Lethal in Love

by Michelle Somers

  ‘What was that?’ He spun around.

  Her gaze followed his. ‘What?’

  ‘The door clicked.’

  ‘It couldn’t have. I closed it behind me.’

  ‘I heard what I heard. Maybe you just thought you closed it.’

  Swivelling her chair, she fixed her eyes on the door and slid down from the stool, mentally retracing her steps. She’d closed it, heard the snap as it shut behind her. Hadn’t she? Or had she just taken it for granted?

  The way her mind was flying every which direction right now, maybe she just remembered wrong. Or maybe Juz misheard.

  Opening the door, she peered outside at nothing but an empty hallway. This time when the door clicked shut, she double-checked the lock. Whatever the case, the door was closed now.

  She slipped back onto her stool and picked up her glass. ‘See what you’re doing by not telling me. I’m so spun out I don’t know what’s right and what’s right.’

  ‘You’ve a lot on your mind. You’re allowed to lose it a little.’ He shot her a sympathetic smile, a tilt of his head, and she hated that he felt she needed them. Hated the pity and the weak feeling that followed. She was not weak.

  ‘Or perhaps your roving neighbour’s back from wherever and it was his door I heard.’

  ‘Darren’s in Queensland for business. He’s not due back until next weekend.’ Her grip tightened round the glass. ‘You know I can be friends with you both.’

  ‘I never said you couldn’t. He just gives me the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘Sure you’re not just a little into him?’

  ‘Pah!’ He flicked his hand as if swatting a bug. ‘I’m happily taken, thank you very much.’

  ‘Yes, you are. And now you’ve had your diversion, can we get back on point?’

  She glared with intent to intimidate, but his expression didn’t falter. He traded stare for stare, completely unperturbed.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Juz. Spit it out!’

  ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know, and if I’m wrong, guessing will only make things worse. Why not ask your parents?’

  ‘Because they won’t tell me. Seems they’ve had problems for years and I never saw it.’

  His palm warmed the back of her hand. ‘That doesn’t make you a bad daughter.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  The wobble in her voice surprised her. Thoughts that lurked in the back of her mind pitched forward, dragging at memories and the days leading to her entry into the police academy. Her mother’s encouragement. Her father’s opposition. It was the one thing over which they’d clashed, until her dad’s sudden and unexplained about-turn.

  Juz skirted the bench, a cloud of peppermint and clover wrapping her up in warmth and love. ‘The fact you never suspected anything just makes them good parents. They were protecting you.’

  ‘From what?’

  He shook his head. She’d wring more juice from an MK40.

  The day was moving into the surreal; Juz saying so little said so damn much. Her head was spinning, her stomach churning, and it had nothing to do with the wine.

  The arms about her tightened. ‘Every penny has two sides, hon. Don’t go jumping to conclusions before you flip and the coin has a chance to fall.’

  ‘He loved it!’

  Bec jostled her way to the bar, elbowing Jayda’s ribs with her own brand of ‘told you so!’

  Jayda raised their empty wine glasses and nodded to the barman before turning to lean her hip against the rustic wood, her lips twitching. ‘I never said he wouldn’t.’

  ‘But you thought it.’

  ‘Did not.’

  ‘Did too.’

  ‘Damn, I hate how you know what I’m thinking, even when I don’t.’

  Bec batted her eyelashes and head-nudged Jayda’s arm. ‘Call it sisterly love.’

  Jayda bucked her shoulder. ‘Sisterly nosiness, more like.’

  ‘I’m wounded.’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m not in the least bit offended.’

  Her sister’s grin was infectious, and easy to return. Trading a twenty for their drinks, Jayda slid a glass her way.

  ‘Thanks.’ Bec lifted it to her lips and they turned their backs to the bar again, staring across the restaurant floor at the table lined with all of their father’s family and friends; bar one. ‘It’s not the same, is it?’

  Jayda shook her head. A sudden thickness coated her throat, making it impossible to speak. She swallowed back the pain, her tense palms smoothing the black fabric of her dress over her hips.

