“This is . . .” Bode paced back toward Jax, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. The sound echoed eerily, reminding Jax that they were all alone in the building.
Cautiously, Jax shifted his hand so it was near his holstered gun. “What?” he asked.
“Unbelievable,” the doctor breathed.
Jax had intended to conduct the interview in the clinic, but now that they’d started, he didn’t want to give the man time to reconsider his need for a lawyer. “Tell me about the women,” he commanded.
Bode nervously smoothed his hands down his cashmere sweater, a film of sweat on his face despite the chill in the air.
“Angel came to me first,” he abruptly confessed.
Jax didn’t pull out his notebook and pencil. He’d take the good doctor down to the station to make an official statement later. For now, he wanted his hands free in case he needed his gun.
Even if Bode wasn’t a danger, this was a big building. Anyone could be hiding in one of the rooms.
“How did she find you?”
Bode shrugged, he eyes darting from side to side. He was trying to come up with a feasible lie.
“I’ve been doing Botox parties for the past three years,” he finally said.
Jax was confused. “Botox parties?”
Bode gave a wave of his hand. “A group of friends get together at my clinic. We have wine and cheese and I give them Botox injections.”
Jax snorted. What happened to Tupperware parties? “Angel wasn’t old enough for Botox,” he pointed out.
“Are you kidding?” Bode looked amazed by Jax’s stupidity. “Any woman who cares about maintaining her beauty begins preventive care in her twenties.”
Jax wrinkled his nose. He supposed it was fine for a woman to do whatever she wanted with her own face, especially if it made her happy. But his mother was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, and it was completely natural.
“Fine.” He held the man’s gaze. “Angel couldn’t afford your party.”
“She heard about me from one of the ladies.” The words were said in a rush. A certain sign the man was lying. “She came to me and asked if I could do more extensive work.”
“What sort of work?”
“The usual.”
Jax stepped forward, poking his finger in the center of the man’s chest. “Don’t screw around with me, Bode,” he snapped. “What work did you do on her?”
The doctor took a stumbled step backward, a drop of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose.
“She wanted me to make her look more like Remi Walsh,” he ground out, reaching up to brush away the sweat. “She was the girl who was attacked by the Chicago Butcher a few years ago.”
Jax’s gut twisted, even as he felt a blast of satisfaction. He and Ash had been right. There was someone out there deliberately creating victims who looked like Remi.
“I know who she is,” he said in cold tones. “Why would Angel want to look more like her?”
“She told me they were making a movie about the Butcher. She had the role of Remi, but she wanted to look more believable.” The doctor sounded defensive, as if he could make excuses for operating without a license on a young girl who had been lured to her death by her dreams of fame. “She paid in cash, so I didn’t really care why she wanted the surgery.”
Jax bit back his urge to tell the doctor he thought he was a total scumbag. He’d save that treat for later.
“And Rachel?” he asked.
“She came to me a week or two later,” Bode admitted. “She told me the same story.”
Jax frowned. He’d already surmised the doctor wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He’d managed to lose his license and the spa he’d inherited was crumbling to dust. But he wasn’t stupid.
“You didn’t think it was odd that they would need more than one actress to fill the role of Remi Walsh?”
“I assumed the first one didn’t work out,” Bode muttered, his lips twisting with disgust. “To be honest, I wasn’t surprised.”
“Why?”
“She was kind of flaky.” Bode glanced toward the glass door at the opposite wing. “Plus, I caught her searching the clinic for painkillers. It was obvious she was an addict. It was only a matter of time before she did something to get fired.”
His words echoed what he’d learned from Angel’s autopsy. She had traces of drugs in her system, and enough physical damage to reveal she’d been abusing opioids for years.
“You’re telling me that two women just wandered in off the street, plopped down a stack of cash, and asked you to make them look like Remi Walsh?” he demanded, his tone mocking.
“More or less.”
Jax struggled to leash his anger. The doctor was seriously pissing on his last nerve. Time to turn up the heat.
“They stayed here after the surgery, didn’t they?” he demanded, already guessing this would be the perfect location for the killer to keep them isolated from their friends and family.
Bode hunched his shoulders. “They remained here for a few days. Just so I could keep an eye on their incisions. After that—”
“They were murdered,” Jax interrupted, his tone blatantly accusing.
“I told you, I didn’t know.”
“Two women.” Jax stepped until he was towering over the man, his expression hard with warning. “Both made to look like the Butcher’s preferred victim. And now both dead.”
Bode pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his forehead. The motion allowed the dim light to sparkle off the large diamond on his pinkie. “What are you implying?”
“The killer has a fascination with Remi,” Jax continued. “And a sharp knife that might very well have been a scalpel. Does that remind you of anyone?”
Bode was shaking his head before Jax finished speaking. “No way in hell are you pinning this on me.”
Jax abruptly reached out to grab the front of the man’s sweater, twisting it until he forced him onto his tiptoes.
“Then tell me the truth,” he growled.
