by Jan Burke
“You can’t think like that, Dwayne. Tell me—have people around here offered to help you?”
He sighed. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve seen the good side of people, too. I’m in a mood, I guess. Kept hoping they’d catch the guy by now. But her family, people she knew, even total strangers have asked me what they could do to help me out. I never could figure out an answer.”
“Give yourself time. You’re probably still numb.”
“Yeah. I am.” He gave me a fleeting grin. “That is, when I’m not just pissed off. But I have to change my attitude. To be honest, I was totally surprised by how many people were at the funeral, how many told me that she’d touched their lives in some way. I’ve got a lot of thank-you notes to write.”
He looked over at a table laden with sympathy cards, but I doubted he was going to tackle that task anytime soon.
“To go back to what I was thinking about,” I said, “you didn’t see a car parked in front of the house that night?”
“No. I’m sure of that, because I parked on the street, and there wasn’t any other car near where I parked. My pickup is kind of wide, so I usually park on the street, so I don’t block her car in the garage. I mean, I did. I still do …” He looked lost.
“The police still have her car?”
“Yeah. They’re still hoping they can find some DNA somewhere on it.”
“A couple of things occur to me. One is that her killer planned everything out and had a way to get here that didn’t leave his own car parked on the street. Maybe he parked on a neighboring street, but it’s also possible he had an accomplice who brought him here.”
“What about a cab or a bus?”
“Possible, although he’d know that the driver might remember bringing him out here. The police have probably already checked on cab companies.”
“Haven’t they already done most of what we’re doing anyway?”
“Maybe.”
“So why are you staying interested?”
“I’ve found myself with extra time on my hands lately.”
He studied me for a moment, and I grew uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “Naw. That’s not it.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve been straightforward with me up to just now. What’s going on?” He frowned. “Her car was parked near your house, the news said. When you found it. Right?”
“Right.”
“Not just a coincidence it was there, was it?”
“Probably not.” I told him about the garden hose, which made his face drain of color.
“Holy God Almighty,” he said. “You think he’s after you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know of any connection I have to your wife, and I have no idea who the young woman left in the car trunk might be. And I sure as hell have no idea why he would target me, or even try to scare me.” For a moment I thought of talking to Dwayne about Nick Parrish, but he had probably already seen the news reports on the Moths and probably would say what everyone else kept saying to me: “Nick Parrish is in prison.”
“Your husband is a homicide detective, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So he works late at night, too? Like I do?”
“Sometimes.”
He put his face in his hands. “I think about the lousy shift differential, and I wonder, if I had worked day shift, would he have picked someone else?”
“Don’t,” I said.
He looked up.
“Don’t play that game. Even a bodyguard can’t protect another person every hour of every day. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Okay, fair enough. Should I come back another time?”
“Sorry, no, I’ll be all right.”
“Do you think you could do me a couple of favors?”
I explained that I was fairly sure Marilyn or someone close to her had unwittingly given the killer information he would need for his plans—where she lived, if she had dogs, what Dwayne’s work hours were, and other details.
“So I’d like to spend some time looking at what’s on her computer, if it’s still here.”
“Yeah, the police just copied the hard drive. I know most of her passwords.”
“I may need to ask a friend of mine who’s a better hacker than I am to take a look at it, but we can make a start.”
I also asked to be given the numbers of his wife’s hairdresser, her pastor, her sister, her closest friends.
“Men and women?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, and you know what? I’ll write a note telling them that it’s okay for them to talk to you, and that you are helping me out and not working for the paper anymore.”
The kindness of that offer nearly made up for the hollow feeling its wording gave me.
“Anything else you want to look at?” he asked.
“Let’s start with the sympathy cards,” I said, deciding my own bereavement was nothing next to his.
So I went after the story.
I spent time becoming acquainted with a dead woman. I came to know Marilyn Foster by talking to those who missed her. Some were afraid—the lightning strike of violent death had pierced the pretense most of us adopt to some degree, that our lives are safe. As far as they were concerned, talking about Marilyn’s murder just might be akin to holding up a metal rod on a stormy day. Better to hunker down until you could pretend again.
Fortunately, most seemed to find comfort in talking to me. For them, the grief and anger and helplessness that came with her sudden loss were eased a bit by doing something—anything—to try to help apprehend her murderer.
They trusted me.
I was going to try to be worthy of it.
It wasn’t the only way I kept busy, but pursuing that story got me going again. Rachel Giocopazzi, wife of Frank’s partner, Pete Baird, asked me to do a little temporary work at her private investigation firm. It wasn’t unlike work I did as a reporter, mostly tracking down property records and the like. I also helped set up a database program she needed on her office computers and taught her assistant how to do the entry work on it, but I don’t think any of that amounted to fifteen hours altogether.
Rachel used most of the time I was there to convince me to let her teach me more about self-defense. “I lost my workout partner, so this will be good for me,” she said.
“I’ve seen you in action. I’m not up to your speed.”
