Allie’s temper cooled in an instant because she knew Sheryl spoke the truth. She reached over and touched her arm. “I appreciate that, but I’m starting to feel smothered here. I need some space.”
For a minute, Sheryl’s cop face held. Then, she burst out laughing.
Allie blinked. “What?”
“You sound like—like you’re—” She gasped for air. “You sound like you’re breaking up with me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard guys use that line. Hell, I’ve used that line.”
Allie grinned. “You’re right. It’s a classic.” Then, her smile faded. “I’m not breaking up with anyone, but I can’t have the Sheriff’s Office making me their personal crusade. It’s not comfortable to have officers checking up on me day and night.”
Sheryl shrugged. “It’s not everyone. Just Joe and me. He’s convinced your stalker is the killer. It’s almost like he wants him to be guilty.”
“Stop calling him my stalker. He’s not mine, and he’s not a stalker.”
“That we know of.”
Allie glared at her in exasperation. “Can’t you stop being a cop, even for a minute?”
Sheryl’s face reflected surprise. The silence stretched out. Finally, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think I can.”
“Can you at least try?”
Sheryl leaned against the refrigerator. “I don’t want to try. Look, Allie, I know you well enough to know that you’re hiding something. You oughta look in a mirror. It’s written all over your face. Until I find out what it is, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Allie knew she meant it. She almost gave up her insane plan, but inspiration struck. “It’s not about Marc.” She looked away. “It’s about Garrison. About my marriage.”
Sheryl crossed her arms. “I’m listening.” Her voice sounded skeptical to Allie’s guilty ears. She pushed past Sheryl into the dining room, needing some physical space for real. She’d told no one what happened with Garrison. She wasn’t even sure she could tell anyone.
“I was thinking about it before you got here. It wasn’t as simple as I let on.”
“I figured that.”
Allie sat in a chair, staring at the floor. She knew Sheryl’s lie detector would be in full force, but she didn’t have to feign what she felt. Her hands clenched into fists. She tried to relax them, taking a deep breath for the plunge. “Garrison was screwing around on me. With everyone. Male. Female. Probably the polar bears at the zoo. Tessa Gaudio, someone I knew at the Embassy, let it slip that Garrison was—I think she said sexually active—with any number of people, and she told me who they were. I already had suspicions. We went to a lot of social functions, you know, because he was in the diplomatic service?”
Sheryl nodded.
“He used to disappear for hours. When he came back—well, I suspected, but Garrison kept telling me it was my imagination—that I was young and gauche and overly suspicious. And I feared he was right. Anyway, I believed it up until the day I caught him in his office going at it with his assistant—George.” She saw Sheryl wince, but now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop, sick as it made her. “I had my camera with me, a little digital Garrison bought me for Christmas.”
“Lucky for you.”
Allie glanced up at her. “Uh-huh. Lucky. When I said his name, both turned. I got off two pictures before they realized what I was doing.” As the memory washed over her, so did the disgust and betrayal she’d felt at the time. She swallowed a couple of times before she could go on. “Garrison chased me. He probably would have caught me if his pants hadn’t tripped him.”
“Filthy pig.”
Allie nodded. “I hated him so much right then. For six years, I tried to be everything he wanted. Nothing I did was enough. He refused to fly me back to the States the last time Aunt Lou got sick. He kept telling me I was ridiculous, that Lou didn’t need me hanging on to her, and until that minute when he stood in that hallway with his pants around his ankles, I’d believed him. About everything.”
“God, I wish he was here,” Sheryl muttered.
The tourniquet around Allie’s throat eased some. “My folks blame me. They think I screwed up a perfectly good marriage. I can’t tell them. I don’t want them to know.”
“No damn wonder.”
“He wanted that camera. He offered me everything—money, all the household goods. I didn’t want any of it. All I wanted was out.”
Sheryl stared at her shoes for a minute. “Can I ask you one question?”
Allie steeled herself.
