by Mallory Kane
Anne-Marie’s dark brown eyes lit up. “Okay. See what you think about this.” She set the two folders on the edge of his desk and opened one.
“We’ve got five victims, right? Daisy Howard, twenty-one, Bella Pottinger, thirty, Jennifer Gomez, twenty-three, Nicole Beckham, twenty-six, and Jean Terry, thirty-seven.”
“Right.” Ryker’s brain flipped through the crime scene photos of the four dead women as she spoke, and he thought about how different they all were.
“I looked at everything they could possibly have in common, but nothing jelled. Not with all five of them.”
“You didn’t find anything?”
Anne-Marie held up a finger. “Until—”
He sat up expectantly, trying to tell himself not to get his hopes up, but excited by the slight note of triumph he heard in Anne-Marie’s voice.
“Until I started looking at their parents. It took some digging, but I finally found something. Records of insurance policies, all from one particular company.”
Despite his warning to himself, his heart leaped. “From one company?”
“Yes. The Mark Life Insurance Company. It’s based out of Michigan.”
Ryker frowned. “And the victims’ parents are somehow connected by this company? All of them? Why, because they bought insurance policies?”
“Because they bought insurance policies on their children, specifically their daughters—” Anne-Marie paused. “At birth.”
“Insurance policies.” Ryker remembered Bill’s mention of Jean Terry’s insurance policy, which she was signing over to her sister. “They’re connected by insurance policies. What does that mean?” he muttered. “Was someone killing them for their insurance?”
“I have no idea. Mr. Howard told me that the insurance paid twenty-five thousand dollars upon his daughter Daisy’s death. Which sounds like some kind of whole-life policy. But it’s the only thing I could find that even remotely connects the victims.”
Insurance. All five victims. Bought at birth. Birthdays in October.
“Ryker?” Anne-Marie said.
He blinked. “I’m trying to figure out how having that insurance policy could have led to their death. Do you have any idea who sold the parents the policies?”
A telephone company employee walked over and spoke to Anne-Marie. “Ma’am, the phones are ready. Are you ready to test them?”
She sighed and stood. “Yes. I need to get the temps set up. They’ll be back in—” she checked her watch “—five minutes.” She spoke to Ryker. “I’ll leave you the folders. Hopefully you can make some sense out of them. Oh, and to answer your question, just one. Mrs. Gomez told me that her husband wrote the policy on their daughter, Jennifer. The other parents I could reach promised me they’ll dig out the policies and see what they can find.”
“Jennifer Gomez’s father is an insurance agent?”
“Until he died a few years ago.”
“And they collected twenty-five thousand dollars on their daughter, too? Have you contacted the insurance company?”
She nodded. “Several times. But they haven’t returned my calls. Their number is in one of the folders if you want to try again.”
Ryker reached for the folders. “Thanks, Anne-Marie. Maybe I can get a lead out of this.”
“One last thing. Mrs. Gomez faxed me the policy on Jennifer. It’s in that second folder. I don’t know if it will help or not.”
“Thanks, Anne-Marie. You did a great job. This is a lot more information than I had before.”
She smiled and waved as she headed to the large conference room to set up more telephones in there for tips.
Ryker picked up his phone and called Bill. He needed to get all the information Bill had about Jean Terry’s life insurance policy.
Bill had said he had a feeling that the insurance would be important so Ryker wanted to get his take on this information. Maybe together, they could figure out what the connection was between the insurance policies and the October Killer’s victims.
RYKER HAD JUST FINISHED talking with Bill and was debating the chances of catching anyone in the offices at Mark Life Insurance Company on Saturday when his phone rang. The screen displayed an unidentified number.
“This is Detective Delancey,” he said.
“Detective? This is Albert Moser.”
“Mr. Moser. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve found something in my daughter’s things that might help you find the bastard that killed her.” Moser’s voice was unsteady, as if he were excited or upset. He was probably both.
