Dead Reckoning

by Linda Castillo

  For several breathless minutes he lay on top of her on the bed, unable to move. Guilt churned in his gut. He felt like hell for what he’d done. He’d had sex with her. He’d hurt her. And then he’d had sex with her again. What a great guy.

  The chirp of his cell phone drilled into his brain with all the finesse of a chainsaw. He sat up, located the phone still clipped to his belt on the floor and slid from the bed.

  “Matrone,” he snapped.

  “This is Detective Bates. Thought you might want to know Ellis is dead.”

  Shock slapped him like a bullwhip. “Dead? How?”

  “M.E. will do an autopsy, but it looks like a suicide. Poor bastard hung himself in his cell.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Looks cut-and-dried. Officer found him in his cell, hanging from the top bunk. Looks like he used a blanket, tore it into strips, tied the strips together, and voilà: a makeshift noose.” Bates snapped something to someone else, then came back on the line. “Look, I gotta work this. Just thought you might want to know.”

  Frank continued to grip the phone, even though the line was disconnected. He didn’t give a damn one way or another that Ellis was dead. As far as he was concerned, the sooner Ellis got to hell the better off the rest of the world would be. What didn’t sit well with him was that an egocentric sociopath like Ellis would commit suicide.

  “What happened?”

  He snapped his phone closed and looked at Kate. She was sitting on the bed, holding the comforter to her chest, her eyes sharp and questioning.

  “Ellis is dead.” Quickly he relayed everything the detective had told him.

  “Do you believe it?”

  “I don’t know.” He cursed. “No.”

  “It doesn’t fit his profile.” Taking the comforter with her, she crossed to the closet and opened the door. “Frank, I don’t know if it means anything, but I found a connection between Ferguson and Rooks and a dozen or so similar crimes.”

  “What?” Frank caught a glimpse of pale flesh and titillating curves as she dropped the comforter and jammed her arms into the sleeves of a robe. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  He listened carefully as she told him about the string of fatal robberies spread over several states, several corporations, and several franchises. “Ferguson and Rooks is the only common denominator,” she finished.

  “The ratio of robberies to the number of stores is high.”

  “I can’t figure motive.”

  “Money.” His cop’s mind spun into high gear.

  “In most of the robberies, the cash taken was negligible.”

  “We’re missing something.” He bent to retrieve his slacks and stepped into them. “I’ll take another look at everything when I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The jail, to see what I can find out.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Frank reached for her. But it wasn’t to pull her to him the way he wanted. “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because it’s not your case.” He grimaced. “Because I don’t want you there.”

  She looked at him as if he’d slapped her. “I’m on to something, damn it. I want to be involved.”

  “I have to go.” Feeling like a jerk, he snagged his shirt from the floor, stepped into his shoes and socks.

  “Wait a moment!”

  He left the room without answering. He could hear her behind him, but he didn’t look at her.

  “Don’t shut me out of this.”

  “I didn’t. Mike Shelley did.” He started for the door.

  “Or maybe this is a convenient excuse for you to push me away.”

  He didn’t let himself think about that as he shrugged into his jacket. He didn’t let himself remember her face as he went through the front door. The one thing he couldn’t do, however, was keep himself from feeling.

  Frank hit the sidewalk running. The Dallas cop was parked at the curb with his engine running. The window slid down as Frank approached.

  The cop’s grin was a little too wide, a little too knowing, a little too smug. “Looks like we’re going to get some weather tonight.”

  Frank hadn’t even noticed the sleet. “Ms. Megason and I were working on the Bruton Ellis case. I slept on the sofa. You got that?”

  “No problem.”

  “If any rumors start circulating, I’ll know where they originated. And I’ll make you sorry you opened your mouth.”

  “I got it.”

  Frank turned away and jogged toward his truck.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1:35 A.M.

  Kate stood beneath the shower and let the hot water wash away the tension, the bone-deep weariness, and the tears she didn’t want to cry. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, and she was so emotionally wrought all she wanted to do was crawl back into her bed and pull the covers over her head.

  But Kate had never run away from problems, and she wasn’t going to start now. She was going to have to deal with what she’d done to Danny Perkins. She was going to have to deal with her feelings for Frank.

  It was ironic as hell that loving a man was so much more painful than shooting one.

  She’d learned a long time ago that crying never helped. But she couldn’t seem to stop. Now that the gates were open, the tears poured out in a violent rush. Frank had hurt her in a way she’d never been hurt before. In a way that cut her to the core.

  Kate had never been in love before. Never even come close. But on an instinctive level she knew the emotions burgeoning in her heart—and twisting her into knots—was exactly that. She’d fallen in love with Frank Matrone. The thought terrified her. Thrilled her. Filled her with such despair that she could do nothing but stand beneath the spray and cry like an idiot.

  “Oh, God, Megason, what have you done?” she whispered as she turned off the faucets.

  Her cell phone was ringing when she stepped out of the shower. Kate reached it on the fourth ring, her only thought that Frank was calling to apologize and fill her in on the details of Ellis’s untimely death.

