Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3)

by Janice Kay Johnson

Nods all around.

  Wilcynski rolled a pen between his fingers. “Let’s not forget the BCD he writes in blood. He’s trying to tell us something with it.”

  “Why be so obscure if the message is for us?” Daniel asked. “I wonder if he isn’t expressing something private to him.”

  Jason leaned forward. “Why would he bother if it’s just for him? He knows the body will be found, that cops will see what he’s written.”

  Mackay raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it doesn’t mean jack shit. It’s a random configuration of letters. Maybe he’s playing us, liking the idea we’re wasting our time trying to figure out what it means.”

  “There’s a thought,” Sean grumbled.

  “I don’t believe it.” The speaker was Jason again. “For one thing, if that was the case I’d have expected him to choose different letters with the second killing.” He shook his head. “I think he’s expressing something important about the victims. Partly for himself, but partly for our benefit. He’s saying, ‘Here’s why he deserved to die.’”

  Sean’s gut feeling said the same. He was a little surprised at how boldly Jason had spoken out, given how new he was on the job. He wasn’t shy, and he’d been using his head. Sean thought the lieutenant’s expression suggested approval, too.

  They threw around a few more ideas before the meeting broke up. Mendoza thanked Sean for including him, without mentioning whether Chief Lundy knew he’d involved himself in in a county-wide task force. His last words were, “Keep me posted,” and Sean nodded.

  He hated knowing they were really waiting for another murder to happen, in hopes this time the killer would make a mistake.

  *****

  Emily hated her new security system. When she’d initially agreed to this, she had pictured some invisible network of wires, the only obvious presence the keypad where she turned the whole thing on and off. But she’d been informed that in-the-walls, wired security systems were most practical for new construction or when a homeowner was already doing a major remodel. Otherwise, it would mean a lot of holes in her walls.

  So she had opted for the wireless system, which meant receiver along with door and window sensors, a keypad and a remote control, which she kept eyeing as if it was a coiled snake because she was so afraid of pushing the wrong button. The plus side was that she could disable individual sensors in case she ever worked up the nerve again to open a window for some fresh air. But holding onto what sense of security the whole system gave her meant she didn’t dare disable any part of it, or there would be a chink in her armor.

  Instead of feeling safe, she felt even more isolated than she had.

  She could tell Sean hadn’t been a hundred percent satisfied, which made her uneasy.

  “No system is perfect,” he had said with a shrug. “But if you use it faithfully, this one is hard to defeat.”

  He came for dinner Tuesday, but seemed preoccupied. She had a feeling there was a lot he wasn’t telling her about his day. She asked if he was working a new crime, and he shook his head.

  “I’m concentrating on this one and winding up some others. I have a court appearance Thursday, which means reviewing my notes.” His mouth quirked. “And dressing up.”

  “A suit and tie?”

  “I know some guys who throw on a sport coat and call it good, but I go for a suit. I want to look at least as professional as the attorneys.”

  She laughed at that, but saw his point.

  He commented on how helpful it would be if they could find a single person who had known both Frank Lowe and Darryl Roff. “There must be somebody,” he grumbled. “Besides the murderer. Damn it, they have to have something in common.”

  “Or someone,” she heard herself say.

  His gaze sharpened. “You’re right.”

  “You think there’ll be more murders, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he said quietly, his expression darkening. “It’s possible this was a one-two punch, but I don’t think so.”

  “Or…or the other people he wants to kill live somewhere else.”

  “That’s possible, too.”

  “If nothing more happens, what will you do?” Emily knew what she was really asking. When would he give up? Underlying it was the parallels to her own situation: what if a week went by, a month, six months, and no one tried to break in to her house? When could she believe it was a one-time thing and she no longer had to worry?

  His expression was entirely unreadable when he said, “Put the investigation on the back burner, but keep an ear to the ground. People get careless.”

  Her blood seemed to chill. Would she ever feel safe enough to become careless?

  And why was she so afraid when she’d been convinced she wouldn’t mind if death came for her? Was Sean right? Had some kind of life force reawakened in her without her noticing? Or had it reawakened when she noticed him?

  And...why him, so unlike the one man she had loved?

  But even she knew that was a silly question. She had changed. Once upon a time, she’d been happy and optimistic, with no dark undercurrents or foreboding. Now, she was layer upon layer of complications. Grief and guilt had destroyed any faith she’d once had. Even if she wanted another family, how would she live with the fear?

  How did cops who saw so much tragedy fall in love, marry, have children? Did they live in constant terror? Or could they compartmentalize so well, they didn’t allow the misery they saw on the job to color their personal lives?

  She couldn’t believe that. She was so close to asking Sean, her lips parted, but she thought better of it in time. He might see a question like that as encouragement. He might think she’d begun wondering whether happiness was possible even if you already knew how quickly it could be shattered.

  The way he watched her so thoughtfully left her sure he’d seen her struggle with herself, but he didn’t say anything.

  When she refused his help at cleaning the kitchen, he thanked her for dinner and left with only one last look she couldn’t interpret.