  Yes, she’d ignored Juz’s advice and gone with comfort rather than fashion. The spectacular, she’d left to Bec, who looked just that in her purple satin off-the-shoulder creation. But then again, her sister always looked spectacular. It wasn’t what she wore, it was how she wore it.

  ‘Do you ever wish you were a kid again?’ Bec blinked, her over-bright eyes staring at the far wall.

  ‘Not really. You?’

  ‘Sometimes. When shit happens.’

  She didn’t have to say more. The unspoken words hung in the air between them. Like now.

  ‘Dad seems okay.’

  Bec frowned. ‘He looks tired. And he’s lost weight.’

  That was just the bad lighting, right? And wasn’t it approaching midnight? Jayda shrugged. ‘Has he said anything about Mum leaving to you?’

  ‘No. You?’

  She shook her head. ‘Juz thinks there’s more to it than Mum moving out.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say. I tried to call, but her mobile goes straight to voicemail, and she hasn’t returned my calls.’

  ‘Mine either.’

  Jayda tried to read Bec’s normally open-book expression. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Her jaw clenched. ‘There are far too many secrets in this family.’

  ‘Not with us. We pinkie-promised.’

  Jayda’s lips twitched. ‘That was over twenty years ago.’

  ‘Pinkie promises don’t expire.’

  ‘Amen to that!’

  Their shared grin peeled back the years, a rose shedding every perfect petal, and they were kids again, stomping through their primary school playground, conspiring mutiny against Ms Hemmings, their very severe, very ancient headmistress. The poor woman had never stood a chance. Not when Bec had a plan.

  ‘I have a plan.’

  Jayda choked on a mouthful of wine. Dabbing at the sudden leak from her eyes, she gasped a reply. ‘That’s novel.’

  ‘It’s simple. We need a disaster.’

  ‘Huh?’ Sometimes it was hit and miss when following her sister’s weird and winding train of thought.

  ‘You know, a catastrophe. An event that causes serious loss, destruction.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You swallowed a dictionary.’

  Her sister swatted her arm. ‘There’s a tonne of research about how the stress of disaster brings people together. Maybe that’s what Mum and Dad need.’

  She tried not to roll her eyes. ‘What kind of disaster do you suggest?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure we can figure one out.’

  ‘How’re my girls?’ They turned—surely looking guilty as all sin—as their father wrapped an arm around one, then the other, and squeezed.

  The ‘girls’ shared a look and Jayda bit back a laugh. The toughness in the detective had mellowed over the past few months. Who would have imagined retirement would suit Dean Thomasz? And aside from the wan tinge to his normally ruddy features and his post-split weight loss, he looked pretty damn good for a man who’d just turned fifty.

  ‘How are you, Dad?’

  ‘Never better.’

  She searched his face for a hint of concealment and found none. Still, her father was the master of the cover-up.

  ‘Ohh! There’s Cynth. I haven’t seen her in ages!’ Bec disentangled herself and kissed her father on the cheek. Shooting a ‘we’ll talk
later’ look at Jayda, she bounded towards a girl of eighteen years with over-teased brown hair and braces. Their second cousin, or was it third? The round of squeals and hugs brought a smile to her lips.

  ‘She’s one of a kind, isn’t she?’ Her father turned and ordered a beer. It was good to see him smile.

  ‘Thank goodness! Imagine two Becs in the world.’

  ‘What a thought!’ He passed a crumpled note across the bar in exchange for his pint, raised it in a toast and gulped back a generous mouthful. ‘How’s the case going?’

  No need to ask which one.

  She turned, resting her elbows on the dark polished wood. ‘We’ve hit a wall.’

  ‘How so? I thought you had two new vics.’

  ‘They aren’t the Night Terror’s.’

  Her father’s brows shot skyward. ‘That’s not the story I heard.’

  ‘It doesn’t add up, Dad.’

  ‘What does, then?’

  ‘The last two were copycat murders. The Night Terror is due to kill again.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘Nothing concrete yet, but Teddy’s bound to find something.’

