Could there ever have been a more horrendous crime? This case had traumatized her profoundly the first time around, and now the nightmares were starting all over again. She closed her eyes and saw the crime-scene photos appear like some grisly slide show. Every single member of the family murdered, but for Erin, and in brutal and horrifying ways. Both parents, stabbed repeatedly. The father’s leg broken, plus several ribs. Her brother, cut almost beyond belief. Her sister, crumpled on the floor, a lovely polka-dot skirt draped across her legs. The whole family in one bloody heap, except for the baby, who was in the nursery, and Erin, who had been chained down in the basement. One day, they were a happy, normal suburban enclave, and the next—they were virtually extinct. What the hell was the world coming to?
By the time she got to her third latte, Christina had scrutinized every page of the reports, photos, and tech analyses, but she was no nearer to solving any of the central mysteries of the case. Such as—why? The police called it a robbery that went bad; the Faulkners’ considerable cash and jewelry had been taken (and never recovered). But surely that could have been accomplished without so much brutality, so much bloodshed. Couldn’t they have gotten the goods without torturing those kids? Without killing them all?
And then there was a second mystery, the one that had drawn so much attention at the trial: Why was Erin chained downstairs while the rest of her family was killed in the living room? The prosecutor had suggested that Ray, in addition to being a brutal torturer/murderer and thief, was also some kind of sex pervert, and that he had put Erin away to enjoy later, like a chocoholic saving the last Godiva for a rainy day. But to Christina, that explanation only raised more questions. Such as: Why didn’t he come back for her? The bodies were not found for several days, after Erin freed herself. There was no sign that the killer had been rushed in any way. Why didn’t he return? Even if he decided against a sexual assault, why didn’t he kill her as he did the others? Leaving her alive could only create a potential incriminating witness. Why?
And then there was the greatest of all the mysteries: Why had the killer cut out their eyes? Why would he take the time? All the forensic evidence indicated that it was done after they were dead (thank God). So what was the point? It didn’t fulfill any need to make them suffer—they were long past it. What kind of twisted psychological compulsion would cause a person to do that? Christina couldn’t understand it—and suspected she never would. Which was too bad, because she would really like to come up with something useful for Ben, something that would give him some hope that they might be able to help Ray.
She pushed her chair away from the table and stretched her arms. She needed a break. She’d been at this too long. Actually, ten minutes was too long for this kind of material, and she’d been at it for more than five hours.
She passed from the café section into the book stalls, just to stretch her legs. Maybe she could browse the new crime novels; she might get some insight there. Or better yet, she’d go back to the science-and-nature section. Novel Idea had a great one; it was like visiting a mini-museum. Where you could buy stuff. Even before she arrived, she could hear the soothing trickling sound of water working its way down a stone fountain. Nice. She could go for a little Zen tranquillity at the moment. Maybe she could pick up a little trinket for Ben . . .
Or not. He never liked her presents anyway, although he did a nice job of faking it. She wasn’t even sure he liked the cat she’d gotten him, and he’d had Giselle for years now. Why she kept trying was beyond her.
Or beyond reason, as her friends would say. Her girlfriends gave her no end of grief for sticking with Ben so long. You could do better, they told her. You could be making the big bucks. Which was true, of course.
So why was she still struggling along on the seventh floor of 2 Warren Place at Kincaid & McCall? She couldn’t really explain it, not even to herself. But there was something about working with Ben that she just . . . liked. As unsophisticated as that seemed, it was the truth. She’d liked him the day they met, back when he was a naive and bumbling associate at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. She sensed there was something different about him, something special. She also sensed he wasn’t going to be around there long, and boy, was she right about that. Given how poorly he and Richard Derek got along, it’s a miracle Ben lasted as long as he did.
After Ben started his own practice, Christina came in with him. Probably not a sensible career move, but after several years in corporate America, she was ready to do something she could care about. She’d had enough of helping multinationals weasel out of their contracts and pollute the environment. She wanted work that mattered. And with Ben Kincaid, she got it. With Ben, everything mattered. With Ben, every case was a holy crusade. He took the cases that made a difference; he represented the people who really needed help. Of course, half the time he couldn’t get paid, but when all was said and done, did you want to spend your life amassing money, or doing work that was genuinely important? That helped other people, that made their lives better?
It had been a real pleasure, watching Ben mature over the years. Not that he wasn’t still a trifle naive. Painfully reserved. Mildly neurotic. But at the end of the day, it was all rather endearing. He was cute, damn it. Even her most cynical girlfriends, she noticed, had more than once mentioned that they wouldn’t object to going out on a double date with Ben in the package. Some of them, she suspected, assumed that she and Ben were dating on the sly. Or doing something on the sly, anyway. But they weren’t. Never once. Never even close.
Well . . . maybe close. But never.
She wondered what he was doing tonight. Was he feeling just as traumatized by the case and . . . well, she had to be truthful about it. Lonely? It sometimes seemed as if he lived for his cases. Maybe he didn’t mind spending the night alone, just him and the files. Maybe he liked it.
