Bitter Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 4)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  “So you think Laura was murdered?”

  Roarke tensed, but it wasn’t that much of a leap, and Devlin wasn’t stupid.

  “I don’t know that. As far as I know it was a suicide.”

  “Do you even have the authority to be looking into any of this?”

  Then Roarke realized that he wanted it out that he was investigating. The best thing for him would be the rapist/killer getting wind of it and coming after him in some way, for information or for worse—but to show himself.

  Bring it on, he thought, and spoke aloud.

  “Two girls dead in one week. No one ever caught for what happened to Ivy. What authority do you think I need? Someone needs to do right by them.”

  The younger man stared at him. “Okay. Yeah.”

  Something occurred to Roarke. “Were you in Palmers, yourself?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What does that mean, ‘sort of’?”

  Devlin shrugged. “My dad made me go to enough meetings to be counted. It was the best college scholarship in school, basically free money if you played your cards right.”

  Self-serving, but it made sense.

  “One more thing. Your buddy Martell. I’d like to talk to him. You know where I can find him?”

  A strange look crossed Devlin’s face. “Sure. He’s in Lompoc.”

  It was a Central California penitentiary.

  In an instant, a whole other scenario spun out in Roarke’s head. Could it have been a student? Have I been chasing the wrong trail all along?

  “What’s he in for?” he asked tensely.

  Devlin looked away, into the dark. “He got sent up for securities fraud.”

  “How long has he been incarcerated?”

  “Six years now.”

  Roarke sat behind the wheel of his Rover, watching Devlin drive away. For a moment there, he’d been rocked by the idea that the rapist could be someone entirely other than the men he’d been considering. But he’d just used his iPad to check, and the California Inmate Locator confirmed Kyle Martell was currently serving in Lompoc. If he’d been in jail for the last six years, he couldn’t possibly have committed the latest rapes.

  No, Devlin’s memories had brought Roarke’s focus right back to Franzen. He’d been there at the funeral. A Wayfarer. A sponsor of Palmers Club. A controlling, aggressively macho type.

  Bottom line: Roarke didn’t trust his alibi. And he knew a short cut to finding out what he needed to know. It wasn’t the safest one. But Roarke wasn’t the one in real danger.

  Singh had said it: The man who raped Ivy was a secretor, blood type B positive.

  What I need is your blood, asshole.

  CARA

  Chapter Forty-Four

  She gasps and scrambles off Laura’s grave, up to her feet, to face a man in a suit. Familiar, and ominous. The policeman—detective—who came to her aunt’s door. The younger, angry one.

  “Cara Lindstrom,” he says, and smiles at her. Not a nice smile. “Detective Ortiz, Riverside County Sheriff’s Department. Remember me?”

  I’m not a moron, she thinks, and says nothing.

  He glances around the quiet grove, at the graves, the twisted trees. “What are you doing here?”

  What are you doing here? she thinks back at him.

  The cold wind blows through the oaks, making the leaves click together. She can see no one else on the paths between the headstones, and she is nervous that there are no other people about. Nothing around them but death.

  She inches back from Ortiz, keeping distance between them, while in her mind she maps out which way to run through the tombstones. They are just minutes away from the chapel, but the trees of the grove shield the building from view. Which means no one can see them, either.

  “You know why I’m here,” Ortiz says.

  She is acutely aware of the gun on his hip. He holds up a warning hand. “Don’t try to run. We’re going to have a little chat, now, just you and me. You can’t run forever.”

  Through her apprehension, she realizes this is what the old Indian said. She can’t run.

  A thought flickers in her mind, the faintest hope.

  What if she were to tell him? If he is a real cop, isn’t it his job to stop these things? No matter what she has done, the man in the van is out there, somewhere. Maybe even right now.

  “It’s the same person,” she says, so low that Ortiz frowns, steps forward.

  “What? Who is?”

  “Who killed her.” She looks down toward Laura’s grave.

  He glares at her. “She killed herself.”

  “He killed her. And the other one, too.”

  “The other one?”

  “Ivy. He burned her.”

  The detective’s face twists, but she can’t read the expression there. Anger? Confusion? Or something else? Her heart thumps faster.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I know what you did.” His voice is rough, but low, as if he doesn’t want even the dead to overhear. “You think you can get away with it?” She sees rage, and something else she recognizes.

  That’s when she knows. This is all unofficial. If he were just doing his duty, he would arrest her. That’s what cops do. And he is here without his partner, who was clearly in charge.

  He has nothing on her.

  She knows something else, as well.

  “You’re afraid,” she says softly.

  His face doesn’t turn black. It only seems as if it does.

  “You little bitch,” he says. “Who do you think you are? I know what you are, you dirty little whore.”

  He has said none of that aloud. But she hears it as clearly as if he had. She stares into his face, whispers, “I see you. I know what you are.”

  His lips twist back in a snarl, revealing the jagged teeth of It—

  She doesn’t think, doesn’t pause. She just runs.

  She knows he can catch her, but she has the advantage of surprise. He has been startled by what she has said to him, and it takes him a few precious seconds to regroup.