  ‘He’s a good man, Teddy.’

  ‘He speaks very highly of you too.’

  ‘We go back a long way.’ He contemplated his beer then took another swig. ‘So, no regrets about joining homicide?’

  ‘I can’t imagine doing anything else.’

  ‘The job does that.’

  ‘Yet you left.’

  The instant the words fled her mouth, the air froze and a vacuum rippled between them.

  Her father raised his glass, then dropped it again without drinking. His hand seemed barely steady, his nerves barely calm. ‘It was time.’

  ‘Was it something to do with you and Mum?’

  The line of his shoulders sharpened, his gaze deliberately avoiding hers. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what to think and no one’s telling me anything.’ The print on the blue-and-white bar mat blurred. ‘Why did Mum leave, Dad?’

  From the corner of her eye she saw him blanch. He coughed, a dry hacking bark deep in his throat, then washed it down with a swig of his beer. ‘Sometimes it’s as simple as it not working anymore.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘No, it’s not. But not everything in this life has an iron-clad explanation.’

  ‘You can’t tell me you woke up suddenly one morning to find you no longer loved each other.’

  ‘If I did, it’d be a lie. I’ll always love your mother. And I know she feels the same about me.’

  ‘Then . . . I don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s not for you to get, honey.’ His hand over hers felt unnaturally cold.

  ‘Accept it. Things are better this way.’

  The ‘why?’ remained stuck to her tongue as Aunt Lorraine dragged him away for more cake.

  Her father’s apologetic look wasn’t fooling anybody. He’d skated around every one of her questions, his practised evasions drowning her stomach in dissatisfaction. Nothing made sense.

  The week ahead loomed.

  Her parents loved each other but had elected to live apart. And a barbarian still stalked the streets of Melbourne looking for prey.

  6

  ‘It’s inconclusive.’

  Jayda gaped at her father’s old friend, her heart so busy nose-diving towards the spotless linoleum floor that for a moment speech was lost to her. She took a desperate swig of double-strength macchiato.

  Shame it wasn’t vodka.

  Teddy brushed his forearm across his brow and shook his head. Clad in his customary blue scrubs, he peered at her over the cadaver on his table.

  Nothing in this diabolical case made sense and she’d waited through the entire weekend hoping for more.

  ‘But the injections are a dead giveaway. Not to mention Angelique’s hair. It’s not the same killer.’

  ‘That’s a lot of circumstantial which doesn’t necessarily add up to a definitive. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just can’t prove at this moment that you’re right.’

  ‘There has to be something.’ She met Teddy’s quizzical gaze. ‘I’m not saying you’ve missed anything. I know you haven’t. It’s just . . .’ She took a deep breath and focused on calming her frustration. ‘We need to go back to the vic profiles. The two last girls. There has to be a link that doesn’t fit with the other deaths.’

  She slipped her notebook from her pocket and flipped through the pages until she reached her latest scrawled list. Her gaze scanned the facts.

  Dead end after dead end.

  The latest? Brian—née Terence Doogan—may have been a creepy wife-cheating scumbag with two outstanding parking fines and one for speeding, but he wasn’t the man they sought. He’d been in LA on business when the two murders prior to Gina were committed, then San Fran after that.

  Every lead, another dead end. And the predictability was getting mighty old. Damn! She’d been sure Angelique’s autopsy would reveal something new.

  Her gut wasn’t wrong. It was this case. It tied her up and twisted her into tight little knots until she couldn’t see straight. Even the nightmares had started up again. Residual memories from a time her subconscious refused to let her forget.

  ‘There is something else.’

  Her gaze jumped from the page to Teddy.

  ‘Angelique had intercourse only hours before she died.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘Another inconsistency?’

  She nodded. ‘All the other vics were virgins. Except Gina.’ Which was the reason she’d gone undercover Saturday night.

  Jayda ignored the heat that memory evoked—and the steely grey eyes that accompanied it—to focus on Teddy, who was nodding again.

