“Grace told me Caroline planned on ending things with Hugh.”
“Did Grace know when Caroline was going to do it?” I asked.
“The night Caroline was murdered, she planned on asking Hugh to give back the house key and ending the relationship as soon as he arrived. She knew Hugh had a temper and wasn’t sure how he’d take the news, so she told Grace if she overheard them arguing not to worry and to just stay in bed.”
But Caroline had screamed, which made Grace too worried to stay in bed.
He stuck a hand inside his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and set them on the table next to me. “The yellow-ringed key is to my sister’s house at 111 Providence Road. The blue key will get you into the room in the office she works at on the corner of Lake and Sheridan. Detectives have been through both places and have removed anything they felt was relevant to the case, but I’d like you to poke around to see if there’s anything of interest they may have missed.”
“Have you gone through her house and her office already?”
He nodded. “I didn’t see anything of note. But I’ve been to both places many times in the past. Maybe it’s too familiar to me. You might be drawn to something I wouldn’t notice. When you came here before, searching for the murderer of your friend’s wife, you put things together in a way no one else did. I’m hoping you’ll do the same for me.”
I hoped so too.
“I’d also like to ask you for a favor,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I stopped by the house and brought over some of Grace’s clothes a couple of weeks ago, but a lot of her personal items are still in the house. Would you pack up what’s left inside her closet and bring it over? I’d ask my dad, but he hasn’t gone to Caroline’s place since she was murdered, and I’m not sure he can handle being there yet. I’d do it myself, but I figure since you’re going to be there ... well, it would really help me out.”
“It’s no problem, Senator Ashby. I’d be happy to help.”
“One more thing. Call me James, all right?”
I nodded.
He glanced at his watch, a Rolex, with a silver and gold band and a shiny blue dial that looked like it was about ten times out of my price range.
“I have to go.” He stood and walked to the door. “I’m heading home. Dad’s with Grace now, but she’ll be wondering why I’m not there yet. She’s easily worried these days. What happened to Caroline has her worried it could happen to any of us next. It doesn’t matter what I say or how much I comfort her. She doesn’t feel safe.”
The man pressed his binoculars against the glass and stared through them, watching the dark-haired woman in the hotel room across the street say something to Senator James Ashby before they said their goodbyes. If only he could have listened in on their conversation. Then maybe he’d have answers to some of his burning questions.
The man had been following the dark-haired woman since midday, from the time she’d arrived at the coroner’s office, a building he’d been monitoring here and there to see who’d come and gone after the murders took place. So far he’d learned little about the woman he’d been following other than one distinct detail: her nasal accent was annoying. She was Canadian or American, he guessed. Either way, she was a foreigner, and he’d never cared much for foreigners.
Earlier in the day when the man pretended to stretch his legs against a tree in the park, he’d caught bits and pieces of the foreigner’s conversation with Victoria Bennett. The foreigner had been asking questions—too many questions to pass for idol curiosity, and Victoria’s mouth ran like a faucet, giving the foreigner private information, things not yet revealed to the public.
Questions littered the man’s mind.
Why was the foreigner in Cairns?
Why was she asking so many questions?
Why had she visited the coroner?
And what had she been doing with Senator Ashby in her hotel room?
The man made a few minor tweaks and adjustments to the binoculars and then brought it back up to his eyes again. The foreigner had moved closer to the window, giving him a more candid look at her. She was a little taller than the average woman and slender, but not too slender. He could tell from the shirt she wore that she had noticeable curves, and a rather large bum, considering how slender she was. He guessed her age to be somewhere around forty, or a bit older, even. She was an appealing woman, despite sporting a sassy, short haircut, but he’d seen prettier in his own country. Since he found her hairstyle to be off-putting, he’d subtracted a few points from her overall score.
The man didn’t understand the fascination for women to work so hard to be so different nowadays. Short hair. Shaved, punk-rock styles. Hair dyed every color in the rainbow. It was artificial and unattractive. Gone were the days of natural beauties like Grace Kelly. Now there was a princess who knew how to behave.
The foreigner had been leaning against the chair in her hotel room for a few minutes now. Maybe she was just tired. She certainly looked tired, and like a dog that needed to be groomed. Another minute passed, and she crossed the room, pausing to look at the alarm clock on her nightstand, before reaching down and turning it so that it faced forward, fully aligned with the lamp adjacent to it.
She’s a perfectionist. Interesting.
Now here was a characteristic trait the man could get behind.
He was a bit obsessive-compulsive himself.
The foreigner walked to the window and drew the curtains closed, shutting the man out for the night and leaving him to ponder what to do if the suspicions he had about her proved to be correct. If he was right—and to his credit he usually was—getting rid of her seemed like an easy option and a simple solution to the problem. If he did go that route, it would have to be later. At the moment something far more important impregnated his mind, something he’d put off for too long.
A steadfast follower of boundaries and rules, the man always believed in giving credit where credit was due. But giving credit where it wasn’t due? Well, that just seemed wrong, and the time had come for him to make it right.