  She runs on the grass, dodging like a rabbit through the gravestones, veering around trees, sprinting for the chapel, thinking only that there is a chance there will be people there, that he will not want to be seen chasing her.

  The running makes her dizzy. The clouds roil blackly above in the wind, and the heavy running steps behind her shake the ground underneath her, shooting tremors through her legs so she stumbles. Harsh panting reverberates through the air, as if all the graves around her are breathing.

  She bursts through a row of trees, and the chapel is there.

  And there is another service. People gathered on the steps of the church, dressed in black. Behind her, the heavy running footsteps slow to a walk. The hoarse panting and the dark whispering recedes, fading behind her.

  She runs, feet pounding, doesn’t slow at all, not until she is past the church, out of the cemetery, onto the street

  Only then does she stop, hidden between cars. She puts her hands on the hood of one of them, doubles over to catch her breath. Her heart is pounding wildly.

  Safe. But not for long.

  He’ll be back, wanting what he wants. And It is out there, too.

  She waits until she can breathe again. Then she heads for the place, for the only one who understands.

  ROARKE

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Roarke was not surprised to find that Franzen lived in an upscale house, on a street near the country club. Singh’s report had mentioned that Franzen owned several hardware supply stores, in Las Piedras, Indio and—Palm Desert. A good, salt-of-the-earth kind of business that had obviously made him a more-than-comfortable living.

  He stood in the dark on Franzen’s porch, rang the doorbell, and hoped that his quarry was home.

  Franzen answered his door himself. The look on his face when he saw Roarke was confused recognition . . . then an unconcealed anger once realization dawned.

  “Mr. Roarke, was
it? I have to wonder what you could be thinking, turning up at my home like this, at this hour of the night.”

  Roarke went for the serious, earnest approach. “I’ve come up with some interesting information regarding the attacks. I thought you’d want to know right away.”

  “The attacks?” Franzen asked. His voice was more cautious.

  Roarke frowned, looked into the man’s face, and lied. “The police haven’t been to see you yet? That’s odd. I was under the impression that they were going straight over here yesterday.”

  The mention of police did the trick. Franzen held the door open. “Why don’t you come in?”

  Roarke stepped inside, and as Franzen shut the door behind them, he turned in the hallway, slowly, so he could get a look through the various open doors into other rooms: the wide living room, an open archway into the kitchen and breakfast area.

  The whole house was neat and orderly. Not entirely clean; Roarke could see dust on the mantel and bookshelves. But rigidly orderly.

  He stepped to the wall, to look over a few prominently displayed framed photos: Franzen and a woman of his generation, solid, respectable.

  “Your wife?” he asked the older man.

  “Late wife.”

  Roarke knew, of course. She’d died four, nearly five years ago. Franzen had not remarried. There was no sign of another woman.

  Beyond those photos there was a series of framed certificates hung on the wall. Before Roarke could get a good look, Franzen moved past him and opened a side door, ushering him in to a den that was part office, part TV room.

  Franzen closed the door behind them, an odd gesture that set Roarke on alert, since they were apparently alone in the house. “Now what’s all this about?”

  “The police haven’t talked to you about the rapes?” Roarke’s eyes were glued to Franzen’s face, checking for any reaction to the word rape.

  Franzen raised his eyebrows, as if mystified.

  Roarke held his gaze and lied. “Riverside County talked to me yesterday about a string of attacks on high school girls in cities all over the country, from 1996 on up to the present. They’re working with local police in Atlanta. A task force was formed after the latest attack, which took place there last January.” He paused, then threw a curve ball. “They said they were coming to you because of the connection between the rapes and the burning of the Wayfarers Club.”

  Franzen frowned, the perfect study of bewilderment. “I don’t think I’m following you. The arson at the club? How do the police think those two things are connected?”

  “Are you aware that the Wayfarers Club burned down the day before Ivy Barnes died?”

  “Ivy Barnes,” Franzen said blankly.

  “Ivy Barnes,” Roarke repeated, knowing Franzen knew exactly who he was talking about. “The Las Piedras High student who was abducted, raped, and set on fire.”

  Franzen spread his hands. “Again, I don’t see the connection.”

  “Fire for fire? Seems pretty obvious to me.”

  “Let me see if I’m understanding this. The police are trying to connect all that with some attack that happened in Savannah—”

  “Atlanta.”

  “In Atlanta last year?”

  “And the year before that, and the year before that,” Roarke said inexorably. “Possibly every year since Ivy was attacked here. Back then, someone was very clever. The police didn’t know where to look. But now they do.”

  “That is some bizarre story,” Franzen said slowly. “And you’re working with the police on this? Or is it some personal interest?”

  Roarke felt a flicker of menace, nothing overt, just something in the way Franzen had spoken. He answered evenly.

  “I thought that with your close connection to the Palmers Club, those two girls from your own town—that you would want to assist the investigation in every way you could.”

  Franzen looked at him, not giving an inch. “I’ll be happy to help the task force with any information it requires. Is that the extent of your ‘interesting information’?”

