Faces of Evil [2] Impulse

by Debra Webb

  Belinda Howard. Howard Realty. Had Jess bought a house or condo. . .?

  “What’s this?” Jess barged into the huddle. The rest of the task force had stalled at the bank of elevators.

  Dan showed Jess the name written on the envelope, then the business card that had been tucked inside.

  She frowned. “Who is. . .?” She shot a look heavenward, blew out a breath. “My sister.” She fished in her bag for her cell, then stabbed at the screen. “She invited her friend the realtor over for dinner last night. Why would she send me flowers?” Jess shook her head. “I swear, the woman is – hey, sweetie, this is your aunt Jess. I need to speak to your mother.”

  Dan tried to relax. This was probably nothing more than Jess’s sister going overboard with the sisterly thing. But, they needed to be sure.

  “Lil, what’s the deal with this realtor friend of yours?” Jess nodded. “Yes, Belinda.”

  Griggs sent a questioning look at Dan. Dan pointed to the envelope, then the flowers and finally Jess. Then he shrugged.

  “She told you what?” Jess shook her head again. “Lily, listen to me. I did not buy a house. I did not make an appointment to see a house.” Jess rolled her eyes as she listened some more. “Where did Belinda say she was meeting me?. . . What?” The color drained from Jess’s face. “Do you remember his name?”

  Dan felt the tension start to build once more.

  “You’re sure a man called Belinda?” The big bag Jess lugged around slid down to the floor. “Absolutely positive?”

  Dan and Griggs exchanged a worried look. This was not sounding good.

  “Forget that part, Lil, for Christ’s sake. You’re sure that’s the street?” Jess nodded. . . her expression clouded with worry. “What kind of car does she drive?” Another pause. “Okay. Okay. Gotta go.”

  She ended the call and turned to Dan, her eyes filled with resignation. “Belinda Howard called my sister just two hours ago and told her I might be buying a house. She said I was meeting her at one to view a listing but that it was a surprise so Lily wasn’t supposed to say anything until I told her. Belinda said a man made the appointment but Lily couldn’t remember his name.”

  Griggs stepped forward. “I take it you didn’t make this appointment.”

  Jess shook her head. “Not even close. My sister invited this realtor lady to dinner last night. She gave me the whole sales pitch. That was the last time I saw her and I certainly haven’t heard from her today.” She gestured to the flowers. “Why would he. . . how would he know. . .?”

  Apparently Wells wasn’t the only one Spears had been watching. Dan touched Jess’s arm to draw her attention back to him. “Did anything happen that might have given Spears the idea there was a connection between you and this realtor?” Spears had been watching Detective Wells and Jess.

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t. . . wait. . .” Her face lit with realization. “She hugged me when she was ready to leave. You know, one of those things everyone down here does.” The misery in her eyes twisted Dan’s heart. “He’s got her, Dan. He’s got Belinda Howard.”

  Face pale, she turned to the others. “Liberty Park Lane in Vestavia Hills. She drives a black BMW sedan. Unless one of you made this appointment for me as a welcome home surprise. . . it has to be him.”

  To Dan, she added, “She’s short. Pretty. Forty-five, maybe. A little on the plump side.”

  “She isn’t his type?” Dan understood.

  Jess shook her head. “Evidently, she doesn’t have to be. She’s connected to me and that’s all that matters to him right now.”

  Dan dragged a hand over his face. Spears was changing the game again.

  And moving faster and faster.

  5

  Liberty Park Lane, Vestavia Hills, 5:05 p.m.

  Jess stared at the message written in blood. Uneven streaks had raced down the pristine tan wall, giving the hideous message a ghoulish appearance.

  It’s a killer deal, Jess.

  “Narcissistic, bastard.”

  She turned her back to the message and considered the small crimson puddle on the hardwood. Not much larger than a saucer, the kind socialites like Katherine Burnett used when serving tea to her guests.

