by Sandra Brown
“They collected your DNA.”
“Because she and I had been together earlier that day. He caught us. That’s what started the fight.”
“His testimony was corroborated under oath by two of the production crew and the girl herself.”
“They were all junkies. He fed them dope. I didn’t have anything to offer in exchange for them telling the truth.”
Dean asked, “Why should we believe your version of this, Lancy?”
“Because I own up to all my other crimes. I did some awful things, but I never beat up a woman.”
Paris leaned across the table toward him. “Why did you run away when the officers called to say they wanted to question you? Why didn’t you tell them what you’re telling us now?”
He sighed heavily and raised his cuffed hands to rub his forehead. “I freaked. I’m an ex-con. That automatically makes me a suspect. Then, I knew if they discovered that I’d been taping your shows, they’d for sure haul me in.”
“Why did you leave the tapes behind?”
He smiled shyly. “Because I’m stupid. I panicked and got the hell out of there. Forgot them. Maybe I’ve lost my criminal instinct. I hope I have.”
He had a self-effacing manner that Paris liked. But Curtis didn’t appear to be charmed by it.
“If you had admitted this to us the day before yesterday, we might have come closer to believing you.”
Lancy looked at Paris and said earnestly, “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know anything about this Valentino character or those phone calls. I don’t know anything about Janey Kemp except what I’ve heard on the news. The only thing I’m guilty of is wanting to learn to do what you do.”
“You’ve been working at the station for months,” she said softly, “but you’ve never even engaged me in conversation. Why didn’t you come and talk to me about your ambition? Ask for advice? Guidance?”
“Are you kidding?” he exclaimed. “You’re a star. I’m the guy who pushes around the mop bucket. I’d never have worked up my nerve to talk to you. And if I had, you would have laughed at me.”
“I would never have done that.”
He searched her eyes, behind her lenses. “No, maybe you wouldn’t have. I see that now.”
“Where’ve you been all this time?” Curtis asked. “You didn’t return to your mom’s place or your apartment.”
“I keep a . . . I guess you’d call it a—”
“Hideout?” Curtis prompted.
Lancy looked abashed. “Yes, sir. I’ll give you the address. You’re welcome to search it.”
“You can bet we will,” Curtis said as he hooked his hand beneath Lancy’s arm and hoisted him from the chair. “And while we’re at it, you’ll be residing with us here.”
chapter 30
It was a great bar for trolling.
It was on the lakeshore, a cedar-shingle place well known to the locals. Fishermen might stumble upon it, but it wasn’t a watering hole that would attract tourists or country club golfers. The clientele was comprised mostly of construction workers, cowboys, and biker types. A white-collar professional would feel out of his element, so it was highly unlikely that Brad Armstrong would be spotted here by anyone he knew.
Peanut shells crunched underfoot as he made his way across the dim barroom. It was lighted only by neon signs, nearly all boasting the Lone Star flag and a brand of beer. The shaded fixtures suspended over the billiards tables provided supplemental lighting, but it was obscured by tobacco smoke.
The bubbling Wurlitzer in the corner emanated a revolving rainbow of pastel colors, but there was nothing subtle about the music blaring from it. It was old country, the twangy, wailing, woebegone kind, pre Garth, McGraw, and the like.
Customers drank beer from the bottle, Jack Daniel’s, or Jose Cuervo straight. Which was what the girl was shooting when Brad joined her at the bar. He recognized her immediately. That she was here today, now, was a cosmic sign that he was doing nothing wrong.
He glanced down at the two empty shot glasses in front of her and motioned for the bartender to serve up two more. “One for me and one for the lady with the nipple ring.”
She turned to him. “How’d you—Oh, hi. Coupla nights ago, right?”
He grinned. “I’m glad you remember.”
“You’re the guy with all the porno.”
His face registered a crestfallen expression. “I was hoping you’d remember me for my . . . other memorable quality.”
She licked her upper lip and smiled. “That, too.”
“I wouldn’t expect to find you in a place like this,” he said. “You outclass it.”
“I hang out in here sometimes.” She cracked a peanut shell between her teeth and daintily ate the nuts. “Before the Sex Club starts gathering.” She dropped the shell onto the floor and dusted off her hands. “You don’t exactly blend either.”
“I think we were destined to see each other again.”
“Cool,” she said.
Makeup had been slathered on to make her look legally old enough to drink. Either the bartender was fooled or, more likely, didn’t care that she was underage. He served the tequila shots that Brad had ordered.
“What shall we drink to?”
She rolled her large, dark eyes toward the ceiling as though the answer might be written in the chemically polluted layer of smoke that hovered there. “How about body piercing?”
Leaning forward, he whispered, “I get hard just thinking about it.” He clinked his glass to hers and simultaneously they tossed back the fiery liquor.
This was so damn easy, he thought. Didn’t mothers warn their daughters against talking to strangers anymore? Didn’t they tell them never, ever to go with a man they didn’t know? What was the world coming to? It made him afraid for his daughters.
But thinking about his family killed the mood, so he tucked thoughts of them safely away and ordered another round of tequila shots.
