“How about Cynthia Pool?”
Jan shook her head. “Oh, no. Cynthia would never date men who come into the bookstore.”
Quinn looked down at the notebook on the table in front of him. His gaze skimmed the next few names on his list. “Why’s that?”
“She thinks men are dirty.”
Quinn looked up. “‘Dirty’? Are those your words or hers?”
“Hers.”
“Do you think she hates men enough to kill them?”
“No. Cynthia is a very kind person. She had a really difficult marriage and divorce. Her husband was abusive and cheated on her, but she is not a murderess.” Jan laughed, a kind of strained sound, before she added, “And I’m sure she would never write upsetting letters to Lucy Rothschild. She’s her biggest fan.”
Chapter 17
Hardlvnman: Seeks Sunshine…
“I’m your biggest fan.”
Lucy stood within the shade of Cynthia Pool’s porch and smiled. “Thank you.” Her gaze slid down Cynthia’s Mickey Mouse T-shirt and black stretch pants to her empty hands. “I’m so glad you found the folder. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”
“Come on in and I’ll get it.”
Cynthia’s house was near the Boise Towne Square Mall and about a mile from the police station and Quinn’s office. On her drive across town, Lucy had called and left a message for him on his voice mail. She’d hoped he wouldn’t be upset that she’d had to borrow his Jeep, and she hadn’t wanted him to worry if he phoned home again and she wasn’t there.
Lucy stepped from the bright afternoon sun and inside Cynthia’s house. The curtains were all drawn, and Lucy reached for her sunglasses as she shut the door behind her. Shoving the glasses into the purse hanging from her shoulder, she glanced about the interior. A corner lamp lit the living room, and Lucy was instantly struck by the Disney knickknacks covering every conceivable space. Every character from Mickey Mouse to Cruella De Vil stared at her through thousands of painted eyes.
“Wow. I didn’t know you were a collector.”
“Oh yes. I’ve been collecting Disney memorabilia for most of my life. Ever since my father bought me my first Mickey gum ball machine. I still have it.”
Lucy wasn’t much of a collector and didn’t know what to say except, “Wow.”
Cynthia smiled and clasped her hands together. “Have a seat and I’ll get that folder for you.”
Lucy moved aside a pillow featuring Donald Duck in short pants and a sailor’s cap and sat on the couch. She couldn’t wait to get that folder and hopefully get back to work. But even more, she couldn’t wait for Quinn to get home and tell her about the latest evidence.
Cynthia returned with the folder in hand, but instead of giving it to Lucy, she moved across the room and sat in a chair. “I’m so glad you’re here. It will give us a chance to talk about writing.”
Lucy groaned inwardly. “Can I help you with something?”
“Actually. No.” She held up the folder. “I read your chapters.”
Lucy felt her brows rise up her forehead. The only person she ever let read her rough drafts was Maddie. “Really?”
“Don’t look so alarmed.” Cynthia tilted her head to one side and smiled. “They were wonderful as always.”
It was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to ask, What the hell? Instead she forced a smile and said, “Thank you.”
“I really liked the part where the killer stalks her victims for a while after she meets them and before she kills them. It’s kind of like a honeymoon period. That’s a nice touch. Very thrilling.”
Okay. So Cynthia had read a few rough chapters. She’d been curious and taken a peek. No big deal. Or rather, Lucy wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I noticed there were comments written in the margins. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of adding my critique.”
Oh my God. The blood drained from Lucy’s head, and all she could manage was a stunned, “Oh.”
“I noticed a few comma errors, and you really need to watch for run-on sentences.”
Be nice, Lucy. “Well, it is a rough draft,” she heard herself say. She stood. She needed to get out of there before she said something rude and condescending.
“That’s why I didn’t comment on your overuse of -ly adverbs. In the future, that might be something you should watch for, too.”
Lucy moved across the room and stopped in front of the chair. “I’ll remember to do that.”