“Did you give him the camera?”
“Yes.”
Sheryl looked disgusted.
“After I downloaded the picture to a disk and mailed it to myself at my parents’ house.”
Sheryl grinned. “That’s my girl.” Then, her grin evaporated like morning fog as the sun rises. “You’re better off without that pond scum. Men like that—” For a moment, she struggled for words. “The whole lot of them should be castrated. You know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Before Allie knew what happened, Sheryl leaned down and hugged her awkwardly. “So, if the asshole comes sniffing around again, you want me to shoot him?”
Allie laughed. “I think it’s what any good friend would do.”
She took a few deep breaths after Sheryl left. Talking about Garrison still generated the same effect—betrayal, anger, even sorrow—because Garrison destroyed her dreams. Would she ever bathe away the dirty residue he’d left on her skin?
“You ask too much of yourself, Allie. You’re trying to absorb the blame because you think somehow you should have known.”
“I should have. Instead, I looked the other way, even though I suspected something was going on. What kind of woman would do that?”
“A naïve and trusting one. Life doesn’t come with a manual, Allie. That’s what I keep trying to tell you. You learn by doing.”
“You’re right about that. I’m not naïve anymore.”
“Or stupid. You never were”
*
Despite Sheryl’s implied promise not to follow her, Allie didn’t drive straight to the Hilton. Instead, she headed down to Sebastian Inlet, as she told Sheryl she would in case Sheryl followed her.
The day was soft, no harsh edges. The temperature hovered in the mid-seventies, and a stiff breeze blew off the ocean. She took the turn through tiny Melbourne Beach proper and headed down A1A. It was the same drive she and Marc took together, and her heart ached with the memory of it. How could something that seemed so right turn out so terribly wrong?
She felt no pleasure in the drive today. Even the brilliant sparkling water failed to move her. When she neared the inlet, she slowed the car and checked her rearview mirror. There were a few cars on the road behind her, and she pulled off in the asphalt parking lot of a bait and tackle shop, waiting until they passed. No other cars were coming in either direction. She was home free. The thought brought no elation, only a heavy sense of inevitability. She would do this, right or wrong.
She tried to bolster her spirits on the trip back to Cocoa Beach by telling herself there was only the slightest chance that the keycard would work. Even if Marc believed it had fallen out of his pocket, he was too smart not to get it changed.
Before Allie knew it, the hotel loomed on her right. She pulled into its sprawling asphalt parking lot and wedged the Jeep between two panel trucks a good distance from the entrance, where it was less likely to be spotted by her overprotective friends. It took a moment to slip into her hotel guest persona. She was a tourist who’d been out wandering the area. Now, she was back for a—whatever. A nap. A shower. A bit of breaking and entering.
She shook off the last thought, as she climbed out of the Jeep and set off across the parking lot, swinging her keys as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Eyes seemed to watch her from every window, as she approached the hotel entrance.
Her steps slowed. What if Marc answ
ered the door when she knocked? What reason could she give for being there? Lost his phone number? Thought she’d drop by to say hello? Checking to see how he was? That might be plausible.
She breezed through the glass doors with a smile for the bellman. The elevators were off a small lobby to the right. She heard dishes clatter and snatches of muted conversation and laughter from the adjoining restaurant. The food probably smelled delicious, but right now, it made her sick. Or maybe it wasn’t the food smells.
Allie nearly jumped out of her skin when the elevator door slid open. She half-expected Marc to step off, but the car was empty.
The elevator climbed to the fourth floor too quickly. The hallway where it deposited her was plain vanilla, much like every other hallway in every hotel. Gray walls with some kind of textured wallpaper. Utilitarian carpet with enough pattern to hide stains. She saw a housekeeping cart at the end of the hall. No one in sight. Her heart beat like a kettledrum, echoing in her ears.