  Jess rolled her eyes. The high-class neighborhood reminded her of Dan’s mother. Just went to show what stress could do to the brain. Jess’s had obviously turned to mush.

  That was a distraction she could do without even as badly as she wished she could escape this nightmare. But there was no escaping.

  Closer inspection confirmed the blood on the floor had coagulated. No spatter pattern.

  Shoe covers making a swiping sound against the wood floor, Jess walked around the puddle and studied the symmetrical circle it made. No surges, splatters or spurts around the edges to indicate there had been a struggle or any sudden movements at all. Almost a perfect round pool of velvety red.

  Jess dragged a pair of gloves from her bag before setting it on the floor near the wall on the other side of the room, away from any visible evidence.

  “How much longer?”

  Pulled from her concentration by his deep voice, she glanced at Burnett who waited in the doorway separating the great room from the entry hall. The two of them had already walked the entire two-story house. But she wanted a closer look at this part before the techs did their business.

  And she needed to lose herself in the crime scene. She couldn’t do that with him near. He. . . distracted her and, much to her dismay, he was a distraction she didn’t seem quite strong enough to ignore.

  She was well aware that the crime scene unit waited outside. “Tell them I need five minutes.”

  “Five, Jess,” Burnett warned, “and then they’re coming in.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Evidence techs could be a pain, especially when they didn’t know the background of the investigator traipsing around their scene, risking the possible contamination of evidence.

  Jess squatted down and inspected the floor near the blood a little more closely. Rolling down to her hands and knees, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and leaned her face close to the floor. There was a smudge or smear blurring the shiny surface.

  She needed more light. Back on her feet she moved to the windows on the side of the house facing west and adjusted the blinds. “Better.”

  On the floor in the middle of the room was Belinda Howard’s purse, its contents purged as if she’d dropped it there. Likely startled by the man who had shown up in Jess’s stead. Howard’s cell lay inches away from the rest. She had received a call from a private number shortly after noon. When tracked down, Jess suspected it would lead to another prepaid phone registered to Jessie Harris. Spears liked adding all sorts of little digs at her with his methods.

  She surveyed the large open room again.

  No. . . Spears hadn’t shown up after Howard’s arrival. If he had, judging by where she’d dropped her purse, she would have seen his approach from that big window and known a stranger had arrived instead of Jess. But that hadn’t happened. He had already been in the house when she arrived. He’d watched or listened as she’d gone through the steps of preparing for the showing. Ready and anticipating Jess’s arrival, Howard had probably crossed the room to peek out the window. Spears had stepped from his hiding place and she’d whirled around. . . dropped her purse.

  Jess glanced around the empty room. “Hmm.” But there was no handy place for him to have hidden.

  Shoe covers swishing, she shuffled back to the entry hall. A door under the staircase opened to a coat closet. Jess closed herself in the closet and shut her eyes. She relaxed her body. Breathed deeply. She could hear Burnett speaking in low tones to someone outside the front door.

  Yes. This was where Spears had hidden. He’d listened to Howard’s high heels clicking as she walked around on the glossy wood floor. She had worn high heels to dinner last night, seemed logical that she’d dress similarly for pitching a high-end house like this one.


  Spears was loving tossing the unexpected at Jess in this game.

  Persuading the realtor who’d courted her to meet him here had come as easily as breathing. He no doubt introduced himself on the phone as Jess’s representative. Even without the promise of a commission, Howard wouldn’t have been able to resist the charismatic killer.

  Jess returned to the evidence that a violent act had occurred in the room, assumed the position on her hands and knees and leaned down to study the near invisible smudge on the floor a third time. Using her gloved finger she touched the smear, lifted her finger to her nose and sniffed. Slight perfumed smell. Not convinced, using her other hand, she swiped at her own cheek with her forefinger and took a whiff of that one. Oh yeah.

  “Make-up.”

  She surveyed four or five feet around the area of the smear, if the floor hadn’t been polished to a mirror finish she would never have noticed it. The whole house showed like a model home designed to sell the neighborhood. The only thing missing was the sparse but elegant furnishings usually staged strategically for such a showcase property.