Cynthia remained seated, looking up at Lucy through light green eyes. “And whoever wrote on your manuscript doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
Now that took cojones. Cojones Lucy would never have thought Cynthia possessed. “I’ll let Madeline Dupree know you think so.”
“Madeline Dupree? The true crimes writer?” Cynthia’s brow wrinkled as if she were confronting the impossible. Then she shook her head and said, “No. Madeline is wrong.”
Lucy was going to have to tell Maddie and watch her laugh her behind off. In fact, they would probably laugh themselves into comas, but at the moment there was nothing funny about it. She lifted a hand for the folder. “Thank you for your input, but I really need to get home.” She smiled but was afraid it fell a little flat. She wanted to get the hell out of Cynthia’s house, and at this point she didn’t particularly care if it showed. “Gotta book to write.”
“Ocular petechiae are not always present at a death by suffocation.”
Lucy knew that and was sure Maddie did, too.
“And finding willing victims is incredibly easy.” Cynthia finally stood. “Even when the police are on television warning men not to engage in bondage.”
“Umm, yeah.” Lucy glanced down at the folder in Cynthia’s hand and wondered if she should just count to three, grab it, and run.
“They do it anyway. Every Friday and Saturday night, they come in and circle the aisle like sharks. After a few of them swim by, you can see they’re just bottom feeders.”
Lucy looked up as her brain skidded to a halt. “What?”
“You ruined it,” Cynthia said. “You ruined everything.”
Lucy felt her scalp get tight. She must have heard wrong. “What are you talking about?”
“In the beginning, I wrote to you because I wanted you to know how good I am at what I do. Just like you’re good at what you do. Your books have always brought such joy to my life, and I wanted to give you something as a thank you,” she said, looking for all the world as if they were discussing which brand of laundry soap worked best on stains. But they weren’t, and there was no doubt in Lucy’s mind that she was staring at a serial killer. “At first I thought I might send you some cookie recipes, but I didn’t know if you liked to bake.”
“Baking’s good.” Lucy took a few steps back and slid her hand into her purse. There was also no doubt in her mind that Cynthia wasn’t going to allow her to leave. She felt her wallet and cell phone, her sunglasses and lipstick.
“After I sent you the first letters, and you didn’t take them to the police, I thought you understood that dirty men had to be punished. I was so happy because I’d felt so alone for so long. I thought we were friends. Then I saw you with him and I knew it was all a lie. You lied to me.”
“I’m sorry you felt lied to,” Lucy reasoned as she edged toward the door. She felt her business card case and a pack of Breath Savers.
“No, you’re not. I will not be pacified.”
“I’m sorry.” Anger welled up within Lucy, and she had to fight an inner battle to keep a calm head. Cynthia didn’t look like she had a weapon, and Lucy was so mad that she thought she could probably beat her ass if it came to a fight.
“It’s not that easy.” Cynthia moved with her and slid sideways to block the door. “From reading your books, I knew to wear gloves and wigs and to set up false clues. I wore red and turquoise to the motel on Chinden, parading around as a member of the Peacock Society because I knew someon
e would see me.” She stuck her chin up and set the folder on a shelf, scattering Snow White and her Seven Dwarfs. “I was brilliant.”
Lucy felt a pen, but it wasn’t her stun pen. She stared into Cynthia’s eyes, still calm as could be, and forced herself to say, “That is brilliant.”
“I walked into those houses and that motel room and left nothing of myself behind. As if I’d never been there. I learned it all from you.”
“My books are fiction.” Lucy felt the cool metal of her brass knuckles and slid them on her fingers. “They aren’t how-to manuals.”
“You told me to kill those men. You can’t walk away from me now. I’m not going to let you.”
“You’re going to get caught,” Lucy said and wrapped her hand around her stun pen. She would have preferred the mace. “You left your fingerprints in Robert Patterson’s car.”
Cynthia’s nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. “That’s another lie. I was careful not to touch anything.” She reached behind her and pulled a kitchen knife out of somewhere.
Shit. “The police know I’m here,” Lucy bluffed as she took several steps back, keeping her gaze on the five-inch blade.