  “This is Belinda Ferguson. I need to meet with you.” Her voice was breathless. “Tonight. It’s important.”

  Shock rippled through Kate. Of all the people she would expect to hear from in the wee hours of the morning, Belinda Ferguson was not one of them. “Has something happened?”

  A shuddering breath. “I’m in trouble. I’m scared. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “If you feel you’re in danger, you need to call the police.”

  “I can’t. I want to come clean, but I don’t want to go to jail. I want to cut a deal with the DA.”

  Kate struggled to get her mind around the idea of the cool-headed lawyer being frightened and in need of help. “Belinda, have you broken the law?”

  A hysterical laugh sounded. “Too many to count and I’m a goddamn lawyer.”

  “Who do you need protection from?”

  “I can’t get into this over the phone. All I can tell you is that it has to do with the Bruton Ellis case.”

  “The Bruton Ellis case?” Gooseflesh raced down Kate’s arms. “What about it?”

  A sound that was part frustration, part sob. “Corporate corruption on a scale like you’ve never seen. This is fucking huge. Makes Enron look like a company picnic. Worse than you could ever imagine.”

  “You’re going to have to give me something.”

  The other woman made a sound of pure distress. “It has to do with life insurance policies. I think they call it dead-peasant insurance.”

  “You mean where corporations take out life insurance policies on employees?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Only he’s taking it a step further, Ms. Megason. He’s killing them in cold blood. Hourly employees. Clerks.” Another sound of distress. “Please. I’ve said enough. He knows what I’m going to do. I need your help. Police protection. If he finds out I calle
d you, he’ll kill me.”

  Kate’s mind was racing. “Are you talking about Jameson Rooks?”

  “Look, I’m at home. We can meet here.” She rattled off a prestigious Highland Park address. “Come alone. No cops. I’ll tell you everything, but I want immunity. I’m not going to fucking prison. I want to cut a deal.”

  “I can’t promise you a deal,” Kate said.

  “If you want to stop a mass murderer, you will.”

  The phone went dead.

  Kate stood there for several seconds, Ferguson’s voice echoing in her ears. If he finds out I’m calling you, he’ll kill me.

  “Who?” Kate whispered.

  The only answer was the scratching of the live oak branch against her bedroom window.

  “There’s a minor emergency down at the convalescent home I need to take care of.” Sleet pinged against the windshield of the police cruiser as Kate spoke to the officer stationed outside her house.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll follow you.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Be careful. The roads are getting nasty.”

  Her nerves were stretched taut as she got into her BMW and backed from the driveway. She couldn’t get Belinda Ferguson’s words out of her mind.

  If you want to stop a mass murderer, you will.

  Sleet mixed with freezing rain was coming down in earnest when she pulled into the front lot of the Turtle Creek Convalescent Home. She left the car, watching as the police car slid into a spot a few cars from hers. The temperature had plummeted, and she could see her breath as she took the steps to the door. The doors were locked at this hour, so she used her proximity card and the lock snicked open.

  The main hall was dimly lit and eerily quiet, the only sound coming from the television in the staff break room and the tinkle of sleet against the skylight.

  Kate had called the taxi before leaving her house and asked him to meet her on the street behind the convalescent home. Making as little noise as possible, she jogged down the hall and ducked into Kirsten’s room. The low hum of classical music floated from the radio. Kate walked to the bed and kissed her sister’s cheek. “Hi sweetie. I can’t stay, but I’ll see you tomorrow.” She crossed to the radio and changed the dial to a classic rock station, and left.

  The rear exit was locked, but Kate used the release button on the wall and let herself out. Across the street a yellow cab idled curbside. She crossed the street and slid into the backseat. “Take me to 569 Lakeside.”

  “You got it.”

  Highland Park was a coveted neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes, old money, and the bluest blood in the State of Texas. Belinda Ferguson lived in a gracious mansion on a quiet street just west of Lakeside Park. The neighborhood was quiet at this hour, the houses dark. The cabbie pulled up to the curb. Kate reached into her purse, ran her fingers along the cold steel of the mini-magnum as she withdrew money. She didn’t expect trouble, but life had taught her that trouble usually came when you weren’t expecting it.

  “Can you wait for me?” She handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “I won’t be long.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The house was an old Spanish-style with cream-colored stucco, mahogany shutters, and a red barrel-tile roof. The dual porch lights flickered merrily, and it looked as if at least one light was on inside.

  If he finds out I called you, he’ll kill me.

  The words rang ominously in Kate’s head as she took the sidewalk toward the house. Had Belinda Ferguson been referring to her partner, Jameson Rooks?

  Was it possible someone high on the corporate food chain had hired Bruton Ellis to gun down those two women so the corporation could collect the life insurance money? Had it happened in other convenience stores? In coffee shops? In pizza parlors across the United States?

  The questions taunted her as she crossed the porch and rang the bell. A minute ticked by. “Come on, damn it.” She tried the bell a second time, then left the porch. For an instant she stood on the sidewalk that dissected the front yard. The cab idled on the street a few yards away. Behind her, a narrow stone walkway curved around to the rear of the house.