The man walked to the small, flimsy desk in the corner of the living room and sat down, pulling a pad of paper and pen out of the drawer. He clicked the pen and was just about to jot down the perfect message when he noticed the hotel’s name embossed at the center of the bottom of the page. He flipped through the rest of the tablet. Every page was the exact same, and that simply would not do. Riffling through the other drawers in the room, he came across a phone directory and opened it. The contents page at the beginning had just enough room on the right-hand side to suit his needs if he wrote small enough. With care, he tore the page out and began writing, pausing a moment when he felt a presence behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Oh, Petey. It’s you. I’m busy right now. We’ll talk later. Run along.”
Petey acknowledged the man with a nod and disappeared into the bedroom. The man felt a small amount of remorse for blowing Petey off like he had, but he didn’t want anyone spoiling his plans. Not when they were about to get so exciting.
The next morning I stepped out of the shower, pressed a towel to my wet hair, and hurried to the nightstand, trying to answer the call before it went to voice mail.
Out of breath, I managed to utter a simple, “Good morning, Senator.”
“James,” he corrected.
“James. Right.”
“How are you today?” he asked. “Feeling more rested than yesterday?”
“Much better today.”
“I received an unexpected call this morning from the police. There’s been a development in my sister’s case.”
“What kind of development?”
“It seems the killer may have reached out.”
“What do you mean? What’s happened?”
“This morning, the local paper received a handwritten note on a page that had been torn out of a telephone book.”
“What did it say?” I asked.
<
br /> “‘A fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’”
The quote was a familiar one.
“He’s quoting Shakespeare,” I said.
“So I’ve been told. What do you make of it?”
I ran the lines of the quote in my head a few times.
“My interpretation is that the wise man knows he still has a lot to learn, but the foolish man is hard-headed. He thinks he knows everything already and isn’t open to learning something new.”
“What do you think he means by that?”
I wasn’t sure.
“Was anything else written along with it?” I asked. “Did he include a signature?”
“Those were the only words written on the page.”
“Then why is the paper assuming it’s related to the killer?”
“The note was shoved into the crack of the door at the newspaper agency. Folded up along with it was a photo of Caroline and Hugh that the newspaper had published a day before.”
I’d read everything the paper had reported on during the flight overseas, which wasn’t much. It was more speculation than hard facts. They’d reported on the double homicide, the knife found at the scene, the neighbor who was with Grace when she called the police, and a bit of background information on Caroline and Hugh—the type of people they were and a few details of their life.
Assuming the mysterious note was from the man I was tracking, something the newspaper had reported on was either wrong or was a detail the killer didn’t like, and it had bothered him enough that he was compelled to have it corrected. The fact he’d reached out was good, and I hoped it would continue.
“Has anything been reported inaccurately to the paper that you know of?” I asked. “Or has anything been said on purpose to draw him out?”
“The paper has omitted a few details, at the request of police.”
His response was vague. It didn’t answer the question I’d asked. I tried again.
“But has the paper lied or misrepresented anything about the case? The killer took the time to write a note and deliver it, which means he’s willing to take a risk. It also means he cares about the media attention he’s receiving. I believe he wants to take credit for what he’s done, but not for what he hasn’t.”
He paused, then said, “There may have been one small thing. It wasn’t my doing. The chief superintendent made the decision. The latest news article said a neighbor might have seen the killer fleeing the crime. It isn’t true. It never happened.”
“Why would the police want to fabricate that?”
“To mess with the killer, to get him to do what he’s doing right now, reaching out. I wasn’t sure it was a great idea at first. But it worked.”
The killer’s ego had prompted him to reach out—he cared about which information was fact and which was fiction. It was the start of a profile I could build on. Now all I needed to do was fill in the gaps.
No matter how many crime scenes I had witnessed in my career, seeing them had never become easier. Standing at the very place a person took their last breath was hard, and though bringing justice to those who no longer had a voice was satisfying, seeing the spot a person’s life had been snuffed out was one part of my job I could live without.
I was standing in Caroline’s living room, glancing at a wall full of photographic memories that gave the impression of a person who had lived a boisterous, full life. Only now, aside from the faint hum of the refrigerator, the rooms were quiet, the radio switched off, the photos left to grow old, gathering dust and living a life Caroline wouldn’t. Standing there, absorbing the stale stillness, I understood why James kept Grace away. A place once warm and bright felt cold and indifferent now. There was nothing for her here, nothing for her to come back to, not anymore.
I packed up Grace’s closet and hauled the boxes to the car he had loaned me to drive during my time in the city. It was a black BMW 8 Series coupe that handled so well, I was thinking of switching out my ride when I got back home.
If there was an obvious clue to be found in Caroline’s house, I wasn’t finding it. Most of the items that remained served a functional purpose in one way or another. Caroline’s minimalist decor made her place easy to search but provided no clues or leads relating to the cause of her murder. Discouraged, I ended my search in Caroline’s bedroom. The white furnishings were feminine and elegant, just like she had been in the photos I’d seen—a tall woman with long, auburn hair and big, bright eyes, who looked much younger than her actual age.