“I thought the NOPD cleaned out all your daughter’s things.”
“That’s just it. They did. But after you asked me, I decided to look again. What I found isn’t much. It’s a scrapbook. She’d hidden it behind the headboard of her bed. It’s got notes about him and a couple of things that might belong to him. A key ring. A napkin. Some pictures. But the biggest thing is there’s a sketch. You know I told you Autumn loved to draw. This is a sketch of a man. It could be him—the scumbag who killed her.”
Ryker frowned. If the police had searched Autumn Moser’s bedroom, they’d surely moved her furniture. How had they missed something as big as a scrapbook? A thought hit him. When he was in Moser’s house there had been a scrapbook sitting next to him on a side table. What if Moser had manufactured evidence, hoping it would lead to his daughter’s killer?
“That does sound promising,” he said carefully. “Can you bring it to the office? Or I can have somebody come over and pick it up.”
“I was hoping you’d come, Detective. You can see where she hid it. The New Orleans police shouldn’t have missed it. But like I’ve been telling everybody, they weren’t the least bit interested in finding the man who killed my daughter.”
“I can send a deputy. He’ll take photographs and get everything to me right away.”
There was a pause, and then Moser’s voice took on an angry, out-of-control quality. “You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you? Look at all those other women. How can the sheriff’s office be working so hard to find their killer, and nobody is trying to help me?”
“Mr. Moser,” Ryker said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “You need to relax. I can promise you we’re working on your daughter’s case, too. We believe the same man who killed her killed these other women.”
“Well, you’re wrong! This scrapbook could have evidence about that man. You’ll know I’m right when you see it.” Moser took a deep breath. “Please. I need to put it in your hands, Detective. You’re the only person who’s ever treated me with respect. The only one who’s listened to me. You’ve got to help me now. It’s the last thing I can do for my daughter, and I can’t do it without your help.”
Damn, the man knew how to lay on the guilt. It was as if he knew how bad Ryker felt that he hadn’t been able to stop the killer before now. Ryker checked his watch. He’d planned to run over to the restaurant anyway, to make sure Ingram had gotten there and to see for himself that Nicole was all right. After he drove up to Covington to see the scrapbook Moser had, he could head south to Mandeville and check on Nicole.
“Okay, Mr. Moser. I’ll be there in about half an hour. How does that sound?”
“Thank you, Detective. I truly believe this is going to make everything right.”
Ryker hung up and stood. Then a thought made him reach for the folders Anne-Marie had given him. While he was at Moser’s he could ask him about insurance policies. Maybe he and his wife had taken out a policy on their daughters when they were born. It would be one more link in the chain that proved these deaths were the fault of one man—the October Killer.
He headed for his car, not relishing the eight-plus-mile drive to Covington from the sheriff’s office in Chef Voleur. It would put him thirteen miles from the L’Orage Restaurant, and that meant probably an hour before he could get there to check on Nicole—more if Moser was chatty.
Still, this was a small thing to do for the
grieving father. Besides, who knew? Moser might be right. The scrapbook could be legitimate. If Autumn Moser had drawn a likeness of the man she was seeing, the man her father was certain had killed her, then Ryker would be that much closer to catching the killer.
ALBERT MOSER HUNG UP his phone and smiled. He sat in his daughter’s Ford Focus, which he’d picked up that morning from the parking garage where it had been ever since her death, and which was parked across the street from the Chef Voleur Sheriff’s Office.
He waited until he saw Delancey’s white BMW pull out of the sheriff’s office parking lot and turned north, toward Covington.
“That takes care of you, Detective,” he muttered. “For now.” He’d known by the tone of the detective’s voice that he was skeptical about the scrapbook.
Thinking about it now, Albert realized he hadn’t needed to put the scrapbook together and make it look as if it had been taped behind Autumn’s headboard. Just telling Detective Delancey that he had a box of things the NOPD had returned to him would have sufficed.
Too late now. The scrapbook was there, sitting on the table beside Albert’s chair. It was there because Albert had put it there the night before.