Marc was in room 411 near the end of the hallway. It wasn’t too late to back out. As she neared the room, she heard the elevator doors open. She felt lightheaded and held the wall for support, not that the young couple who got off noticed anything but each other. The guy playfully hooked an arm around the girl’s neck, pulling her closer, as they walked toward their room. He slipped a key into the card reader. Honeymooners? An afternoon tryst? Either way, she envied them.
Once they were inside, she took a deep breath and knocked on the door to Marc’s room. Her heart pounded in her ears. She wasn’t sure she could hear if he responded. Nothing. She knocked again, louder this time, and waited. Silence.
She almost turned and walked away, but instead chided herself for cowardice. There might be something in that room that would tell her the truth, one way or the other. Still, he could be in there taking a nap. He could be inside, listening. Waiting for her. He could be holding a knotted silk scarf. Stop it!
She pulled the keycard out of her pocket and slipped it in the card reader. She was so certain he’d changed the locks that it took her a minute to realize that the light on the reader flashed green. She had expected sirens or something. When she reached for the door handle, it changed back to red. She inserted the key again and turned the handle, pushing the door open an inch. No shout. No gunshot. She pushed it open, peering inside. Empty. Bathroom door open. No Marc.
Quickly, Allie stepped inside and closed the door. If he found her now, there was no way she could talk her way out of it. The room looked tidy, functional, probably pretty, but she wasn’t there to appraise the decor. She felt an overwhelming sense of urgency now. He could come back at any moment.
She saw a suitcase right inside the closet door and clothes she recognized hanging above it. His jacket, the shirt he’d worn the day they went to Cocoa. Nothing but an iron on the shelf above. She pulled out the suitcase and snapped open the locks. It sounded as loud as cannon fire to her ears. The suitcase held nothing. She closed it and put it back as she’d found it.
She crossed to the armoire and opened the top. A television. She opened the first drawer below. No list of victims or bloody knives. Only underwear and socks. She closed the drawer and opened the next. Shirts and shorts. Frustration overrode her fear, as she closed it and checked the bottom drawer—more shorts and two sweatshirts. She pushed the drawer closed. She knew she should get out. If he showed up now, he could have her arrested. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
The room had two queen-sized beds with a nightstand between them. She opened the nightstand drawer. A package of cheese crackers. Two novels. She’d read them both. She could tell him that one wasn’t worth his time. She felt a giggle bubble up and gave herself a mental slap. The beds were flush to the floor, so there couldn’t be anything under them. OK. That was it. There was nothing here. Time to go.
As she headed back toward the door, she caught a glint of silver out of the corner of her eye. It came from a case in the back corner of the closet. She missed it before because it was wedged behind the ironing board. She reached in and pulled it out, carrying it over to the bed. Each latch had a combination lock. Not toiletries. She tried the catches. Locked. She almost cried out in frustration, but she wasn’t about to give up now. What did she know about him? He’d told her his birthday that day in Cocoa. April 14. She tried it on the left-side lock. The metal catch popped open. Heartened, she tried it on the right side. Nothing. She chewed her lip as she tried to remember. Then, it came to her. His birth year. She dialed in 1-9-7-3. The lock popped open.
Her hands were shaking so badly, she almost couldn’t open the case. When she did, she wished she hadn’t. It was all there. Newspaper clippings from the Miami paper. A clipped article from the Fort Lauderdale paper. Vero Beach. Cape Canaveral. Under them were stacks of currency, all twenties from the looks of it. Buried under it all, she found a gun. As she reached in and pulled it out, she heard a click, as the lock on the hotel room door released. There was nowhere to hide.
The door swung inward.
Chapter 14
Marc stood framed in the doorway. When he saw her, he raised his hands slightly. It took her a minute to realize she still held the gun. Instinctively, she gripped it tightly with both hands. She knew she could never pull the trigger, let alone hit him, but she could tell that he wasn’t banking on that.