  ‘There were traces of silicone on the uterine lining indicating a condom was used. But I also found semen. Either the condom split or it leaked, but he must have noticed because the area was washed haphazardly with soap. I’ve sent what I could to the lab and won’t know if there was enough for a conclusive DNA test until I hear back.’

  The news jump-started her heart. This was it! The ‘something’ she’d been waiting for. DNA meant identifying the killer. Which meant they could rule him out of the earlier killings. Then there’d be no doubt, and Hackett would be forced to let them continue the search for the real killer.

  The Night Terror hunted innocents, an element too intrinsic to his makeup to change. He’d need a damn good reason to stray that far, and she just couldn’t see it in this case.

  ‘It might not be him. The man who had sex with Angelique won’t necessarily be her killer.’

  Her gut told her otherwise. ‘Maybe not. But don’t be surprised when it is.’

  Teddy shot her a rare smile. ‘You’ve got your father’s gut.’

  ‘In most cases that’d be considered anything but flattering.’ She managed a grin. ‘Thanks for the compliment.’

  ‘I mean it, Jayda. Dean Thomasz was a damn fine detective. One of the best. He could smell a dirt bag a mile away, and you have that same sixth sense. Don’t ever doubt it. That gut will serve you well.’ Teddy peered at her through half-moon specs, the low timbre of his voice shivering all the way up her spine. ‘And it’ll keep you alive.’

  . . . so, if you crave the abs of the toned and famous, stick to the un-stickable rule—a teaspoon of peanut butter a day keeps the belly fat away.

  Seth struck the last key on his laptop with flourish, if not satisfaction. His three-part segment on ‘Men Shaping Up for Summer’ was done, and all he felt was flat. Fluff and feathers. His parents’ words, not his. But that didn’t make it any less true. Or any less agonising.

  With a grimace he hit send, ten minutes shy of his Friday afternoon deadline. Four and a half years of university, a bachelor’s degree in journalism, a master’s in media and communication, and all he’d snagged was a couple of two-bit daily columns. Granted, the Melbourne Telegraph was this city’s eq
uivalent to the New York Times, but neither column ever made a showing before page eleven. No real reporting was required. Nothing close to what he’d dreamed of when he’d enrolled in his courses, all green-nosed and wide-eyed.

  His parents had sworn he’d never amount to much. Turned out they were right.

  He shoved back his chair and stood, fighting a restlessness which growled louder day by day. Hands overhead, he arched right, left, back, stretching muscles unused to inactivity.

  What he needed was a good dose of grunt and sweat. It was three days since he’d seen the inside of a gym. As for the other kind of activity that loosened tension, well, that had been longer. A dry spell he’d hoped to end last Saturday night, until she’d bolted from him like a mare at the crack of a starting gun.

  Seth grunted, dipping his head from side to side. Nearly a week gone and the disappointment still surprised him. But he’d curbed it with a steely admonition—this was work, not play. Distraction was something his geophysicist parents, Brianna and Grant Friedin, had never allowed in their thirty years of staid, stiff-upper-lip marriage. They probably even diarised sex, squeezing it in only when their busy, world-saving schedules allowed.

  The chain of thought conjured images that made him want to sear his brain until they receded. It was the age-old paradox. No one liked to consider their parents partaking—let alone enjoying—such acts. And he had the stats to prove it. That was last month’s fluff and feathers.

  He dipped his head again. The cricks seemed content to remain. Perhaps a run? He turned, and the red-and-black scrawl on his study whiteboard caught his eye. No. This story, his hunch, was more important. A one-way pass out of mediocrity and into the limelight.

  The Night Terror. Something was off. The fact that he’d re-emerged. New additions to his MO. The burning round the mouth—a detail not yet released to the public that Seth had uncovered through a source far superior to the cops on the case.

  And then there were the victims, all innocents. Until Gina.

  Something about Gina didn’t fit. So he’d delved deeper into the swinging portion of her life and gleaned nothing but a raging hard-on. Taut fingers ground into his temple, massaging in vain. He closed his eyes.