Surprisingly, Mom didn’t rise to her dead daughter’s defense, and King concluded that the injuries on her face and forearms were the reason.
Janice had had, to their knowledge, no enemies, and they could think of no reason why anyone would want to kill her. It was the same story they’d told the police, and the FBI after that.
“And I hope this is the last damn time we have to go through it,” said the stepfather. “If she went and got herself killed, it’s her own damn fault. I ain’t got time to sit around and tell you people the same stuff over and over.”
“Oh, are we keeping you from something important?” asked Michelle. “Like another beer perhaps?”
He lit his cigarette, took a puff and grinned at her. “I like your style, lady.”
“By the way, where were you on the night she was killed?” asked Michelle, who was obviously working hard to keep from maiming the man.
His grin disappeared. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I want to know where you were when your stepdaughter was killed.”
“I already told the cops that.”
“Well, we’re cops too. So you’re just going to have to tell us again.”
“I was out with some buddies.”
“These buddies have names and addresses?”
They did, and Michelle wrote it all down while the man looked on nervously.
“I didn’t have nothing to do with her getting killed,” he said hotly as he followed them outside.
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” replied Michelle.
“You’re damn right I don’t, baby.”
Michelle spun around. “The name’s Deputy Maxwell. And in case you didn’t know, beating up your wife is a felony.”
He snorted. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I think she might disagree,” said Michelle, nodding toward Mrs. Pembroke, who cowered inside, staring through the curtains.
He laughed. “That dog won’t hunt. I’m king of my castle. Why don’t you come on by sometime and I’ll show you, sweet-cheeks.”
Michelle’s entire body tensed.
“Don’t do it, Michelle,” warned King, who was watching her. “Just let it go.”
“Screw you, Sean.”
She marched over to the stepfather and spoke in a low but very clear voice. “Listen, you pathetic little moron, she doesn’t have to press charges personally anymore. The state can do it for her. So when I come back here—and I will—if she even has one tiny mark on her—just one!—I’ll arrest your sorry ass. After I kick the shit out of you first.”
The cigarette fell out of the man’s mouth. “You can’t do that, you’re a cop.”
“I’ll just say you fell down the stairs.”
The man looked at King. “She just threatened me,” he cried.
“I didn’t hear any threat,” said King.
“So that’s the way it’s gonna be, huh? Well, I ain’t afraid of no skinny wench like you.”
There was a five-foot-high wooden post in the front yard holding up an old-fashioned lantern. Michelle walked over to it and, with one sidekick of her powerful right leg, broke the post right in half.
After seeing that, the man’s beer can joined his cigarette on the ground as he stared openmouthed at this demonstration of destruction.
“I’ll be seeing you, sweet-cheeks,” said Michelle, and she walked to the car.
King bent down and picked up a piece of the shattered wood and said to the stricken man, “Damn, can you imagine if that were somebody’s spine?” He handed him forty dollars for repairs and walked off.
As they got in the car, King said, “I think he actually wet his pants.”
“I’ll sleep better knowing he’s not sleeping at all.”
He said in a hurt tone, “Screw you, Sean?”
“I’m sorry, I was upset. But you can’t always turn the other cheek either.”
“Actually, I was very proud of you.”
“Right. No threats on my part will make her situation any better. A guy like that, you never know what he might do. I probably should have just kept my mouth shut.”
“But you’re going to go and check on her, aren’t you?”
“You bet I am.”
“Let me know when you’re thinking of heading over.”
“Why, so you can talk me out of it?”
“No, so I can hold the bastard down while you beat the crap out of him.”
Chapter 46
He’d followed King and Michelle to the Pembrokes’ and was now trailing them as they headed across town to Roger Canney’s home. He was not driving the blue VW today; an old pickup truck was his ride. A sweat-stained cowboy hat, shades and a stick-on beard and mustache of his own design provided satisfactory cover. The pair of investigators was starting to become a real issue, and he wasn’t sure what to do about them. Pembroke could lead them nowhere; nor could the death of Diane Hinson. And by itself the murder of Rhonda Tyler was also a dead end. Canney was a different matter, though. The boy was the key that could make the entire house of cards come tumbling down.
He didn’t have time to kill Roger Canney, and anyway that would raise even more suspicion about why the high school football star had to die. He had no choice but to let the interview take place, analyze what information was provided and take appropriate action. It was fortunate he’d had the foresight to bug Canney’s home before he’d killed the boy. Tactics, it all comes down to tactics.
He rubbed his back where it had been bruised in the fight with Junior Deaver. He couldn’t afford another encounter like that. He’d watched Michelle Maxwell snap the post in half with a seemingly effortless thrust of her leg. She was a dangerous woman. And King was even more dangerous, in his own way. In fact, Sean King was the only person he really feared could beat him. He might have to do something about that. And then he might have to kill Maxwell as well. He didn’t want the woman coming after him, seeking revenge for her partner’s death.