Cynthia shook her head and took a step toward Lucy. “You might be a good writer, but you’re a bad liar. I’m too smart for them and I’m too smart for you.”
“You left a fingerprint on the envelope you dropped in my mailbox.”
That stopped Cynthia, and again her brow creased as if she were forced to confront an impossibility. “Stop lying!” She lunged forward, and Lucy pulled her hand out of her purse and swung. Her brass knuckles connected with Cynthia’s forehead, and the other woman went down. Lucy sprang for the door without waiting to see if she’d knocked Cynthia out, but she only managed a few steps before Cynthia grabbed her ankle. Lucy fell on her side.
Cynthia was on top of Lucy before she could move. “I thought I’d feel bad killing you.”
Lucy rolled onto her back, jammed the stun pen into Cynthia’s boney thigh, and pressed the button. Nothing happened. “Shit!”
“I’m not going to feel bad at all.” Cynthia raised the knife, and Lucy’s mind raced. She wasn’t going to die like this. No way. She kept her eyes on the five-inch blade, waiting for Cynthia to bring the knife down. When she did, Lucy knew what she would do. She’d knock Cynthia’s arm with one hand and swing with the other. The only problem was that she’d have to let Cynthia get close enough so that she could punch her brass knuckles in the psychotic bitch’s nose.
“You’re just like the others,” Cynthia said. “They underestimated me, too.”
From outside the house, Lucy heard a shout a split second before the door burst open and sunlight flooded the living room. Within the path of golden rays, Cynthia looked up as a 9mm bullet drilled the pale flesh between her shocked eyes. Her head fell back, and Lucy pushed and scrambled from beneath her. She got to her feet and stumbled into a solid chest and waiting arms. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Quinn who held her so tight she could hardly breathe. “She was trying to kill me,” she gasped.
“I know.”
“I hit her with my brass knuckles.”
“Good girl.”
“My stun pen didn’t work.” She turned her head to look behind her shoulder, but Quinn’s hand brought her face back around.
“You don’t want to see that,” he said.
Kurt Weber brushed past, and Lucy glanced over Quinn’s shoulder to the white car on the lawn and the red light swirling from the visor.
“Is she dead?” Lucy asked.
“Before she hit the floor,” Kurt answered.
Lucy started to shake. “She’s the one, Qu-Quinn.”
“I know.” He kept one arm around her as he re-holstered his gun. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head as her knees began to knock.
Quinn took Lucy outside into the afternoon sunlight and moved with her to the driver side of the cruiser. The door was open, and he reached inside for a handheld microphone clipped to the radio. He stood, stringing the black cord along with him. Lucy grasped the top of the door frame as he called in the code. She lifted her face to the warm sun, felt the rays on her cheeks and forehead, and shook as if she were coming apart. She couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her throat hurt. She was afraid she just might hyperventilate.
Quinn tossed the mic onto the seat and got a blanket out of the trunk. He wrapped it around Lucy, then looked into her eyes. “Lucy, you’re going to pass out if you don’t try to take calm breaths.” He ran his hands over the wool blanket on her shoulders. “We don’t have much time before this place is crawling with cops, so I need you awake and coherent for what I’m going to tell you.”
Concentrating on Quinn’s face, she managed a deep breath. “Okay.”
“An ambulance is on the way to check you out. If you’re transported to the hospital, you’ll be interviewed there. If you’re okay and don’t need to be transported, someone is going to take you to the office and interview you. I don’t know who, but you’ll be all right. Tell them everything you know.”
“You won’t b-be there?” she stuttered. If she concentrated, she could control her breathing, but no amount of willpower could stop the shakes.
“I’ll be there, but I can’t be there with you. I’m sorry.”
Sirens cut through the sound in the distance. “I’ll get through it. Do you have some wa-water?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” He rubbed the side of his face with one hand. “I was en route when I got your voice mail. I think my heart stopped and hasn’t started up again.”