  Alone in her possibly-breachable fortress, Emily knew she wouldn’t be sleeping any better tonight than she ever had. Once she had the dishwasher running, she plugged in her iron and went to her work table, where she’d already piled a selection of fabrics. Some of the simplest patterns were the most popular with buyers. She laid several fabrics atop each other on the mat, carefully placed her ruler and picked up her rotary cutter.

  Later, when her concentration flagged to the point where she might make mistakes, she’d switch to hand-quilting.

  *****

  At the sound of a throat being cleared, Sean lifted his eyes from his computer monitor. Looking stolid, Mike Stoffel stood in front of the desk. Heading toward retirement, Mike had spent his entire career as a uniformed deputy. His belly sagged over his pants and he had jowls and broken veins in his nose, but he was good with people.

  “Heard you wanted to know if we saw Larry or that new vet.”

  “I do,” Sean said, sitting back in his chair.

  “Saw Larry a couple of days ago. I asked about this other dude, and Larry said he’s avoiding him. I tried to get him to tell me where we might find the guy, but he wasn’t about to.”

  Sean nodded, thinking about it. “Even if he doesn’t like him, Larry might be feeling protective. He’s pretty mellow himself now, but he’s had a lot of years to recover.”

  Stoffel nodded. “I went to Vietnam myself. Came home feeling raw. Drove my first wife away. This guy you saw may just not be ready to mix with people at all.”

  Annoyed as he was at having been shot at, Sean had to concede the point. Watching Stoffel walk away, he was struck by how much more human the deputy had become to him in the last two minutes or so.

  Came home feeling raw.

  Instead of returning his attention to the court records he’d been scanning, Sean brooded over how all-American and normal and happy his childhood had been until the day that changed everything.

  Nothing was the same after Matt
was killed. And, God knows, Sean had seen too much heartbreak and tragedy since then, if one step removed.

  What stunned him now was to realize that, in the back of his mind, he’d still seen himself someday having a family like the one he’d grown up in. A mom and dad who stayed in love and were best friends, a couple of kids able to grow up with the knowledge their family was solid. Happy, no complexities.

  Emily couldn’t be that mom. If she ever had other children, every day would have her balancing on a knife edge, her terror of losing them doing war with her awareness that, because she loved them, she had to give them confidence and an occasional gentle push out into the world.

  And, sure, Sean thought with a frown, even thinking like that was premature, but he needed to figure out what he did want from her before he was stupid enough to make some kind of move he’d regret. Worse, did something that would hurt her.

  Because of that uncertainty, he’d kept his distance these past couple days beyond a quick call each morning and stopping by her house briefly on Thursday to see with his own eyes that she was okay. Renewed strain had been visible on her face, which didn’t help his own lousy mood or inability to sleep for more than fleeting stretches. Even when he didn’t have a nightmare, he had taken to waking every hour or two as if he’d been poked with a cattle prod, electricity buzzing through his body as he listened hard for whatever sound might have disturbed him.

  His bedroom window faced hers, more or less, albeit with a fence between them, so he left his open a few inches to increase his chance of hearing anything out of the ordinary from her house.

  So far, there hadn’t been anything.

  He wasn’t reassured, and he could tell she wasn’t, either. Sean kept circling back to his belief that, whatever the purpose of the break-in, it hadn’t been fulfilled. If what happened had been a typical attempt to grab some stuff to pawn, a repeat was on the scale of unlikely to hell-no. A teenager would have had the shit scared out of him. No way he’d come back for an encore.

  But the man who had shoved his way into Emily’s bedroom even as she screamed louder than the coastal tsunami warning siren, would he give up? Sean didn’t believe it.

  His thoughts reverted to his attraction to her.

  She claimed a part of her had died when she lost her husband and child, but that implied she’d been numb since then. He wondered if her new norm hadn’t been more the way Mike Stoffel had described feeling. Had she been so raw she couldn’t bear the thought of being touched, physically or emotionally? If so…most of the Vietnam War vets had recovered eventually, hadn’t they?

  But they’d seen friends blown up, not their loved ones.

  Her husband and child hadn’t died right in front of her.

  Like a slideshow, Sean saw face after face from the notifications he’d done, heard himself say with as much sympathy as he could muster, I’m sorry for your loss. Remembered his mother’s anguished cry. He wasn’t so sure being told might not be worse than seeing the deaths yourself. Deep inside, would you be convinced that the people you loved really were dead and gone? Or would you dream about them, turn eagerly at the sound of a certain footfall, a baby’s cry in the grocery store, a glimpse from the corner of your eye?

  Sean gave himself a shake. Crap. He was sitting here staring into space, which might be excusable if he had been thinking deep thoughts about an investigation. But him? He was stuck thinking about a woman.

  He groaned, rubbed a hand over his face, and wondered if the nice, uncomplicated, sunny woman he’d vaguely imagined loving would even interest him anymore. If a woman as complex, damaged and afraid as Emily Drake worked up the courage to love again, the man she’d chosen should be awed and honored, because her love wouldn’t be ordinary or easy.

  I don’t know her well enough to be in love with her, he thought in shock. But he felt something unfamiliar, he knew that. He had from the first time he set eyes on her.

  Somehow, in a matter of a week or two, his priorities had been turned on end.