As the car ahead of him pulled into a long driveway heading up to a large brick colonial, he turned off on a side road, parked the truck and pulled down a pair of earphones that had been hidden under his hat. He tinkered with a receiver on the front seat, found the correct frequency to the transmitter he’d hidden in the Canney home, settled back and waited for the show to begin.
Chapter 47
“So what does Roger Canney do?” asked Michelle as she looked around the impressive home. A housekeeper had let them in and gone to get her employer.
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, he does it well,” answered King.
“What did his wife die of?”
“I don’t know that either. I’m not friends of theirs.”
Michelle kept looking around. “You know what I’m not seeing?”
King nodded. “There are no family pictures.”
“What do you make of that?”
“Either they were recently pulled because of the father’s overwhelming grief or they were never here.”
“Overwhelming grief? Essentially, he buried his only son under cover of darkness.”
“Everyone exhibits their emotions differently, Michelle. Some people, for example, kick wooden posts in half when they’re upset.”
Roger appeared a minute later, a tall, craggy man with stooped shoulders and an unhappy, wan expression. He motioned them to sit on the couch in the living room, and he sat across from them. The man didn’t bother to look at them when he spoke, instead resting his gaze on the beamed ceiling.
“I’m not sure why another interview is necessary,” he began.
King said, “I know this is an awfully difficult time—”
Canney interrupted. “Right, right, let’s just get on with it.”
They went through the standard questions, to which Canney answered in extremely unhelpful monosyllables.
Frustrated, King asked, “So no enemies at school that you know of? Or that your son might
have mentioned?”
“Steve was very popular. Everyone just loved him. He could do no wrong.”
This was not said in the tone of a proud father, but in a mocking manner. King and Michelle exchanged puzzled glances.
“Had he ever mentioned that he was seeing Janice Pembroke?” asked Michelle.
“Steve didn’t confide in me. If the kid was screwing around with some slut, that was his business. He was seventeen with raging hormones. But if he’d gotten some girl pregnant, I would have been more than upset.”
“How long ago did your wife die?” asked Michelle.
Canney’s gaze dropped from the ceiling to her. “Why is that relevant?”
“Just curious.”
“Well, confine your curiosity to the matter at hand.”
“Okay, can you think of anything at all that Steve might have told you or that you might have overheard him say, or even one of his friends mention, that could shed some light on his murder?” she asked.
“Look, I already told you that we weren’t exactly chums. We lived in the same house, but that was about it.”
“Is there a reason why you and your son weren’t close?” asked King.
“We both had our reasons, and they’re not pertinent to his death.”
“I’m afraid we need to decide that for ourselves. So if you’d answer the question…”
“I’m afraid I must decline,” Canney said acidly.
“Well, that’s up to you. Let’s review what you’ve said. You and your son had what could reasonably be construed as an openly hostile relationship. You were perhaps upset that he was dating some slut, as you called her, and were concerned you’d have to pay for a child at some point. And then Steve and this ‘slut’ end up shotgunned to death. Do you own a shotgun, sir?”
Canney stood, his pale face now flushed. “What the hell are you implying? How dare you! You’ve twisted my words all around.”
King remained impassive. “No. I’m simply making the argument any competent prosecutor would. What you’ve told us makes you a possible suspect in your son’s death. I’m sure you were asked about your whereabouts when he was killed. I’d like you to tell us as well.”
“I was home asleep.”
“Alone?”
“Yes!”
“So you have no alibi,” concluded King. “Well”—he looked at Michelle—“let’s go report back. At least it’s another line of investigation the FBI can actively pursue.” He looked back at Canney. “I’m sure the Bureau will be contacting you. Please make no plans to leave the area in the near future.” He started to rise.
Canney, looking pale again, said, “Wait a minute, wait just a damned minute. I had nothing to do with Steve’s murder.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Canney, I never met a murderer who said otherwise,” replied King.
Canney stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands while King watched him expectantly. Finally, Canney sat back down.
After a minute of silence, as though he were searching for just the right words, he said, “Steve was, quite simply, his mother’s child. He adored her, worshiped her. When she died, he somehow blamed me.”
“I don’t recall what she died of,” said King.
Canney was now rubbing his hands together nervously.
“She was in a car accident, well over three years ago now. She ran off the road and into a ravine. Died instantly.”
“How could your son possibly blame you for that?” Michelle wanted to know.
“How the hell am I supposed to know!” roared Canney suddenly, and then just as quickly he calmed. “I’m sorry. As you can appreciate, this is all very difficult.” They all remained silent for a bit. “There… there apparently was alcohol involved,” Canney finally said in a very low voice.
“Your wife was intoxicated when she was killed?”
“Apparently so. It was surprising, because she’d never been a heavy drinker.”
“And your marriage was a happy one?” asked Michelle.
“It was a marriage much like many others,” said Canney defensively.
“Meaning?” persisted Michelle.
“Meaning it had its ups and downs.”
