by Mallory Kane
“Good. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything.” That was a lie. There were a lot of things she didn’t want him asking.
“Why don’t you like birthdays?”
The question felt like an arrow to her chest. Thud. She wasn’t even sure she knew—not exactly.
“Is it the same reason you’re so dead-set against moving?”
Okay. This was getting too close to home. Nicole sat up, fumbling with the edge of the sheet to cover her breasts.
Ryker slid over so she could pull the sheet up to cover her. Then he patted the bed next to him and held his arm out. For an instant all she wanted to do was run away. She didn’t want to answer his questions. Didn’t want anyone—certainly not him—delving into the dark places inside her.
But she couldn’t resist his invitation to sink back into him. Being held by Ryker Delancey was the safest place she’d ever been.
“Nic? I didn’t mean to upset you. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’d just—” He paused for a second, as if he weren’t quite sure of himself. “I’d like to know you better.”
“My mother wasn’t well. Looking back, I think she may have been bipolar, but all I knew when I was little was that my mother wasn’t the same as other mothers.” Nicole took a shaky breath. Ryker’s arm tightened around her shoulders.
“The first place I remember living was a nice bright house with her and my dad. But he died, and we had to move to a small apartment. It wasn’t bright at all. I had a hard time understanding why we couldn’t stay in our big bright house. I was eight at that time. Mama got a job cleaning offices, but her shift was from ten o’clock at night until six o’clock in the morning.”
“Who stayed with you?”
Nicole shivered. “Nobody.”
“You were in that apartment by yourself every night?” His embrace grew tighter. “God, Nic.”
“In some ways it was a good thing. I learned to be self-sufficient. When I was thirteen I got a job helping out at a local diner. That’s where I learned how to cook. The man who owned the diner had been an executive chef, but he’d had a stroke and couldn’t use his left side very well. He somehow got me a scholarship to culinary school. I don’t know what I’d be doing now if it weren’t for him.”
Ryker was quiet for a moment. “What about your mother?”
“She died soon after I graduated.”
“You said she gave you your knives.”
Nicole smiled sadly. “She did. She cashed in an insurance policy to buy them. I was so mad at her for not using the money for herself.”
Ryker pulled her close and tucked her head under his chin.
She lay there, listening to his heart beat steadily and strong as she splayed her fingers across his chest and down his lean, sculpted abs. This was what heaven must feel like. Warm. Safe. Intimate.
AFTER TALKING WITH Charles Phillips to see if he remembered anything other than the notes he’d jotted down about Albert Moser’s phone call three years ago, which he didn’t, Ryker headed over to Mandeville, to the offices of the St. Tammany Parish Record, to have a talk with Lon Hébert about boundaries.
Hébert was at his desk, typing on a computer keyboard with two fingers. He glanced up as Ryker approached.
“Detective Delancey,” he said, turning back to the computer screen. “I was going to call you for a statement.” He hunted and pecked a few more times, then pushed his chair back. “Have a seat. What can I do you for?”
Ryker stayed on his feet. “You can stay away from Nicole Beckham. And you can keep her name out of your rag.”
“Hey! Lay off the police brutality. I was just doing my job.”
“So your job is to put victims of crimes in danger?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Ryker took a step closer to the seated reporter. “I’m talking about printing her name in the paper. Linking her with the Jean Terry case. Revealing the information about her knife. By the way, I need to know who told you that.”
“I told you that day. Police scanner.”
“I don’t buy that. You were there too quick, and the police scanner didn’t give you the information about the knife.”
“No.” Hébert smiled up at Ryker. “It didn’t. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not revealing my sources. You need to leave. You’re stepping over the line here.”
“Yeah?” Ryker’s ears were burning, he was so angry. “You think I’m over the line? Bud, you crossed the line days ago. Don’t let me catch you anywhere near Nicole Beckham. And if you publish one more thing about the October Killer without checking it with me first, you’re going to be real sorry.”
Hébert vaulted up out of his chair, sending it rolling backward until it hit the next desk. “You got no right coming in here and telling me what I can and can’t do. I’m a journalist. It’s my job to let the public know the truth.”
“If anything happens to Nicole as a result of what you printed, I’ll haul you in as an accessory.” Ryker took a step backward. He needed to cool off before he did something stupid yet gratifying, like punching Hébert in the face.
By now several people had come out of offices or stopped what they were doing and were staring at the two men.
Hébert looked around and then took a step toward Ryker, who towered over him by at least five inches. “You get out of here before I call security.”
Ryker lifted his chin. “Watch yourself, Hébert,” he warned, then turned on his heel and left.
By the time he’d driven from the newspaper office to Albert Moser’s address in Covington, he’d calmed down a little. He didn’t look forward to talking with Moser, given the man’s anger and pain at the police’s failure to find his daughter’s murderer. It would be a change from his fiery exchange with Hébert, though. No matter how upset and angry Albert Moser was, he was a victim. His child had been murdered.