After that one they agreed to leave. He smiled smugly as they passed the pool tables. He was the envy of tough guys with tattoos on their arms and knives attached to their thick leather belts. He’d been successful where apparently they had not. Maybe because his hair was clean.
“It’s Melissa, right?” he asked as he held the car door open for her.
Her glossy red lips smiled over his remembering her name. “Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a room.”
“Super.”
Ridiculously easy.
Coming out this evening wasn’t a wise thing to do, but he couldn’t have stayed cooped up another minute or he would have gone crazy. He couldn’t return home. Toni had been calling his cell phone at fifteen-minute intervals all day, begging him to come back. The police only wanted to talk to him, she said. Right, he thought. They want to talk to me through iron bars.
He hadn’t answered his phone and he hadn’t called her, knowing that the police had probably set up a system of tracking his cell by satellite. The discovery of Janey’s body didn’t bode well for him. News reports had said that an autopsy was being conducted. Hearing that had nearly sent him over the edge.
He’d fretted, stewed, paced, lambasted his wife for not understanding him, and Janey for being a cock teaser he couldn’t resist, even his mother, who’d punished him severely for masturbating when he was little.
Truthfully, he didn’t remember such a time, but psychologists had asked him during therapy sessions if he’d been so punished and he’d said yes because that seemed to be the expected and accepted explanation for his sexual preoccupation.
As the news reports went from bad to worse, actually including his name in them, his anxiety increased. He had tried to distract himself by looking at his pornographic magazines, reading the letters and “true” experiences submitted by subscribers. But soon familiarity had made them boring. Besides, his craving wasn’t going to be satisfied vicariously.
He was aroused and needed relief. With the pressure he’d been under recently, who
could blame him? He resolved that if relief wasn’t going to come looking for him, he would have to go looking for it.
Now he’d found it.
“This isn’t the car you were in the other night,” Melissa remarked as she punched through radio stations until she found one playing a thrumming rap song.
The police would’ve spotted his car, so he had called and ordered one from a rental place that delivered. Not a chain outfit that required all kinds of documentation, but one that, according to their yellow pages ad, would take cash. That signaled to Brad a business that was light on rules and regulations. The only amenity promised was a working air conditioner in all their cars.
While waiting for it to arrive, he’d showered and dressed, splashed on the Aramis, and put a supply of condoms in his pants pocket.
As anticipated, the man who delivered the car looked as if his next stop might be a 7-Eleven store he could rob. Brad flashed him his driver’s license and filled out a form with false information. He’d counted out the required deposit and added ten bucks for a tip. The man spoke only limited English and didn’t seem to care one way or the other what day Brad promised to return the ten-year-old car to their lot.
“Had we met before?” Melissa asked him now. “Before the other night, I mean. You look familiar.”
“I’m a famous movie star.”
“That must be it,” she said, giggling.
To distract her from that train of thought, he said, “Do you always look this sensational?”
“You think?”
Actually she looked like a whore. The dyed hair was spiked stiffer and higher than it had been the other night. Outside the dimness of the bar, her makeup looked even more garish. Her halter top was made of some flimsy fabric through which he could see her dangling silver nipple ring. Most table napkins were larger than her skirt.
In short, she was asking for it. She should thank him for saving her from being gang-banged by the rednecks in the bar.
He drew her eyes down to his lap. “See what you’re doing to me.”
She assessed the distention behind his trousers, then said, “Is that the best you can do?” and leaned back against the passenger door. She idly brushed her fingertips across the nipple with the ring piercing it.
The girl knew her stuff. His erection stretched. “I can’t watch you and drive.”
She gave the nipple ring a teasing yank.
He groaned. “You’re killing me, you know that?”
“But you’ll die happy.”
He reached across the console and slid his hand beneath her skirt, felt the scratch of lace against his fingers, then worked his way past it.
“Hmm. Right there.” Melissa closed her eyes. “Don’t get stopped for speeding. At least not till after I come.”
• • •
Gavin was waiting outside the CIB when Dean, Paris, and Sergeant Curtis emerged. His hope was riding on Lancy Ray Fisher. He shot to his feet, asking, “Was he the guy?”
“We don’t know yet,” his dad told him. “Sergeant Curtis is going to keep him here, ask him some more questions.”
Paris glanced at her wristwatch. “If it’s no trouble, I’d like to stop at my house before going to the station. I ran out in such a rush this morning.”
“I’ll drive you and drop Gavin at home on the way,” Dean said. “We’ll have our cell phones on, Curtis. If anything happens—”
“I’ll call right away,” he assured them. “I’m going to lean on Lancy Ray.”
“With all due respect, I don’t believe he’s Valentino,” Paris said.
The detective nodded. Gavin thought he looked very tired. A blond bristle had begun to sprout from his pink cheeks. “I’m still partial to Dr. Armstrong,” he told them, “but I’m not ready to give up on Lancy Fisher just yet. I’ll be in touch.”
They were turning toward the elevators when Curtis spoke Gavin’s name. His first thought was, What now? But he said, “Yes, sir?”
“I’m sorry I had to put you through that today. I know it wasn’t any fun.”