  Roarke knew Franzen was about to throw him out.

  Wild thoughts were passing through his head. I could get hair from his coat collar on the way out, from one of those coats hanging on the coat tree inside the door. Ask to use the bathroom and steal a razor . . . or there may be Kleenex in the wastebasket that would have traces of blood. I could ask for a drink, break the glass, make sure he cuts himself on it . . .

  It would never be admissible in court as evidence, but at least he would know.

  But he also knew all of that was desperately crazy. And Franzen was watching him, as if he could read his thoughts.

  “Why are you really here, Mr. Roarke?” he asked softly.

  Roarke was startled by the sudden buzzing of the phone in his suit coat pocket. He checked the screen, saw a text from Singh.

  He decided to use it. He deliberately tensed up, glanced at Franzen. “Sorry, I need to . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but punched in his security code as if he couldn’t wait to read the text, took a quick look, and then swiveled, as if jolted into action.

  “Thanks for your time. I have to go.” He started for the door. Franzen made a subtle move to block him.

  “You said you had information.”

  Roarke reached past him for the doorknob. “I’ll have to call you later. Excuse me.” He brushed by Franzen and opened the door.

  The big man bristled and Roarke thought, Go ahead. Come at me. See what that gets you.

  But Franzen didn’t follow him. He stood at the end of the hall, while Roarke walked to the front door and out.

  He was sure Franzen was watching him, so he lifted the phone and pretended to make a call as he strode back through the dark to his car, parked down the block. He even took a glance back toward the house, speaking nonsense into the phone. He wanted Franzen to know he was being watched. If he was the rapist, it might give him enough pause that Roarke would have time to nail him for good—before he had the chance to devastate another life.

  But he waited to phone Singh back until he was in the car, with the doors locked.

  Singh’s voice was always calm, always welcome. “I have some information I thought you should have right away.” She hesitated. “It seemed clear that you need to expedite the elimination of suspects. So I requested the medical records for Mel Franzen and Robert Lethbridge.”

  Roarke felt a rush of surprise. “What? How?”

  “They are material witnesses to an ongoing serial rape investigation, are they not?”

  He realized what she had done. It was a little known fact that law enforcement could get medical records without a warrant—by affirming that the records were needed to identify a suspect, witness, fugitive, or missing person.

  He was suddenly short of breath. “You have their blood types?”

  “I do. Ivy Barnes was a Type A secretor, and the vaginal swab revealed Type A and B antigens. But Franzen and Lethbridge have blood type O: Franzen is O positive, and Lethbridge is O negative. Therefore, neither of them could have been Ivy’s assailant.”

  Roarke sat behind the wheel, processing it.

  So either I’ve been chasing the wrong dogs . . . or we really are looking at two different guys.

  And we won’t know until we get at least blood types from the evidence in the later rapes.

  He looked out at Franzen’s house and felt a quick gratitude that he’d showed some restraint and hadn’t stolen any body fluids.

  Maybe I’ve just gone off the rails. Maybe it’s time to stop this.

  “Chief? Are you there?” Singh’s voice was anxious.

  “It’s great work. But not the greatest news,” he admitted.

  “I understand.”

  He felt a wave of frustration. So what the hell now?

  But in the next moment, he answered his own question. “I need to get more details from these women. The survivors. I need to talk to them. Do you have current addresses and contact informati
on on any of them?”

  There was a pause on the line. “Is there a particular one you are thinking of?”

  “Whoever you can get me. But I think . . . I need to talk to one of the ones who were threatened with burning.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Singh said.

  As he disconnected and reached to start his engine, he saw a silhouette move in the front window.

  It was Franzen. Standing in the dark of his house, watching him.

  CARA

  Chapter Forty-Six

  She stands in the garden of the Mission, looking up at the skeleton girl’s window.

  Going over the wall again had been easy. The tranquil gardens and the plaza seem familiar, almost welcoming, as she slips through the shady patches under the trees. But this time the heavy wooden back door is locked.

  So she finds a hiding spot, behind a collection of shrubs, and waits.

  Afternoon shadows lengthen in the garden; the water shimmers in the softly rushing fountain. The place seems ancient, a world out of time. Sometimes she sees the outlines of hazy figures: robed priests strolling the gravel paths, Indians working in the gardens. She knows they’re not there; they’re not even ghosts. It’s her new, unmedicated mind playing games, like dreaming awake.

  The bell in the clock tower rings out, tolling four times. And then the wooden door opens and a nun steps out. It is the older nun she had seen in the corridor, who had called out to her.

  The nun walks onto the garden path, reaches into the deep pocket of her cardigan, and draws out a pack of cigarettes.

  Cara waits in the shrubs until the nun has lit up, watches her stroll down the path until she is out of sight, beyond trees. Then she crosses quickly to the back door, tries it.

  It opens under her hand.

  Inside, she walks silently down the corridor with its gleaming adobe tiles. The sheen of them is so bright she must avert her eyes.

  She looks at the wall instead, following it to the end of the passage, then hovers, stealing a glimpse around the corner . . .