction. Salvation will come only when Incubus dies by my hand.
He left work early today. It was mere chance that I caught his red Honda exiting the DNA lab’s parking lot. An hour ago, I lost sight of the car. I’m lightheaded from lack of sleep, and my nerves are tight as I trawl aimlessly, hunting for the monster’s car.
Christmas is in six days and Toronto is hectic with bustling shoppers. Vehicles clog every downtown street. Drivers slow to search for cheap parking and to gawk at spectacular displays of holiday decorations. Pedestrians dart into traffic to race to the next shop. Happy parents tow hyperactive children to The Bay’s elaborate window displays of dazzling wonderland scenes. Joyce loved Christmas and these garish decorations flood my soul with darkness.
When we were kids, Dad took us skating at Nathan Philips Square every Christmas Eve. With our mittens wrapped around paper cups of hot chocolate, Joyce and I would huddle in front of Toronto City Hall and ogle the thousand holiday lights that twinkled around the iconic arches above the ice rink.
A ringing yanks me from the memory, and I accept the call while scrutinizing the streets.
“I found warehouse space,” Lorna says. “It’s by the rail maintenance facility.”
I don’t care, but say, “Congratulations.”
A red sedan turns off Spadina Avenue and I give chase, my heart hammering as I cut off a Ford RAM in an effort to see the car’s license plate.
“Jerry got a tip and—”
“What!” I slam on my brakes.