“It’s okay,” he said, not really meaning it. It hadn’t been okay at all. He’d hated being made to feel guilty when he wasn’t. “I hope you find out who did that to Janey. I should’ve told you from the beginning that she and I were in her car. But I was afraid you’d think, well, what you thought. I guess she met whoever killed her after she got rid of me.”
“It appears that way. Are you absolutely certain she never mentioned who she was meeting afterward? A name? Occupation?”
“I’m positive.”
“Well, thanks,” Curtis said. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
His dad nudged him toward the elevators and they left. Gavin sat in the backseat on the way home. Nobody said much; each seemed lost in his own thoughts. When they reached the house, a patrol car with two officers inside it was already parked out front. Inwardly Gavin groaned. He’d had his fill of policemen today. If he never saw one again—except his dad—it would be too soon.
“I don’t need babysitters, Dad. Or am I still grounded?”
“You’re grounded, but the cops are for your protection. They stay until Valentino is caught.”
“He’s not gonna—”
“I’m not taking any chances, Gavin. Besides, the guards are Curtis’s mandate, not mine.”
“You could call them off if you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to. All right?” When his dad was wearing that face, the argument was over. He nodded grudgingly. Then his dad reached over the seat and laid his hand on his shoulder. “I was proud of the way you conducted yourself today.”
“At the risk of sounding patronizing, so was I, Gavin,” Paris told him.
“Thanks.”
“Call my cell immediately if anything happens. Promise me you will.”
“I promise, Dad.” He climbed out. “’Bye, Paris.”
“’Bye. See you soon, okay?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
He shuffled up the walkway. They didn’t pull away until he had let himself in. Unlike his mom and dad, the two of them looked right together. He sorta hoped it would work out between them.
He waved at them from the front door before shutting and bolting it, effectively becoming his own jailer.
• • •
“Penny for them.”
Paris looked across at Dean. “My thoughts? I was thinking about Toni Armstrong. I feel for her. I like her.”
“So do I. Brave lady.”
“I think she loves her husband. Deeply. Under the circumstances, that must be very conflicting.” Curious, she asked, “From a clinical standpoint, when is a person considered a sex addict?”
“Tricky question.”
“I’m sure you can address it, Dr. Malloy.”
“All right. If a guy gets twelve hard-ons in a day, I’d congratulate him and probably urge him to try for thirteen. If he acts on twelve hard-ons in a day, I’d say that’s a little excessive and we could have a problem.”
“You’re being facetious.”
“Somewhat, but there’s a basis of truth.” His grin relaxed and he became serious. “Sex can become an addiction like anything else can. When the compulsion outweighs common sense and caution. When the activity begins to have a negative effect on one’s work, family life, relationships. When it becomes the governing force and the exclusive means of personal gratification.”
He glanced at her, and with a nod she prompted him to continue. “It’s the same point at which a social drinker becomes an alcoholic. The individual loses control over the craving. Conversely, the craving gains control over the individual.”
“Like making him willing to sacrifice a wife and family to get his thrills.”
“That doesn’t mean that Brad Armstrong doesn’t love his wife,” he said. “He probably does.”
Reflecting on that, she stared through the front windshield. Even behind her sunglasses, she had to squint against the setting sun, which was do
ing a bang-up job of it. She wondered what Judge and Marian Kemp were doing just now. This spectacular sunset would go unnoticed by them.
“They have a funeral to arrange.”
“I’m sorry?” Dean said.
“Thinking out loud. About the Kemps now.”
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t imagine how devastating it would be to lose a child. I’ve counseled cops who did, but to my own ears, every word I said to them sounded like so much crap. If anything happened to Gavin . . .” He stopped, as though unable to articulate the dreadful thought. Then he said quietly, “I want to be a good parent to him, Paris.”
“I know.”
“Because of my own dad.”
“I know that, too.”
“How much did Jack tell you?”
“Enough.”
He had told her that Dean’s relationship with his father had been volatile. Mr. Malloy had a fierce temper, and Dean usually caught the brunt of it. Sometimes his dad’s rages had turned violent.
“Did your father beat you, Dean?” she asked.
“He could give me a hard time, yeah.”
“Is that a gross understatement?”
He shrugged with an indifference she knew was phony. “I could take his shit,” he said. “When he started in on my mom, that’s what I couldn’t take.”
According to Jack, the defining incident had taken place when Dean’s parents visited him for homecoming weekend his sophomore year at Texas Tech. During a party at the fraternity house, Dean’s father had picked an argument with him. Dean tried to ignore it, but his father became increasingly vituperative and wouldn’t be put off.
His mother, embarrassed for her son, tried to intervene. That’s when Dean’s father began disparaging her. His words were humiliating and cruel. Heedless of his friends and the other parents looking on, Dean took up the banner for his mother. His dad threw a punch. Before it was over, Dean was straddling Mr. Malloy’s chest and, in Jack’s words, “pounding the shit out of him.”
After that night their relationship became even more antagonistic, and it remained so until his father died.
“I went a little crazy that time at Tech,” he said now. “I’d never been like that before, and I haven’t lost my temper like that since. If Jack and some of the other guys hadn’t pulled me off him, I might have killed him. I wanted to kill him.