At that moment the housekeeper entered the room and told Canney he had a phone call. He excused himself and went out of the room.
Michelle turned to her partner. “Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Do you think he had something to do with his wife’s death?”
“I can’t rule it out.”
“He’s definitely holding something back. You think he killed his son?”
“Son. That’s an interesting word.”
She looked at him puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Only that Canney never referred to him as his son. Just Steve.”
“That’s right. Although it might just be because Steve was almost a man, and the relationship was strained.”
“No, I think he might have given us the answer.”
“Okay, Sean. What was it?”
“He was explaining why their relationship had gone wrong. He said Steve blamed him for his mother’s death.”
“So?”
“Well, right before that he said…” King pulled out his notepad and read from it. “He said, ‘Steve was, quite simply, his mother’s child.’”
“Right, meaning he favored his mother over his father.”
“Or, more literally, that she was his mother—” King stopped and looked at Michelle.
His point finally dawned on her. “And Roger Canney was not his father.”
Outside, the pickup truck started up. The man had heard all he needed to. It was time to act. But first he had to lay the groundwork.
Chapter 48
Kyle Montgomery hadn’t had a response to his blackmail letter yet. He had rented a post-office box a while back and had given that address for the person to respond to. He’d sent it anonymously, of course. His letter covered up the fact—very cleverly, he thought—that he actually didn’t know much at all. He was counting on a guilty conscience to bring out something of importance, meaning, in his mind, something of material value. Yet he was starting to wonder if he was wrong. Well, if so, there was no harm done. Or so he thought.
He was heading to the Aphrodisiac with another delivery for his “client.” He hadn’t had to make another withdrawal from the pharmacy, having smartly taken extra quantities the last time. No reason to push his luck there.
He parked in the crowded lot and went inside. He didn’t notice the car pull in behind him. Lost in thoughts of forthcoming cash, Kyle was completely unaware he’d been followed since leaving his apartment.
He went inside and, as was his habit, spent a few minutes watching the pole dancers. There was one in particular he favored, not that he had much of a chance with her. He had neither the looks nor, more important, the money these girls required to show him special attention.
He went upstairs and started to go behind the red curtain when a woman appeared next to him. She looked drawn and wobbly on her feet.
“Where you going?” she asked.
“To see someone,” he answered nervously. “I’m expected.”
“Is that right?” the obviously intoxicated woman slurred. “You got some ID?”
“ID? For what? I’m not drinking and I’m not watching the girls. And do I look like I’m underage? Or did you miss the gray hair in my goatee?”
“Don’t get smart with me or your ass is out of here.”
“Look, ma’am, is there a problem?” asked Kyle in a more polite tone. “I’ve gone back there before,” he added.
“I know you have, I’ve seen you,” said the woman.
“You come here a lot?” asked Kyle nervously. It suddenly dawned on him that earning a reputation as a regular visitor wasn’t a good thing.
“I come every day,” answered Lulu Oxley. She flicked her hand toward the red curtain. “Knock yourself out, slick.”
Lulu staggered down the st
airs while Kyle hurried through the red curtain.
He knocked on the same door and received the usual reply. He went in. The woman was lying on the bed, a blanket over her. The room was so dark he could barely make this out.
He held up his Baggie. “Here you go.”
She pitched something to him. He put out his hand but missed, and the object fell to the floor. He picked it up. Ten rolled hundreds secured by a rubber band. He put the Baggie on the table and stood there, nervously looking at her. After a few seconds passed and she said nothing, he turned to leave. He stopped when he heard the bedsprings rattle and saw the lights brighten. Squinting, he looked back and saw her coming toward him. She wore the scarf and the dark glasses and had the blanket wrapped around her. When she drew closer, he could see that her shoulders were bare and she was in her stocking feet.
When she drew within a foot of him, she let the blanket drop. She had on a black lace thong and matching thigh-high stockings and bra, and that was it. He started breathing hard and felt every muscle tense. Her body was absolutely stunning, her belly flat, her hips soft, her breasts straining against the slender black material holding them in. He just wanted to rip off what little she had on.
As if sensing his thoughts, transparent as they were, she reached behind her, undid the clasp, and the bra fell to the floor and her breasts sprang free.
Kyle moaned and almost dropped to his knees. This was, without doubt, the greatest night of his life.
She reached out as if to touch him but then merely took the Baggie, picked up the blanket and covered herself again.
Kyle moved forward. “No need to do that, baby,” he said in as cool a fashion as he could muster. “It’ll just get in the way.” He’d never come close to having a woman like this. A thousand bucks and he gets laid for free too. What could be better? He went to put his arms around her, but she shoved him back with a strength that surprised him.
His face flushed when she started to laugh.
She returned to the bed, let the blanket slip to the floor again, lay back on the bed and stretched like a cat. Then she turned over on all fours, reached over and put the Baggie on the nightstand. She did it with a slow deliberateness that gave him a long and unobstructed view of her from behind. He was so aroused now it was actually painful.
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