“I did.” The words came out in a sputter as Bode stared at Jax with a nervous gaze. “The women came to me, they asked for the surgery to look like Remi Walsh, and that’s what I did. Once they left the clinic, I never saw them again.”
Jax glared down at him. “They didn’t come here alone, did they?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Jax gave him a violent shake. He was done. The man was going to give him the answers he needed or he was driving him downtown and throwing him in jail. Maybe a day or two locked in a cell with a bunch of hardened criminals would loosen his tongue.
“Someone brought the girls to you. The same someone who had the stacks of cash,” he insisted.
“I . . .” Clearly realizing he was about to be introduced to the delights of the Illinois penal system, Bode released a harsh sigh. His shoulders slumped and his eyes dimmed with defeat. “Yes.”
Jax felt a blast of elation. Finally. He was about to put an end to the Butcher. Once and for all.
“Tell me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ash had never considered himself a coward. During his years in law enforcement, he’d proved he was capable of facing down armed suspects and even running into a burning building to save a child.
But he couldn’t deny that it took a considerable effort to force his feet to carry him down the stairs. He wasn’t crazy about tight, dark spaces, and there was a sense of malevolence that choked the air.
Or at least it felt that way to Ash.
No doubt it was his imagination working overtime, but that didn’t keep a prickly unease from crawling over his skin.
He shivered, moving down the cramped tunnel with slow, cautious steps. It was freezing down here, but the light at least allowed him to search for any clues that might have been left behind.
Exactly what sort of clue that might be was something he hadn’t fully contemplated. A wallet with an ID? A monogrammed handkerchief
?
He grimaced, walking down the center of the tunnel. He was forced to duck beneath the light bulbs that hung from bare wire. The low ceiling emphasized the cramped size of the tunnel. On the other hand, he was reassured by the sight of the wooden posts that were driven into the walls. At least he could be hopeful that the passageway wasn’t going to collapse on him.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed—it felt like an eternity, although it was probably no more than five minutes—when he caught sight of the stairs in front of him.
Satisfaction raced through him. Yes. Remi hadn’t been dreaming. There was a passage from the garage to the house. And whoever attacked her was familiar enough with the estate to have stumbled across the opening.
On the point of climbing the stairs to see if he could figure out how to open the door, he came to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of something on the ground. Bending down, he grabbed the object, smoothing it out to discover it was a glove. And not just any glove. It matched the one he’d found in the garage.
Ash frowned in confusion.
Why would Gage’s glove be in the tunnel? Had he lost it when he was putting in the braces?
He was trying to imagine why Gage would wear his expensive leather glove to do manual labor when the heavy silence was shattered by the explosive echo of a gunshot.
Ash dropped the glove, his mind going blank with shock.
Then instinct kicked in, and he pivoted to spring back down the passageway. At the same time, he pulled out the gun he’d holstered beneath his coat. He’d decided before leaving Remi’s house that there was no way he was going to search the estate without a weapon.
Now, he silently thanked whatever impulse had urged him to come armed.
Skidding to a halt as he neared the stairs, he pressed his back against the wall of the tunnel. He strained to hear what was happening in the garage.
Had Albert been shot? Maybe even killed? It seemed likely. Otherwise, the man would have called down to warn Ash that they were no longer alone.
Ash clenched his teeth, waiting for the mystery shooter to come down the stairs. Whoever it was couldn’t leave him alive now that he’d found the tunnels. But even as he braced himself to kill the intruder, there was a familiar creak.
He cursed. The door was closing.
Unwilling to risk dashing into view and being shot, Ash forced himself to inch his way along the tunnel, then cautiously up the steps toward the garage.
His mouth was dry and his muscles tense as he headed upward, but his mind was crystal clear. Years of training had ensured that danger intensified his ability to focus. As if adrenaline was a turbo-booster.
At last reaching the top step, he placed his hand against the door and pushed. It refused to budge.
Ash didn’t waste his time trying to force open the door. There had to be a hidden switch. Tucking his gun into his holster, he used both hands to search the walls, then bent down to search the stairs.
There was nothing.
Refusing to contemplate the thought that he was effectively buried alive in the tunnel, he grimly turned around and headed toward the other end. There had to be a way out. In her dream, Remi had seen a bright light and smelled bread. He was betting the entrance opened into the kitchen.
Ash was halfway down the passage when he abruptly sneezed. He came to a halt as he realized that a cloud of dust was filling the air. What the hell? He squinted up at the ceiling, horrified by the fear that it was preparing to collapse.
It was only when he heard the footsteps that he realized there might be worse things than a cave-in.
Glancing over his shoulder, he peered through the dust, expecting to see a figure walking toward him. Instead, there was a strange grinding noise as a portion of the wall directly across from him slid inward.
Another secret door.
Caught off guard, Ash watched as a form appeared in the opening. He froze, trying to process who was stepping into the passageway.
Liza Harding-Walsh.
He shook his head as his brain scrambled to accept what he was seeing.
Why was she there? She was supposed to be at lunch. And how had she entered the tunnels? More importantly, why had she entered the tunnels?