She didn’t. Not that she minded working, but . . .
It had been too many years now since she’d split from her husband. She’d had a few boyfriends since, but nothing that really took. They ended all too soon, and in reality, she was rarely sorry. You’re married to your work, one of them said. Well, perhaps she was. Perhaps she and Ben were married and they just didn’t know it.
The flaw with that theory being that he was at his place and she was here gazing at Zen fountains. Not much of a marriage.
She headed back to the café. She was being silly, but what was the fun of being alive if you couldn’t engage in a little silliness now and again? For all she knew, Ben was out on the town, a girl on each arm, doing some serious party-hardy. Well, Ben, enjoy yourself. Live it up. Have a round for me. I wish you the best.
No matter what you’re doing, she thought as she retook her seat and reopened the file, I wish you the best.
Ben had read the file on Erin Faulkner’s death for about as long as he could stand it, then decided to walk home, taking a shortcut through LaFortune Park. The weather outside was spectacular, and he always enjoyed dodging joggers, watching children play and lovers smooch.
But he’d gotten tired of it all too quickly. A park could be a wonderful place, he supposed, when you’re hand in hand with your loved one, or pushing little Susie on the swings. But when you’re on your own . . .
He thought about motoring over to Novel Idea, checking out the new books, maybe grabbing one of those flavored coffees that tasted more like hot chocolate. Was the new Anne Tyler out yet? It was tempting, but there’d probably be no one there this time of night, and he’d just end up being lonelier than he was now.
Lonely? Wait a minute. He’d meant to think bored. More bored than he was now. But somehow, that slipped out.
He needed to devote more time to his private life. He’d told himself so a million times. Every year it was his top New Year’s resolution. But it never seemed to make any difference. He worked far too much and he never made enough time for anything else. And what was the result? A sister who wasn’t speaking to him. He didn’t even know where she lived. A mother at t
he other end of the state. Certainly things were better with her than they had been for years, but it would still be a gross exaggeration to say they were close. About the only people he ever saw with any regularity were Mike and the tenants in his boardinghouse and people with whom he worked.
Now, Christina—there was someone who knew how to live life. He had no idea where she was tonight or what she was doing, but whatever it was, he knew she wasn’t bored and she wasn’t alone. Christina knew everyone, did everything. She had more friends than a politician. She was a member of every civic organization and social club. He could learn a lot from her.
So why didn’t he? Or better yet, why didn’t he join her?
Mmm. There were some mysteries even the great Ben Kincaid couldn’t solve.
Well, he didn’t have time to wallow around in self-pity. He had miles to go before he slept. Work he couldn’t put off. It was now or never for Ray Goldman. And never really did mean never.
Ten minutes later he arrived at the boardinghouse where he lived. The boardinghouse he now owned, courtesy of the legacy of the previous owner, Mrs. Marmelstein. Why were those cats swarming all over the place? Thank goodness Giselle can’t get out, he thought. Some of them looked like major ruffians. A pampered pussy like Giselle wouldn’t know what to make of them.
“Should we have this place sprayed?”
From her seat on the porch swing, Joni Singleton smiled. “For cats? I don’t think that’s legal, Benjy.”
“Too bad. How’s the house?”
“Fine. If I’m not mistaken, someone even paid their rent today.”
Wonders never cease. In addition to going to TU, Joni worked part-time as Ben’s handyman. Handyperson. Whatever. It was a perfect position for her. Especially perfect because Joni knew how to fix things, and Ben knew how to fix nothing. “Get everything taken care of?”
“Well, Mr. Perry’s toilet threw me for a loop, but after about two hours’ effort and a bucketful of parts from Home Depot, I think I’ve got that resolved. I rewired the electricity in the Silvermans’ apartment to avoid that circuit that always crashes. I even washed some windows.”
“You’re a wonder woman.”
“Well, yes.” Joni cupped her naturally curly black hair in the palm of her hand. She was in her early twenties, perfectly thin, and in a pair of blue jeans, Ben noted, she had never looked better. “Now that you mention it.”
“I do. May I also mention how spectacular you look these days? Have you been working out?”
Her face glowed. “Benjy, I can’t believe you actually noticed. Mother bought one of those machines she saw on an infomercial.”
Indeed. The same month she said she was too poor to make her rent. “And you use it?”
“Hey, it worked for Suzanne Somers. Speaking of which, are you still taking those martial-arts lessons? Going to the gym?”
“As a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’m not sure, but I thought I detected just a hint of muscle tone.” She grabbed his arm and squeezed. “Yes, I did! I felt a muscle!”
Ben yanked his arm away. “Why do I think I’m being patronized?”
“Can’t imagine. You’re a handsome dude. By the way, handsome dude, I’m doing this short-story reading at TU next week, and I wondered if you knew a handsome dude who would like to be my escort.”
“I don’t know this from personal observation, but I suspect your college is filled with handsome dudes.”
“I was talking about you.”
“Me? You don’t want to go with an old fogey like me.”
“No, of course not. That’s why I asked.”
“Are you serious?”