  Protect and serve, he thought – but he was being torn two ways.

  He flipped open a folder on his desk to look down at a chart he’d been trying to construct, one with lines that refused to intersect because he still didn’t know what the two murder victims had in common. It wasn’t teenagers, lab work, gym membership, the law or wine. Nobody who knew Frank Lowe well had ever so much as heard Darryl Roff’s name, and vice versa.

  Unless someone was lying.

  And, damn, a full week had now passed since Daniel found Roff’s body. Did that mean their killer was done? Or was there no rhyme nor reason for the intervals between murders?

  He slapped the folder closed, making a decision. He wasn’t accomplishing a damn thing, and he needed to see Emily. He picked up his phone. When she answered, he said, “Hey, you up for a run?”

  *****

  The moon was almost full, the pale light making the crest of the waves and the sea foam shimmer with a beauty that was almost unearthly.

  Emily had never run in the dark before. When they started out, a spectacular, fiery sunset over the ocean had distracted her from thinking about the night that would follow. She wouldn’t have wanted to be navigating curbs or tree roots, but the hard-packed, wet sand at the ocean’s edge was as smooth as the surface of the high school track. Moonlight allowed her to see well enough to avoid stepping on the occasional darker strand of seaweed or kelp. And…with Sean running easily beside her, she felt completely safe. He wouldn’t let her fall.

  They talked intermittently, idly, comparing what they had on their iPods – mostly folk, alternative and some old rock on hers, harder driving sounds on his. Talking to Daniel Colburn about the biology teacher had gotten Sean to thinking about high school, and he wanted to know what she’d been like as a teenager, whether she’d been a conformist or a rebel or something else altogether.

  She gave it some thought before answering. “I suppose…an independent. I had friends and a boyfriend and I didn’t flout rules, but I didn’t rush to buy the newest brand of jeans because everyone else was. I stayed interested in quilting, too, even though it was something old ladies did.”

  He laughed at the way she said that. When she asked what he’d been like, it was a couple minutes before he said anything, and what she could see of his face was more reflective than the question deserved.

  “Until Matt died, I was a typical teenage boy,” he said finally. “I was a jock – I played football and baseball, and probably would have done basketball, too, if there wasn’t so much overlap. Thought about girls a lot, had a stupid sense of humor and a reckless streak, because how else is a guy supposed to show off his manliness?”

  She laughed. “I’ll bet you did more than think about girls.”

  “Yeah, I had a couple of girlfriends—” the gleam of white teeth let her know he was grinning “—but nothing very serious. A couple buddies of mine married their high school girlfriends.” He shook his head. “I know I’m glad I didn’t commit myself for a lifetime when I was only eighteen years old.”

  “The marriages might not last a lifetime,” she retorted.

  “That’s true, but these two have so far.”

  Looking at the unearthly beauty ahead, the whole world painted in silver and black edged with the opalescent white crest of waves, she asked, “Were you a good student?”

  It was a mistake to express so much curiosity about him, she knew. It was a bigger mistake to be curious.

  “Yeah, actually I was. My parents had expectations. You know. I never really defied them.”

  “Because you loved them.”

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “That was part of it.” That last almost two years at home, he had been desperate to be everything they could want in a son, because he had to make up for the other son who was gone.

  When he asked, she told him more about her grandparents rather than her parents, maybe because they’d meant so much to her. She never put on her thimble or threaded a needle without se
eing Nanna’s face or at least feeling…she didn’t know. A hint of warmth otherwise so conspicuously absent from her life now. Brow crinkling, she put into words something she hadn’t consciously thought about before. What she felt was a hug. Not real, of course. Imagined, or perhaps an echo of the comfort Nanna offered so unstintingly.

  There was a sting, too, of course. Quilts were a women’s art that stitched together generations. Nanna had made a crib quilt for Emily when she was born. Mom had kept it, passing it on when Cody was born. When she laid him to sleep in his crib and pulled the quilt over him, Emily remembered smiling softly as she thought about how carefully she would put it away once her children had outgrown it, and how they would use it when they had children, making real the existence of a great-great grandma those kids would never know in any other way. But now…now she had no one to pass that quilt down to, and never would. The history of her family would be snipped off.

  As she talked, though, she suppressed that constant ache and lived in the now.

  Sean said nothing about her intruder, her security system or his investigation. That had to be deliberate. Grateful, Emily realized she felt better than she had in days. More like herself.

  No, she thought in faint shock – more like the woman she’d been Before.

  Dumb thought. Running was supposed to release endorphins that boosted a person’s mood. Easy explanation.

  Quiet now, they slowed to a jog, then a walk for their cool-down, finally strolling over the loose sand until they found the opening between dunes that would lead them back to his SUV.

  “Thank you,” Emily surprised herself by saying. “I mean, for suggesting this. I’ve been feeling really closed-in.”

  “I’m not surprised. Have you set the alarm off by accident yet?”

  “Yet?” She laughed. “Is it inevitable?”

  “Pretty much.” He unlocked with his remote. “Common, anyway.”

  “I admit, I’m afraid to push a button.”

  “And if you don’t push it at the right time…”