If Delancey decided to break into his house while he wasn’t there, he’d find it, just like Albert told him he would.
Albert turned the Focus southward, toward Dupre Street in Mandeville, where L’Orage Restaurant was located. He was glad he’d kept Autumn’s car serviced and stored in the parking garage all this time. Autumn’s tags and stickers were years out of date, but if he drove carefully and stuck to back streets, that was no problem. He hadn’t come this far to let carelessness spoil his plans.
His fists tightened on the steering wheel. What a stupid girl Nicole Beckham was, giving a description of him to the police, and letting them stick it on the front page of the newspaper. The sketch had bothered him. It hadn’t really looked like him, but it still made him feel conspicuous. As if everyone he passed was checking him out thinking, Is that the October Killer?
But in any case, this was the second time Nicole had seen him. He couldn’t chance her identifying him. He had to move quickly, while Detective Delancey was on his wild-goose chase.
It would take the detective at least thirty minutes to drive to Albert’s house. Another few minutes to realize that Albert wasn’t going to answer his door. A few more minutes if he decided to break in to ensure that Albert was all right, but Albert knew he couldn’t count on that. Nor could he count on the time it would take Delancey to get back to the restaurant. Once the detective realized he’d been duped, he’d call and send every patrol car available to the restaurant.
He’d watched Delancey all night, determined not to let him out of his sight for one second until he could put his plan into motion. Early this morning Delancey had taken Nicole to the restaurant, then headed for the sheriff’s office, which was exactly what Albert had counted on.
Twenty minutes. That was all he needed. Once he was done, the last person who could identify him as the killer would be gone. He’d drive to the restaurant, go inside and take care of her and whoever else was there, switch cars again and be on his way home in less than fifteen minutes.
He had a prescription refill waiting at his pharmacy in Covington. He’d pick it up. That would give him an alibi and explain why he hadn’t been at home when Delancey got there. He’d remembered the prescription at the last minute.
He glanced at his scrapbook sitting on the passenger seat. “I’m sorry, Autumn. I tried to get justice for you. If something happens—at least you’ll know I tried.” He sighed. “And so will your sister. Even if she can’t forgive me, maybe at least she’ll understand when she reads the note I left for her.”
At that instant, Albert’s cell phone rang. He nearly jumped out of his skin, and almost sideswiped a car in the other lane. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he looked at the display. Christy.
No. He couldn’t talk to her. Not right now. He tried to keep his eyes on the road, but the damn phone kept ringing.
Finally, it stopped. Albert breathed a sigh of relief and went to set it down in the console.
It rang again. Christy wasn’t going to stop calling until he answered. She knew he never went anywhere without his cell phone. She’d made him promise he wouldn’t. If he didn’t answer, she’d call the deputy who patrolled his neighborhood to check on him.
Albert pressed the answer key. “Christy,” he said breathlessly.
“Dad? What’s wrong? You sound out of breath.”
“No, I—”
“You’ve got to get more exercise. I worry about you sitting in that house all day every day.”
“Christy,” he interrupted. “What do you want?”
“I’m back from the seminar in Germany. I was just checking to see how you’re doing. I was thinking, if you don’t feel like coming up here for Christmas, maybe I can get a couple of days off and come down there. We could at least go out for Christmas dinner. I got you something in Germany.”
“That sounds good.” He paused, thinking desperately. “I can’t talk now. I’ve got corn bread in the oven. It’s burning. Let me call you back.”
“I’m glad you’re cooking corn bread. But, Dad, are you sure you’re okay? You sound funny.”
“I’m fine, Christy-girl. I’m fine. Bye.” Albert dropped the phone into the console and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands. They were white-knuckled, with blue veins crisscrossing the rough, wrinkled skin. He made a right turn, hardly slowing down at all. He had to hurry to get to L’Orage in time. He had to kill Nicole Beckham. Maybe, once she was dead, Delancey would focus on his daughter’s death.