“You shouldn’t be cooped up by yourself all the time, Benjy. Working all weekend. You need to get out and live a little.”
Which was exactly what he’d been thinking himself. So why did he resist the suggestion so? “You don’t want to be seen with me. They’d think you were dating your grandfather.”
“You’re only fifteen years older than I am, Ben. And it would just be for fun. It’s not like we were, you know . . .” She laughed strangely. “Like we were dating or something.”
“Of course not. Still . . .” Ben suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. “Any word from your wayward sister?”
Joni had an identical twin sister, Jami, who had been “on the road” for over a year. Discovering America, or some such. “Not much. She keeps sending me postcards from exotic places.”
“How exciting.”
“Yeah, but I notice that the postmark is the same on all of them. Omaha.”
Ben winced. “I guess this points up the value of a college education. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go feed my cat.”
He crossed inside and climbed the stairs to his apartment.
“Good evening, Giselle,” he said as he dropped his briefcase and coat. “How was your—”
Wait a minute. No Giselle.
There were not that many constants in Ben’s life, but one of the absolutes was that Giselle always met him at the door. As much out of hunger as affection. But still. She required her daily fix of Feline’s Fancy, the sooner the better. And he was her procurer.
“Giselle?” He heard a faint mewling. He whipped across the apartment to the back bedroom.
“Giselle?” The panel in his closet was dislodged. It allowed access to the roof. He and Christina went out there sometimes to stargaze and gossip.
As quickly as he could manage, Ben mounted the steps and poked his head through. “Giselle?”
There she was, squatting on the edge of the roof, howling her black furry little head off. Ben had never heard such plaintive, piercing mewling.
“C’mere, sweetie.” He scooped her up and carried her back to the kitchen. She howled all the way. Only when he had her silver bowl filled to the brim with Feline’s Fancy did she stop, and then only long enough to eat.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” On an impulse, he opened a second can (a bad precedent, he knew), then freshened her water. When he was sure he had her stabilized, he popped open his briefcase.
He didn’t know where to start. There was so much to do on Ray’s case—and so little time to do it. Everything had to be checked and double-checked. They could afford to let no avenue of investigation go by, not with a life on the line and the executioner closing in on them fast. He couldn’t possibly do it all himself. Thank goodness he had a staff. Thank goodness for Christina.
Christina.
He almost picked up the phone, right then and there, and called her. But of course, as always, at the last moment, he chickened out. He knew she’d be busy doing something fun, and she didn’t need any pathetic calls from Ben interrupting her lively lifestyle. He’d just have to tough it out. Finish his work like a big boy.
But when this case was over, he resolved, he was going to make some changes. For real, this time. He was going to start having a life.
Because when all was said and done, the executioner wasn’t that far behind any of them.
So enough of the dull and lonely Kincaid lifestyle. From now on, he was going to start living like Christina did.
Christina was bored to tears. She wanted to scream, but Dee was managing the bookstore tonight and Christina suspected she wouldn’t appreciate any sudden outbursts.
She closed her file and tossed it back into her briefcase. She just couldn’t stand it anymore. It was all too dark, too depressing. Too devoid of human kindness. The Faulkner massacre was so horrible, it was almost inhuman. As if the killer lacked even the slightest—
Wait a minute. Something inside her head clicked. She didn’t get these bursts of inspiration often, but when she did, she had learned to trust them.
She ripped open the file and began rereading the key passages until at last the idea crystallized in her mind. Of course. It was all so clear now. It made perfect sense.
She ran out of the bookstore and headed for her car. She was going to have something ne
w for Ben tomorrow morning, after all.
And if her hunch was right, it could blow this case wide open. In a way that none of them had ever imagined.
Chapter
12
“Yes, I know a cat is not the same as a lightbulb.”
Ben paced back and forth in his small private office, cordless phone pressed against his ear. “Yes, I know a cat is not the same as a radiator.”
Another pause. “Yes, I know a cat is not the same as a leaky toilet.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” rattled the voice on the other end of the line. “For a moment you had me worried.”
“Look, Joni, I need some help here.” Ben switched the phone to the other ear. He had no idea this was going to be so complicated. “I’m worried about Giselle.”
“I got that part. What I didn’t get is what it’s got to do with me.”
“Well, you’re the handyman, aren’t you? You take care of the house.”
“Riiight.”
“And Giselle is part of the house.”
“So is Mr. Perry, but I don’t take him for his weekly enema.”
“Look, it wouldn’t be a regular thing. I just think maybe she needs to see the vet. And I’m way too busy to take her right now.”
Ben heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Tell me exactly what’s wrong with her.”
“I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with her. She’s just acting . . . different. Weird.”
“Like what?”
“Like she didn’t greet me at the door.”
“Horrors.”
“And she was whining and mewling all night long.”
“Cats have been known to mewl.”
“And she doesn’t seem to have any appetite.”
There was a brief pause. “Okay, this is serious. Give me the name of the vet.”
Ben complied. “I really appreciate this, Joni.”
“You should. You owe me big time.”
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