Moser’s home was a typical 1980s-style suburban ranch house that looked a little worse for wear. The trim on the brick house was way overdue for a paint job. The yard had at one time been landscaped, but overgrown shrubs and a carelessly cut lawn told Ryker that Moser probably lived alone and was probably depressed.
When Ryker pressed the button for the doorbell, he didn’t hear anything inside. So he rapped on the door, waited thirty seconds, then rapped again.
Finally, he heard movement from inside. The sound of footsteps approaching and a lock turning. Then the door opened.
Albert Moser was a medium-height man who looked to be in his mid-to-late sixties, although Ryker figured he might be a little younger than that. He wore a plaid shirt that was mis-buttoned and a pair of worn, baggy dress pants. His thinning hair was combed, but he hadn’t shaved in several days.
“Mr. Moser? I’m Detective Ryker Delancey.” He held up his badge. “May I come in? I have some questions about your daughter.”
Moser’s dark eyes narrowed. “About Autumn?”
“Your daughter who died,” Ryker said gently.
A grimace of pain crossed Moser’s face. His eyes narrowed a bit more. “You have news?” he asked hoarsely.
“No, sir. Not yet. But I’m hoping after we talk I’ll have a better understanding of what happened. I hope to be able to give you some answers.”
“Really?” Moser eyed Ryker with disbelief. After a couple of seconds, he stepped backward. “You might as well come in.”
As Ryker entered the dark foyer, he noticed a framed picture on the wall. “Beautiful woman,” he commented, nodding at it.
Moser looked at the picture, then at Ryker. “My wife. My daughter drew that when she was thirteen years old.”
“Your younger daughter? Autumn?”
Moser nodded. “Right that way, into the living room.”
Ryker stepped down a step into the large sunken room. The only light was the pale glow that filtered in through the curtains. Moser sat down in a recliner and turned on a table lamp. It hardly helped.
After a brief look around, Ryker chose to sit in an easy chair to Moser’s right. The position of the chair gave him a straight shot to the front door. He was pretty sure Moser was harmless, but he always liked to be prepared.
“So Autumn was an artist.”
“She liked to draw. She was good, too, but she never did anything with it.” Ryker nodded.
“What do you want with me?” Moser demanded, before Ryker could speak again. “If you’re here because I called—I have a right, you know. I can call and ask what’s being done to find her murderer. You can’t stop me from doing everything I can.” Moser put his hand on a post-bound book sitting on the table at his right hand. It looked like a scrapbook.
“Yes, you do have that right, Mr. Moser. And my visit is about your daughter. I’d like to find out about her death. It could be linked to several other murders in this area during the past few years.”
Moser frowned, traced the binding of the scrapbook, then seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled his hand away. “Other murders? What do you mean?”
“You may have seen something in the paper about the October Killer?”
Moser didn’t speak.
“There have been four deaths in the past five years, all during the last full week in October, all women whose birthdays were during that week.”
“Like my Autumn. Her birthday was yesterday.” His voice cracked.
“I know, and I’m sorry for your loss. I’d like to find out everything I can about her death. It’s possible she was the first victim of this killer.”
Albert Moser’s face drained of color and his eyes widened. “What did you say?”
Ryker knew he’d heard him. He’d spoken to enough grieving family members and enough evasive suspects to understand that the question was automatic, an unconscious attempt to gain a bit of time to process the information he’d just heard. Moser’s reaction seemed to indicate that he’d never considered that his daughter’s murder might be linked to the other, more recent murders in St. Tammany Parish.
“Where did the shooting take place?”
Moser blinked rapidly. “Where?”
Ryker leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, trying to display open and friendly body language. The older man was clearly stunned by Ryker’s mention of the October Killer.
“I apologize if these questions are upsetting, Mr. Moser, but I need this information. It could help us find your daughter’s killer.”
“Right,” Moser said. “That’s all I’ve wanted all this time.” He took a shaky breath. “It was her birthday. She’d decided to go to the French Quarter. Autumn was a head-strong girl. She never learned responsibility like my older girl, Christmas, did. Christy’s a doctor now.”
Ryker didn’t comment. He didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the man’s memories. He jotted a quick note to find out where Christmas Moser lived.
“Autumn had gotten in with some bad people. She was doing drugs, I don’t know what kind. I figure that’s why she was down in the French Quarter that night. It was her birthday, you know.”
Ryker nodded, then made a production of slipping his notebook out of his pocket and opening it. There was no reason to point out to Moser that he kept repeating himself. He was heartbroken about his daughter, and frustrated that the police hadn’t found her killer. Making an effort to show the man that he was paying attention was the least Ryker could do for him. “Yesterday. October 26, right?”
Moser shook his head. “A father shouldn’t outlive his child. It’s a sad, sad thing, Detective. It can make you crazy. Make you think things, do things, you never thought—” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “I tried to tell the policemen back then that I knew who’d killed her, but they didn’t care.”
That surprised Ryker. “You know who killed your daughter?”