I browsed the dresser drawers and then picked apart her closet, striking out yet again. A large, dark-blue rug on the floor caught my eye. It was crooked and out of place, and the only disjointed item in the room. I peeled back the corner, finding what I knew I would beneath—dried bloodstains—making me wonder if James had repositioned the rug to mask the horrific events that had occurred such a short time ago.
At the far corner of the room was a mirrored jewelry cabinet. I walked over and opened it, staring at the delicate pieces of thin, gold jewelry hanging on the top two shelves. At the bottom of the cabinet were two drawers. I slid the top one open. It contained a variety of rings. A few bracelets occupied the second drawer, but it was what I found below the bracelets that interested me. A pamphlet had been folded a couple of times until it was reduced to the size of a small notepad. It had then been placed beneath the bracelets. I pulled it out and opened it, staring at a black-and-white photo of a man on the front. His name was Evan Hall, and he looked to be in his late thirties. The pamphlet was his obituary.
Evan had passed away a few months earlier, although the cause of death was not explained. Caroline was listed on the inside as one of the speakers at his funeral. I refolded the pamphlet and stuck it inside my purse. As I was shutting the cabinet door, I caught a glimpse of movement outside. I jerked my head toward the bedroom window, canvassing the area beyond the pool.
Could the palm trees swaying in the tropical breeze have been what I thought I’d seen? Or had it been something different?
Downstairs, the front door creaked open, a door I had firmly closed upon entry. I was no longer alone. Someone was there with me. On instinct, I reached inside my bag and then I remembered I wasn’t at home. I was in Australia. I had no gun and no weapon. I scanned the room, looking for anything I could use to defend myself, but there wasn’t time. The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs and shuffling down the hall toward me meant one thing—in a few seconds, I’d be out of time.
I hid behind the bedroom door and grabbed my cell phone out of my pocket. Hands trembling, I managed to send a short text to James: Someone in sister’s house. Help. Through the crack in the bedroom door, I could see a figure turn to enter the room, but it had moved too fast for me to ascertain whether I was dealing with a man or a woman. I waited until the person had fully walked into the room, and then I sprung out from behind the door, wrapping my arm around the intruder’s neck and pulling back, a move I’d learned years earlier in jiu-jitsu. I tightened my grip, intending to render the assailant unconscious, but then my eyes came to rest on the head attached to the neck I was squeezing, and I flicked my hands back and let go.
The head of hair was thin and curly and gray.
And I was an imbecile.
The elderly woman pressed her hands to her throat and bent down, gagging.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Are you okay? Can I get you something ... water ... or—”
She whipped around, stabbing a finger into my chest. “What in the living hell is wrong with you? You just about killed me, you stupid, stupid woman!”
“I thought you were a—”
“Oh, no, you didn’t. You didn’t think at all.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Adelaide Wiggins. I live across the street. Who are you?”
“My name is Sloane Monroe. James sent me here to pick up some of Grace’s clothes.”
“Is that so? What are you doing snooping arou
nd Caroline’s bedroom, then? Grace’s clothes are in Grace’s room, not in here.”
My phone vibrated. Adelaide stared at the name of the caller on the screen, ripped the phone from my hands, and answered it.
“James, it’s Adelaide. Do you know a headstrong, silly bird named Sloane? Did you send her here? She says you sent her here. Is that true? Because if it isn’t, I’m in danger, and I’ll need you to hang up and call the police.”
The woman had a flare for the dramatic and an even bigger need for attention, it seemed. James confirmed we knew each other and asked her to put me on the phone.
Through a hissed, frustrated breath, she said, “Fine, but if I have any injuries, one of you is getting a bill.”
She shoved the phone into my hand and sat on Caroline’s bed, hissing her disdain for me and crossing her arms in front of her.
I pressed the phone to my ear. “Sorry for the false alarm. I heard someone in the house and thought it was an intruder.”
“No worries,” he said. “You did what you should have done. Adelaide can be a lot to deal with sometimes. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m just a little shaken up. Let me speak to Adelaide for a minute, and I’ll call you back when I leave here.”
I ended the call and turned toward her. “Before you entered the house, were you standing by the hedges in the back yard, watching me through the bedroom window?”
She narrowed her eyes, looking at me as though I was heavily medicated.
“Why would I be spying on you through windows in the back garden?” she said. “I came through the front door, just like I always do.”
“You could have knocked.”
“Whatever for? I never had to knock when Caroline was alive. Why should I start now?”
I couldn’t stop thinking about what I might have seen outside.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I said. “I need to check on something.”
I brushed past her, opening the door leading from Caroline’s room to the back yard.
“Well now, just wait a minute,” she called after me. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Smoke and Mirrors (Sloane Monroe Book 8) Page 4