  If he finds out I called you, he’ll kill me.

  For the first time it occurred to her that something might have happened to Belinda. The woman had sounded genuinely frightened when she’d called. Had someone hurt her in the minutes since she’d contacted Kate? Was Kate in danger, too?

  Logic told her to walk away and call the police. If Ferguson and Rooks were involved in some kind of insurance scheme, who knew how far they would go to protect themselves. But Kate wanted answers; Belinda Ferguson seemed willing to give her those answers. Kate knew how slick some corporate executives could be, how very slick lawyers could be. And she knew it was possible that if she let this opportunity slide by, someone could cover up their crimes.

  Mind made up, Kate slipped her cell phone from her belt and dialed Frank’s number from memory. His voice mail picked up on the first ring, telling her he was on his phone.

  “This is Kate,” she said. “Belinda Ferguson called and asked for a meet. She sounded scared. I’m at her place now. Frank, she claims to know something about the Bruton Ellis case. Says it’s part of an insurance scheme.” Kate wanted to say more but the words jammed in her throat had nothing to do with the case. “Call me,” she said and disconnected.

  Clipping the phone onto her belt, she took the stone path to the rear of the house. A cedar privacy fence surrounded the backyard. Kate tried the gate and was surprised to find it unlocked. The hinges squeaked like arthritic bones as she went through.

  The backyard was dark and so quiet she could hear sleet hissing through the trees. A pool replete with a waterfall and Jacuzzi shimmered in the spill of light from a gas lamp. Kate walked past artfully arranged patio furniture and crossed to the double French doors. She was about to tap on the glass when she noticed one of the doors standing ajar.

  She stared at the three-inch gap. The logical side of her brain told her this was not a good development; she knew better than to walk into a potentially dangerous situation alone. But the need to get to the bottom of a brutal and senseless double murder overrode the need for caution. Besides, Kate had covered her bases. She was armed. She’d let Frank know where she was and with whom she was meeting.

  “Megason, you are so not being smart about this,” she muttered.

  Pulling the mini-magnum from her bag, she slid it into the waistband of her jeans, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The interior of the house was lit only by the light slanting in through the French doors. The room was large and open. She could make out the dark shadows of furniture. She could feel her heart pounding too hard, too fast, as she crossed the room. “Hello? Belinda Ferguson? This is Kate Megason. Are you here?”

  The click of her heels against the tile seemed loud in the utter silence of the house. She entered a wide hall. At the end of the hall, light spilled through an open door. Beyond, she could see into a kitchen with granite counters and stainless-steel appliances.

  “Hello? Belinda? It’s Kate Megason.”

  Kate didn’t scare easily, but she could feel the hairs at her nape crawling. Sliding the mini-magnum from her waistband, she pulled back the hammer.

  “Belinda, I’m armed, so don’t do anything stupid.”

  Standing back and slightly to one side, she used the gun to push open the door. She caught a glimpse of bleached wood cabinets. Copper pots hanging from a rack above a butcher-block island.

  Shock struck her like a bullet when she spotted Belinda Ferguson sprawled on the floor. “Oh my God.”

  The pool of blood seemed to cover the entire floor, an ocean that was stark and red against gleaming white tile. Kate could smell it. The stench of death. She could feel the terror of it seeping into her blood. The hard rush of adrenaline as the flight instinct kicked in.

  “Oh, dear God. Oh, no.”

  It occurred to her that she was standin
g in the midst of a crime scene. That she was possibly destroying evidence that could impede the investigation. That she should get the hell out of there pronto. But for the span of several heartbeats Kate couldn’t move. Couldn’t take her eyes off the woman lying on the floor, her Neiman Marcus suit soaked with blood.

  Her hands trembled violently as she fumbled for her cell. She could hear the blood rushing through her veins like a freight train. Punching numbers, she backed from the room. A scream poured from her throat when the dark silhouette of a man rushed her from the shadows. The phone was knocked violently from her hand. She brought up the gun, swung it toward her attacker.

  Something slammed into her wrist. Pain zipped up her arm like a hot fuse. She heard a bone crack, and her hand went numb. She heard the gun clatter to the floor. Pain registered, tore a scream from her throat. She launched into a dead run toward the French doors. She’d throw herself through the glass if she had to. Kate had sworn a long time ago that she would never again be at anyone’s mercy.

  Two steps and the blow came out of nowhere. An electrical shock of pain at her right temple. The impact snapped her head to one side and sent her stumbling sideways. The second blow caught her squarely in the back. For an instant she thought her spine had shattered. Her legs went numb, tangled. The floor bucked beneath her feet. She reached out to break her fall.

  Then the floor slammed her into darkness.

  Awareness returned one sense at a time. Cold tile beneath her left cheek. The sound of sleet against glass. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth. The pain in her back throbbing with every wild beat of her heart. The knowledge that she’d made a very bad mistake. That she was probably going to pay for it with her life.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw light and movement and shadows. But her brain couldn’t seem to process any of those things into usable form.

  She was lying on her side. She could see the ceiling above her. The slow spin of a fan. Nausea churning in her gut. Her arm hurt . . .