  Pushing back to her feet, she visualized the scenario. Howard had either been laying on her side or face down. Unconscious most likely. Since the blood was near the smudge, he may have slashed her arm or hand and held it right where he wanted it for the pooling of blood. When he had what he wanted, he probably wrapped the wound and went about his business.

  The Player planned every step and he never made mistakes. . . until now.

  Or so it seemed. But, with all she knew about him and what she saw here, maybe these weren’t mistakes.

  Still pondering the concept, she wandered, scanning the span of floor in front of her before she crossed it, toward the kitchen. The scented candle Howard had lit for her anticipated appointment had lost the battle with the metallic odor of clotting blood. Jess blew it out, thankful for the slight reprieve provided by the acrid smoky smell that filled her lungs with the extinguished blaze.

  She studied the large stainless steel sink. Too clean and polished for him to have washed up there. Of course if he wore gloves there would have been no need to wash his hands. Just peel his gloves off into a bag.

  The laundry room beyond the kitchen was spotless, the sink immaculate. As she turned to go back to the kitchen, she hesitated and opened the door of the frontloading washer. She leaned down, peered inside. Nothing. She checked the other appliances and the cabinets, just in case.

  Back in the great room, she considered the message he’d left for her. She crossed to the far end of the room and stared at the bloody taunt. It’s a killer deal, Jess.

  Burnett had been visibly rattled by the message. Jess had been frustrated. The words weren’t meant to give her a lead on what he wanted. Just another phrase meant to goad her and to make her afraid of what he would do next.

  “Bang up job, you son of a bitch.”

  Reaching up, she held two fingers together and measured the width of the strokes. Only slightly wider than two of her fingers. Another frown marred her brow. Jess scrubbed at it with her forearm to smooth it away. Frowns were bad. . . wrinkles were worse. Reminded her that she was getting older by the minute and her career was a mess, along with her dysfunctional personal life.

  And a sociopath was playing games with her, using other people’s lives.

  Jess scrutinized the floor close to the wall displaying the message. If there was a single drop of blood it was far too miniscule for her to spot. The techs would find any traces with their handy gadgets.

  Had he used a cloth to wipe his fingers, gloved or not, after each swipe so as not to drip on the floor? She couldn’t imagine him using his shirt or trousers. Not his style. Though she had done so the time she painted her living room. She’d ruined two blouses and her favorite jeans.

  Jess turned back to the small puddle. Had he walked back and forth to dip his fingers over and over?

  Too messy; too time consuming. He’d been on a tight schedule.

  More plausible, he had the blood in a container. She studied the message again before turning back to the puddle. Then poured the rest on the floor for the shock value. Howard might have been inside his vehicle by then. With her out of the way, he could far more easily come back inside and arrange the scene to suit his purposes.

  As usual he came prepared. There was no indication he’d so much as washed his hands here. He’d carried what he needed, then took the items with him when he left with his victim. Knife, blade of some sort, small container for his art work, cloths or disposable wipes for cleaning up. . . and the sedative he used to disable Howard.

  No one laid still and quiet while they bled – not even from a paper cut – or while some maniac used their blood for ink.

  Even if he’d restrained her there would have been some movement, some amount of squirming, making the smudge on the shiny floor from her makeup more smeared around.

  It was all so precise. Classic work for the Player. Yet, rife with evidence. Evidence that was related to the victim if not to him. The Player never left evidence.

  Vibration on the floor made her jump.

  She turned and stared at the cell phone shimmying on the hardwood, its screen lit. Maybe Howard’s husband or boss or a friend. . . wondering how her afternoon appointment had gone.

  Jess crossed to where it lay and crouched down to read the screen.

  Home calling.

  A pang of regret caught beneath her breast. He would ultimately kill this poor woman as a move in this gruesome game of his.

  Just to get to Jess.