Slowly, his stunned gaze lowered to where she was holding a handgun. Christ. This was no accidental encounter. The weapon was pointed directly at his heart.
“I knew you couldn’t keep your nose out of my business,” she said in tones sharp enough to slice through the thick air.
Business. What business? Ash struggled to clear his mind. He’d just prided himself on his clear focus in the face of danger. Now it felt like his brain was coated with molasses.
“Do you mean the tunnels?” he asked.
An oddly delighted expression touched the pale, perfect face. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they?”
“Wonderful?”
“Yes.” She waved a gloved hand toward the passage that led back to the garage. “My great-grandfather built them during Prohibition.”
Ash’s mouth was dry and his heart was skittering around his chest. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he sensed the woman wasn’t stable.
It wasn’t just the gun she had pointed at him; it was the fevered glitter in her eyes. He suddenly feared it was going to take a miracle for him to survive the next few minutes.
And he had to survive. He had to find Remi and make sure she hadn’t been harmed.
“To hide alcohol?” he asked, cursing himself for not having pulled his own gun as soon as he’d caught sight of the older woman. He’d just been so damned shocked. Now he had to hope he could get close enough to knock the gun from her hand.
“Among other things. He built the finest speakeasy in the county beneath this estate.” She heaved a small sigh, as if she was wishing she was back in the past. “It was glorious. Politicians and movie stars and the most powerful men in the world came here to drink and gamble. I have the pictures.”
“You must be very proud.”
She sniffed, as if sensing he wasn’t as impressed as he should have been. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re—”
“What?”
Her lips curled with contempt. “Common.”
“Yeah, my relatives were boring, law-abiding citizens,” Ash mocked before he could halt the words.
This woman had treated him like he carried the plague when he was engaged to Remi. Now he wondered if it was because she possessed some weird obsession with her daughter.
She sneered at his claim. “As I said. You wouldn’t understand.”
Ash forced himself to take a deep breath. Right now, he was supposed to be keeping Liza distracted, not conducting a childish argument about who had the better relatives.
“I thought you were having lunch with Remi.” He glanced over the woman’s shoulder. There was a soft light glowing behind her. “Where is she?”
“I’ll take you to her,” Liza promised, holding out her hand. “As soon as you give me your gun.”
Shit. He’d accepted that he couldn’t grab his weapon, pull it out, and shoot before Liza put a bullet through his heart. But as long as he had it on him, there was a chance he would have an opportunity to use it.
“I’m a professor, not a detective,” he reminded the older woman. “I don’t carry a weapon.”
Her contempt remained firmly etched onto the older woman’s face. “You lie about as well as Gage did. I suppose it must have something to do with being a cop.” She pointed a finger toward her feet. “Place your gun on the ground and kick it toward me.”
Ash studied Liza with a sense of unreality. It was as if he was looking at a stranger. Not only because she was wearing clothes that probably were stolen from her housekeeper, but because she was holding the gun with an expertise that warned she was comfortable with firearms.
Had Gage insisted she learn? Or was it something she’d picked up from her father?
He was betting on her father. Reluctantly, he pulled out his gun and
placed it on the ground. Then, with the tip of his toe, he shoved it across the ground. For now, she had the upper hand. Until he knew if Remi was safe, and that Liza didn’t have a partner hidden in the tunnels, he had to play the game by her rules.
Straightening, he watched her grab the gun and tuck it in her purse. Never once did she take her gaze off him.
“Take me to Remi,” he commanded.
“She’s this way.” She backed down the tunnel, keeping the gun pointed at him.
Ash shuddered, forcing himself to move forward. It was like the woman’s gaze was causing his skin to crawl. Had he noticed it before? he absently wondered. Had he sensed there was something off about the woman?
Hard to say. He’d always assumed their strained relationship was because he hadn’t come from a fancy family with a huge trust fund.
Now...
He shook his head. He didn’t know. Just as he didn’t know where Remi was. Or if Liza had shot poor Albert. Or what she intended to do with him. He suspected the older woman was involved in the murders, but he had no idea if she was a delusional pawn or the mastermind.
The new tunnel angled away from the house, he was guessing toward the center of the backyard. Then he stepped through a framed doorway, and his eyes widened. He’d been expecting a cave. Or another staircase.
Instead, he was standing in a room that was as big as a house, with the same glossy paneling that had been used in the garage. At one end of the space was a long bar with a polished mirror that was set in a fancy bronze frame. The floor was carpeted, and several small tables and comfortable chairs were arranged around the room.
His gaze shifted toward Liza. “Where are we?” he demanded.
“Below the pool house.”
“This was the club?” he guessed.
“Yes.”
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the stuffed animal heads on the walls and the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling.
“Impressive,” he said, unable to imagine how much time and effort it’d taken to build the place.
“Yes, it is,” Liza agreed, strolling forward, a wistful smile on her lips. “I wish I could have seen it when my great-grandfather was entertaining.”
The Intended Victim Page 30