“Of course you aren’t, but going over the basics with a beginner will be good for me, and if I need a tougher workout, Frank can join us.” So we set up a rigorous schedule of lessons that helped me to work off some stress several times a week.
Working off stress wasn’t my big motivator. I never needed to be persuaded to practice. Rachel was an excellent instructor. She even brought in other people to help me test my new skills. No matter who she put me up against, though, I always had one opponent in mind. I didn’t believe for a moment that it was a marathon he was dreaming of from his prison cell.
THIRTEEN
Donovan Cotter kept his face expressionless as he walked over to the picnic table in the park. He was wearing casual clothing in order to fit in with the setting. He knew this park. He had already spent time assuring himself that the other two had arrived alone, as instructed. He had been amused to observe them making similar efforts, although he was quite sure neither had detected his presence.
The bench was filthy. He avoided sitting on the bird droppings spattered along one end and made sure that he gave no sign of his disgust. He sat first, and Kai and Quinn took seats on the other side of the table. He viewed this as a good sign. They were giving him more real estate, as it were, and allowing him a dominant position.
He was the oldest of the three, but that did not make him feel any real sense of seniority. He knew that they would not accept his authority in any real way—at thirty-two, he was almost ten years older than Kai but only a year older than Quinn. The idea of trying to relate to the
m as their “big brother” would have made him laugh if he had been able to find the least bit of humor in this situation.
Quinn had approached him and revealed their connection to each other a few years ago. This was his first time meeting Kai.
Donovan disliked him on sight.
He had felt the same way about Quinn when he first met him, and that hadn’t changed. Fine tailored clothes, facile charm, and a captivating smile were not enough to prevent Donovan from seeing the shark who hid behind them. Even for this meeting in the park, Quinn had worn a suit. Perhaps he thought that would give him power. If so, he would be disappointed.
Kai was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, neither of which looked or smelled as if it had been in a washing machine lately. His brown hair fell into his eyes. It seemed he didn’t own a brush, either.
The three of them looked nothing alike, which Donovan found a relief. Quinn had light brown hair and blue eyes. Kai, dark hair and brown eyes. Donovan’s own hair was golden blond, his eyes green.
Quinn made the introductions while Kai studied Donovan in a wondering way, much like the way Quinn had first observed him. The concept of brotherhood was doubtless odd to each of them, but Donovan would not allow himself to betray any curiosity.
“This meeting is not a good idea,” he said.
“Kind of an insulting way to start a family reunion, don’t you think?” Kai said.
“We are hardly a family. Half brothers at best.”
“No, that’s not it—he’s still afraid we’ll be seen together by the police,” Quinn chided.
“Wrong,” Donovan said calmly. “While I realize this meeting appeals to your flair for the overly dramatic, Quinn, it’s foolish. There’s no reason for us to meet in person, and it introduces risks we do not need to take. The police won’t patrol here—at most a park ranger will drive past in an hour or so. But what if, down the line, one of us gets caught? Anyone who happens to be walking through this section of the park today might recall having seen us together.”
“We’re all intelligent enough to talk our way out of a situation like that,” Quinn said.
Donovan decided not to say more. He did not believe in wasting his breath and was unhappy with himself for taking the time to express his displeasure in the first place.
Kai looked between them, then said to Quinn, “So let’s get down to business. Why are we waiting?”
Quinn frowned in irritation. Clearly, Donovan thought, Quinn expected to be the alpha dog here. Kai had better watch out—Quinn wouldn’t tolerate his younger brother nipping at his heels.
“It has taken me a while to get hired there. But I’m on staff now. I’ll be in touch with you soon for your help.” He turned to Donovan. “What has she been doing?”
“What you’d expect a reporter, even a former reporter, to do. She’s investigating.”
“Close to anything?”
“She may be. She’s extremely thorough. She spent the first two weeks not doing much, she’s spent the last two weeks asking questions of people who knew Marilyn Foster.”
“Let me get rid of her now,” Kai said.
“I’ll find another outlet for your impulsiveness, Kai,” Quinn said.
“I don’t need your help.”
“No, you don’t.” Quinn quickly changed tacks. “You know I respect your abilities, Kai. But I’m sure you can imagine why Daddy Dearest wants her for himself.”
Kai subsided.
Donovan wondered if Kai would ever figure out that by saying “let me” to Quinn, he had already placed himself in subservience to someone who should not be trusted with control. Watching how Kai interacted with Quinn—he now sat brooding, tapping his fingers on the tabletop in impatience—Donovan doubted his capacity to make that evaluation.
Quinn spent the next forty minutes laying out plans and giving them a set of signals and code phrases. Donovan wanted to laugh in his face, to tell him he was no James Bond. But he merely listened and replied as briefly as possible whenever a response was asked of him. His own part in these affairs came near the end of the plan, which was more than fine with him. He didn’t demonstrate the depth of his boredom. To do so would be as revealing as to show too much interest.