If he could just get one detective to listen to him, they’d be able to track down the man who killed Autumn. He’d tell them to talk to her friends to see if they’d met the man, something the NOPD had failed to do. They’d look seriously at the sketch she’d drawn. Albert knew the man in that sketch was Autumn’s killer. He just knew it.
NICOLE LIFTED THE LID off the pot and sniffed at the chicken stock she was reducing. The aroma made her mouth water. She was acting as sous chef for Richard Tesch, since she wasn’t going to be here for the dinner service. Deputy Ingram had told her Ryker would be picking her up around six.
Still, it felt great to be cooking anything, even chicken stock. She liked the kitchen on Saturday mornings. It was her favorite time. Since they weren’t open for lunch on Saturdays, she and Job were the only ones there in the mornings. Richard and the rest of the staff weren’t due in until two o’clock.
She drew in a deep breath. The kitchen was quiet and warm, and smelled delicious. Like home, or at least like Nicole had always imagined home would smell.
Job was humming an old hymn and kneading a huge ball of bread dough in preparation for baking his signature homemade French bread. A second bowl of dough was sitting on the top of the stove, rising. The aroma of yeast and flour mixed with the rich smell of the chicken stock to fill the kitchen.
Nicole dipped the hot stock into a smaller pot, separating it from the chicken bones and skin.
“Let me get that, Nicki,” Job said, washing and drying his hands. He put on oven mitts then picked up the heavy pot and lid and drained out the last of the broth. “I’ll take these out to the Dumpster. Stock smells real good today.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” She smiled at him. “Why don’t you tell Deputy Ingram to come in and have some lunch? The tea has steeped enough. I’m going to sweeten it and put it in the refrigerator, then I’ll make us all a chicken sandwich.”
The deputy was making his half-hour rounds, checking all sides of the restaurant and the surrounding buildings. Nicole liked him. He was polite and quiet and appeared to be very good at his job.
Job pushed open the heavy door that led from the kitchen out into the alley where the garbage Dumpster was. Nicole set the smaller stockpot back on the gas and turned it to high. It took a couple of hours on high heat to reduce the stock to
the consistency she liked.
She grabbed the ten-pound bag of sugar and turned back toward the island, where a large jug of tea sat.
Outside, she heard Job’s muffled voice, and the deputy’s answer.
Then she heard several pops.
She jumped and dropped the bag of sugar. White crystals slid with a whishing sound across the dark red tile. She watched in a strange panicked daze as they bounced and sparkled.
Then came another pop, different in pitch.
Oh, no! She knew that sound! Gunshots. Someone was shooting.
“Job!” she cried. She stared at the back door, willing him to pull it open and walk in, followed by Ingram. Maybe she was just jumpy. Maybe the pops had been a car with bad sparkplugs or bad valves or something.
She took another step.
More pops sounded, deeper, louder, closer to the door. Then a harsh cry.
Dear God! That was Job’s voice. They were gunshots and he was hurt.
“Job!” she screamed.
Again, her first instinct was to run to the kitchen door and fling it open to check on Job and Ingram. But something—Ryker’s warnings about precautions, as well as her own instinct for self-preservation—kept her rooted in place.
If the killer was out there, if he’d shot Job and the deputy, what could she do, except get herself killed?
I need to help Job, she objected.
Ryker’s words reverberated in her head. Exercise reasonable precautions.
But that was to keep her from getting hurt. He hadn’t told her what to do if someone else were hurt on her account.
All at once a different sound reverberated outside the door.
Footsteps, crunching on pavement.
Let it be Job, she prayed. Please, let him be okay!
But what if it wasn’t?
As she watched, the door swung open, but nobody appeared. She looked around. The pantry was right beside the exterior door. No escape that way.
The swinging doors that led out into the dining room were on the other side of the room, around the big granite-topped island. She’d never make it. And there was nothing behind her but the industrial-size refrigerator.