“She was running around with a married man. He wouldn’t leave her alone. She swore to me she’d quit him, but he kept calling her. Begging her to see him. Threatening her. About a week before she died, she let on that she was afraid he’d kill her if she didn’t go back to him.”
“You told the police this? The New Orleans police?”
“I sure did.”
Ryker watched Moser. He couldn’t decide if the man was the nutcase Phillips had claimed he was, or if he was right about the married man. “What happened? Did NOPD arrest him? Question him?”
Moser folded his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Nope. I never knew his name. She never would tell me. Said it’d get him in trouble and he’d lose his job.”
“So she thought you would know him?”
Moser looked at him in surprise. “Know him? You think that’s why she wouldn’t tell me? Because I know him? Hell, I don’t know all that many people.”
“Maybe it was someone well-known. A celebrity or a politician. Someone in the public eye.”
“Humph. I doubt that. If it was somebody rich, I’d have known. Autumn would have gotten him to buy her stuff, and I never saw any stuff.”
“Maybe he bought her the drugs,” Ryker suggested.
Moser sent him a calculated glance. “Maybe so.”
“One last question, Mr. Moser. Why call the St. Tammany Sheriff’s Office about your daughter’s killer? Why not call the NOPD?”
“I called them, too. But I’m pretty sure the man who killed her lives around here.”
Ryker knew he could get information about Autumn Moser from her case file, but there was something about her father that made him want to keep asking him questions. Ryker had a gut feeling that Moser knew something that could help him, if he could just dig it out.
“Where did your daughter live?”
“She’d moved back in with me. She’d lost her job and had to give up her apartment.”
“And you’re sure you never saw or met the man you believe killed her?”
Moser stood and pocketed his handkerchief. His hands were shaking. He obviously was ready for Ryker to leave.
Ryker stood, too. “Only a couple more questions, Mr. Moser. The more I know, the closer I can get to finding the person who murdered your daughter, and these other young women.”
“My girl’s not part of this October Killer thing. That man killed her.”
“I assume the police went through her things?”
Moser nodded as he headed toward the front door. Ryker glanced around one last time. The house was typical. The large living room. Kitchen and dining room off to one side. A hall on the other side leading to the bedrooms. Through the door to the kitchen he could see slips of paper and pencil drawings on the refrigerator door.
“I wonder if I could see her room? It might help me find the man who killed her.”
“No. I mean, there’s nothing there. What the police didn’t take, I threw away. I couldn’t stand it, having her things around. I took everything to the dump.” Moser opened the door. “I’d like you to leave now. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Ryker stepped past him, then turned and handed him a card. “Here’s my phone numbers, office and cell. If you think of anything that might help me, please call. And believe me, Mr. Moser. I’m committed to finding the man who killed your daughter.”
Moser stared at the card for a second, then took it.
Ryker started down the sidewalk.
“Detective,” Moser called out. “What happened to the girl they talked about in the newspaper? The chef—the one who survived?”
“She’s fine. Doing well,” Ryker said noncommittally.
“That article said she’s helping with the investigation. Is that true? Or is it one of those things the paper prints because it sounds good?”
Ryker’s anger at Hébert for exposing Nicole in the newspaper flared. “That’s not something I can talk about,” he parried.
Moser frowned. “But it was in the paper.”
“I’m afraid that’s all I can say. Call me anytime, Mr. Moser.”
As Ryker drove off, Mos
er was still standing on his stoop, fingering the business card.
Chapter Nine
Albert Moser closed and locked his front door with trembling hands, then sat down in his recliner. He set the detective’s business card on the end table next to his scrapbook, but his unsteady hand knocked it onto the floor.
For a moment, he just stared down at it as his thoughts raced dizzily.
Finally, someone had paid attention to his desperate calls. His work had paid off. Detective Ryker Delancey was looking into his daughter’s death.
But there was a problem with that. Detective Delancey was certain that his daughter’s death was connected with the October Killer murders. That would send him in an entirely different direction. Albert’s direction. And he couldn’t have that happen.
He stood and paced. He’d gotten the police’s attention. But not in the way he’d planned. Where had his plan gone wrong? He’d figured having a second young woman die the last week in October, one year after Autumn died, the police would be reminded of his daughter’s case and dig deeper.
But when he’d dug into his insurance records to find young women near Autumn’s age, and with birthdays near hers, there had only been one woman who lived in New Orleans. Her home was in the Garden District, in a gated community. Albert knew he’d never be able to get to her. So he’d had to go with women who lived in older houses, in apartments, in neighborhoods where he could get to them. And because he’d always lived and worked in St. Tammany Parish, that was where he’d written most of his insurance policies, and that was where most of them lived.
So he’d killed a young model who lived in Mandeville but worked in New Orleans. He’d chosen her because she was exactly the same age as his daughter. Same birthday, same year. Then he waited. Nobody called. Nobody came to talk to him. If the police even remembered his daughter’s murder, they didn’t do anything about it. He’d called the St. Tammany Parish and the New Orleans police and complained, pointing out the similarities between the cases. Begging them to find his daughter’s murderer before someone else died. But nobody listened.