Kai, on the other hand, had quickly changed moods, and now eagerly drank in every detail, clearly engrossed. Let him develop a case of hero worship, then. Donovan didn’t need this sort of foolishness.
He considered walking off, simply as an experiment, to watch them lose self-control and behave rashly. He spent a pleasant few moments fantasizing his own reaction at that point.
Quinn, ever the showman, brought his attention back by saying, “I should have told you this long ago, but—we aren’t alone.”
“What are you saying?” Kai demanded, looking around.
“Why, that we have another brother,” Quinn said.
“And you’ve been dealing with him secretly, is that it? Well, I don’t like it! Who is it?”
“Forgive me, Kai. I think it best—really, you will soon thank me—if I don’t tell you any more. You won’t be meeting him in any case.”
Kai ranted for a while, seemed to notice that Donovan was showing no emotion, and turned to him. “Why are you letting me do all the arguing? Don’t you care?”
“No,” Donovan said.
Kai seemed almost ready to leap across the picnic table but checked himself, studying Donovan again. “Why not?”
“For all I know, in the years he lived here, Nick Parrish could have fathered a dozen brats. There are doubtless others in other cities. I should add, since Quinn has started this confessional mode, that for all Quinn knows, I may know others myself. Perhaps they aren’t all brothers.”
He was pleased to see a fleeting little widening of Quinn’s eyes. He had worried and surprised him. Good.
Quinn recovered quickly, though. He smiled and said, “Maybe so.” His tone implied that he thought Donovan was bluffing.
“After all,” Donovan said, “the so-called Moths seem to have an inexplicable devotion to him, don’t they?”
That time he had scored a hit. Quinn stiffened a little. Even Kai noticed it. Kai subsided again, watching his older brothers warily. Donovan was beginning to revise his opinion of Kai. He still disliked him, but he thought he might be more intelligent than he had first believed. Capable, at least, of learning.
Quinn hurriedly changed the subject back to their larger plans.
At long last, it was time to go, and this presented a problem that Donovan would have found laughable under other circumstances. None of them trusted his brothers enough to walk away and turn his back on them, or to leave the other two behind to forge new alliances. Quinn and Kai would not address the problem, so there was simply a lot of shifting of weight on their parts. Donovan took control.
“I’m the only one here without a weapon,” he lied but was pleased to see their surprise at being caught at their own rule breaking. He was more pleased to see the measure of respect. “I’ll sit here, and you two walk off in opposite directions.”
They nodded and left. Donovan could have killed either one of them when they turned their backs. It was as he suspected. These two were hunters of the middling sort, the type that seldom thought of themselves as prey.
A mistake on their part, one that might prove costly to them.
FOURTEEN
Hi, Irene,” Reed Collins said, looking up from the sandwich he was eating at his desk. “You here to see Frank?” “No,” Pete Baird answered from beside me. Since no one goes walking unescorted past the reception area of the police department, let alone into the homicide room, my husband’s partner had been the one who fetched me from the lobby. “Frank doesn’t know she’s here.” He didn’t spare me the tone of censorship, but I didn’t care—all that mattered to me at the moment was that he hadn’t left me sitting in the lobby. I didn’t even bother to correct what he said about Frank, at least not right away.
The others in the room knew me as a reporter, and
I could see them moving to turn papers over and slipping files into desk drawers.
“Relax,” I said. “No newspaper anymore, remember?” Before their elation over that or their sympathy for me could make itself known, I quickly turned back to Reed and added, “Could I talk to you in one of the interview rooms?”
“I’ll come with you,” Pete said, and since I knew that trying to shake him would be a waste of effort, I didn’t protest.
When the door closed behind us, Reed said, “Are you working for a news agency of any kind, Irene?”
“No. I’m unemployed. This isn’t going out to the media.” I took a seat, and they followed suit. Interrogation mode—I was alone on one side of a table; they positioned their chairs to block me in. I tried not to let my claustrophobia distract me. I wouldn’t get anywhere if I didn’t stay calm.
“That leaves me with some questions, then,” Reed said. “I’ve been getting some phone calls.”
“I figured you would. Probably from Marilyn Foster’s friends and family. I’ve been going over her case.”
“Irene … ,” Reed said pityingly.
“For what it’s worth, Frank felt the way you do. Wanted me to butt out, thought you and Vince would be pissed off at me for interfering with your case. Thought it was kind of sad that I wouldn’t just forget all about it. Pete’s wrong, though. Frank knows I’m here. I sat down with him and went over what I had found out, and he agreed with me that you should be made aware of what I’ve learned.”
Reed frowned. “He’s at lunch with Vince …”
“Yes. Neither of us thought Vince would hear me out.”
“Jesus, Irene. It might be an even bigger assumption on your part—and Frank’s—that I’d go behind my partner’s back.”
“You can tell him anything I tell you, but we both know Vince always needs four times the amount of time you do before he’ll calm down and listen to what I have to say.”
“Any reason why Frank couldn’t have come to us with this information you have?”