“It never even o-occurred to me that Cynthia Pool was Breath-less.” She hugged herself inside the blanket. “She was so…bl-bland. Even when she was telling me who she w-was and all the horrible things she’d d-done. She was just so calm about it. Well, until the moment she came completely un-unhinged.”
The sirens got closer, and Quinn hugged her to his chest. “You’re safe now,” he said next to her ear. “It’s over and you’re going to be okay.”
Three police cruisers and an unmarked car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, their sirens blaring and lights flashing. A moment later, an ambulance pulled in front of Quinn’s Jeep parked at the curb.
Lucy was quickly hustled to the ambulance, and it wasn’t until she was sitting in back with a blood pressure cuff on her arm and an oxygen mask on her face that she calmed down enough for everything to soak in. She could be the one dead right now. Not Cynthia. Stabbed to death by a deranged psycho.
No. She’d fought back and couldn’t see herself going out like that. She was the type of woman to suck out the poison, after all. When push came to shove, she could punch a shark. Oddly, she felt more alive than she ever had before.
She glanced out the back of the ambulance, at the uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives, at the yards of crime scene tape that kept the public away. She didn’t see Quinn.
She looked for him as she was escorted by a Detective Gonzalez to an unmarked car. She finally caught a glimpse of him while she was being driven away. He was standing by his car, talking to Kurt Weber. He glanced up, and his gaze met hers for a split second before he turned away. In that second she saw a sort of bleak sadness in his eyes, and her heart ached to be with him.
At the police station, the interview took a little over two hours, and by the time it was over, Lucy was exhausted and numb. She just wanted to go home. To her home and snuggle with her cat. Tomorrow she would call her family and friends and tell them what happened. Tonight she just wanted her flannel pj’s, a cup of decaf tea, and a shower. If she was going to wait for Quinn, she preferred to be at home. She had the detective take her to her house instead of Quinn’s.
As Detective Gonzalez pulled to a stop in front of her house, she looked across the car at him and asked the question she wanted to know most. “Where is Detective McIntyre?”
“Ri
ght about now, he’s probably chatting with the guys from internal affairs.”
“Thanks for the ride,” she said and got out of the unmarked car. She let herself into her house and locked the door behind her. Mr. Snookums walked from the kitchen and let out a series of loud yowls, welcoming her home. She set her purse on the coffee table and scooped up her cat. Then for some reason she could not explain, she sank to her knees and burst into tears.
“I was so scared, Snook,” she sobbed. She didn’t know how long she knelt there on the floor, holding her cat while he purred. But once her tears subsided into mild hiccups, she filled Snookums’s dish with food and made her way to the shower. She stepped beneath the warm water and closed her eyes. She was stiff and sore and didn’t know if it was because of her fight with Cynthia or the result of all that shaking she’d done.
After her shower, she dressed in her flannel pajamas with the pink dogs on them. She made herself some chicken noodle soup and waited for Quinn. At ten o’clock, she watched the news. The film footage showed the front of Cynthia’s house and the cops working the scene. Lucy spotted Quinn leaning his behind against the back of his car, looking as grim as she remembered when she’d been taken from the scene.
Pending notification of relatives, Cynthia’s name was not released, but the news did report that the police believed her to be the person responsible for the deaths of four Boise men. Lucy was reported as “a local woman,” but Quinn was named as the officer who’d shot and killed the suspect.
After the news, Lucy took her cat and went to her bedroom. Maybe Quinn was planning to wait until morning to come and see her. An adrenalin overload had left her physically exhausted and emotionally spent-except where Quinn was concerned. She wasn’t too tired to think about him.
She turned on the light on her nightstand and crawled into bed. Quinn had said they would continue to see each other after everything was over. The longer she sat in her bed waiting, the more she began to wonder if he’d meant it. He hadn’t said he loved her. Their lives had been in such chaos lately that maybe he would want a break. She certainly didn’t want a break, but if he did, she’d give it to him.
Sex, Lies, And Online Dating Page 22