  Belinda Howard didn’t fit the profile of his preferred victim but she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jess’s sister had invited her to dinner in hopes of persuading Jess to buy a home in Birmingham. And now Belinda Howard would die because of her work. . . because of Jess.

  She had to stop him. . . one way or another.

  “Jess.”

  Time to get out of the way. There was nothing more the scene could tell her. She didn’t need fingerprints or trace evidence to confirm who had done this.

  His name was Eric Spears. He was the Player. Whether anyone else in the world had accepted that reality, it was true.

  After grabbing her bag, she almost slipped as she stamped across the gleaming floor. Damned shoes. Damned shiny floor.

  This house was. . . way, way out of Jess’s budget. Poor Belinda Howard. She’d probably been psyched at the idea of just how much her commission would be on a sale like this. Rushed over, lit the candle, hoping to finally sell a beautiful home that had languished on the market for no telling how long. Another victim of the failing economy.

  Burnett waited for Jess to go ahead of him. Always the gentleman.

  She offered a smile to the forensic techs she passed on her way out the front door. All flashed her one of those it’s-about-time glances.

  Harper paced the sidewalk, his cell resting against his ear. He was the detective in charge of this scene when he had no more business here than Jess. But they both needed to be here, lack of objectivity or not, to see that Spears was stopped and Detective Wells and Belinda Howard came home safely.

  That little voice Jess didn’t like listening to warned that she was wasting her time even hoping that either one would survive.

  On the porch, she stripped off her gloves and hopped on first one foot, then the next to remove the shoe covers. Damned high heels.

  Belinda Howard’s BMW sat in the driveway, which, in addition to the for sale sign, marked the house as being the location of her appointment since Lily couldn’t remember the exact address. En route Jess had made a call to the receptionist at the realty office but she hadn’t known all Howard’s appointments for the afternoon. Belinda, she’d explained, worked spontaneous showings all the time.

  This was one appointment Jess wished the lady had missed.

  Two uniformed officers were canvassing the neighbors. Unless they got lucky and someone saw the vehicle Spears drove, the effort was anoth
er waste of time. Spears might be taunting them with these changes in his MO but he was far from stupid. He had a strategy with an ultimate goal and getting caught wasn’t it. He would never allow anyone to see him, as he had with Detective Wells’ family, unless it was part of his plan. He wanted Jess to know it was him.

  “I need to take a walk,” she told Burnett before he could inquire about her conclusions. She needed to breathe in enough of the humid summer air to force the last of the lingering stench of blood fully from her lungs.

  Any neighbors who happened to be home were likely now peeking between special-order blinds and designer drapes, curious about the number of official vehicles fronting the property. Jess doubted this kind of circus toured the neighborhood very often.

  Deputy Chief Black was taking care of notifying the Howard family. Jess didn’t envy him the task. She stalled at the end of the drive and took another long look around the quiet cul-de-sac. What did you say to the family in a situation like this?

  That Belinda, wife and mother, had been taken by a sadistic sociopath who would torture her until he was done. But not to worry because then he’d dump her body in the open for easy discovery.

  It’s a killer deal, Jess.

  If it was her he wanted, why not just come after her?

  The answer was one stamped on far too many memory cells. Because it wasn’t the kill, the final step, that drove him. It was the hunt. . . the torture and all the steps in between. His pleasure came from the victim’s terror.

  As his ultimate victim in this game, he wanted Jess to be afraid.

  Burnett strolled up beside her. She blinked back the emotions, kept her face aimed away from him. Going all overprotective was his MO without any additional evidence from her. He already hovered on that annoying edge. Allowing him to see even a glimmer of uncertainty would make bad matters worse.

  She had noted the way all those other division chiefs had eyed her this afternoon. The news hadn’t been announced but the gossip was already taking on a life of its own. It was a common human reaction. Fallen federal agent blows into town and takes the spot that would have been a promotion to one of their people – the ones already on staff with BPD.