He took a couple of steps into the room, enough so that he could close the door behind him. She should have told him to stop, to leave the door open. She could take the gun and slip out of the room. And then what? Run screaming down the hallway? Race him down the stairs with twenty-three stitches in her foot? She didn’t know what her face looked like, but he began talking in a gentle voice, the kind you’d use to soothe a frightened child, or a lunatic.
“I’m glad you’re here, Allie. I hoped I was right about you.” His words sent a chill down her spine. What the hell did he mean? That he wanted her to break into his room? She gripped the gun even tighter.
Marc looked from her to the open case on the bed. “The newspaper articles are about women who were murdered down the East Coast. The first one,” he gestured with his forehead, “was my wife, Karen. She died a little over three years ago. As I’m sure your friends have told you, they accused me of her murder. I don’t know if they told you I had an alibi. The police let me go, but they’ve hounded me ever since. They made it impossible for me to do business in south Florida.” His face became grim. “When they decided I was guilty, they quit looking for anyone else. I knew I didn’t do it, so I picked up the search. Then, she was killed.”
He gestured toward another clipping. “Melanie Thurston. She died almost a year ago. She was older than Karen was, but she looked like an older sister. That’s what caught my attention, her appearance. It wasn’t on the front page. It was on page two or three. I probably wouldn’t have seen the article at all, except that by then, I wasn’t working. Lots of idle time. I read a lot of newspapers. They found Melanie in the water. They didn’t see any evidence of foul play, and there was water in her lungs, so they ruled her death a drowning.” His mouth grim, he nodded toward the money. “I read none of that in the newspaper, and information like that costs money. Money that can’t be traced.”
His hands were lower now, but she was only half-aware of it, caught up in the story. His eyes never left hers for long. They were clear and intense and, it seemed to her, honest.
“I tried to get the local police interested, tried to link it to Karen’s death, but they blew me off. Then, I guess someone in Miami got to them, and they dragged me in and grilled me for six hours. They let me go, but they followed me after that.”
He gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. “I was still in Lauderdale when Anne Larkins was murdered in Vero a few months ago. I got there too late to see the body when they pulled it out of the water. That’s when I bought the police scanner. I drove rental cars by then, different ones every couple of weeks to throw off the police. Of course, it only made them more suspicious. Anyway, Anne Lark
ins’ ex-husband believed my story, and a thousand dollars earned me an invitation to the mortuary before her casket was sealed. I posed as his long-lost brother from Indiana. Another fifteen hundred bought me a copy of the autopsy report.”
His hands were down now, and he reached into the case and pulled out a manila envelope, which he held out to Allie. She would have to put down the gun to take it, so she didn’t, and he tossed it on the bed. With his eyes still on it, he said, “Anne was forty-one. According to her ex, she liked to party. She was strangled like Karen and found in the water. Maybe someone else killed her, but I don’t think so.”
He sat down on the corner of the bed. “Anne’s hair was brown, but frosted blonde, probably to hide the gray. Maybe in a way, her vanity got her killed. Or maybe she would have died, anyway. I knew better than to go to the police with what I suspected, even though I wasn’t getting anywhere.”
He reached over and spread out the clippings from the Brevard Sun. “When I heard this come over the scanner, I felt sick. It had been only three months.” He picked up a clipping. “She was the image of Karen. Almost the same age. She had the same wide mouth, the same high cheekbones.” He looked up.
Allie’s heart almost stopped when she realized he’d moved close enough to grab the gun from her. He continued. “That was one of the worst days of my life. I got to the beach, and there you were. When I got a good look at you, I knew I could be looking at the killer’s next victim.”
He got up and paced to the door and back. “Lisa Tobin was her name. I talked to her ex-husband. I flew to Mississippi. He didn’t come down here to travel back with the body because of the kids. He told me he didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but he called her a whore. He said she liked to drink and play around with drugs. Nothing too heavy that he could prove, which is why she still had the kids. He gave her a decent burial because of their children. From what he told me, I imagine it only cost him a few months’ alimony and child support.” He grimaced. “For someone who didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, he did a pretty good job.”
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