"He's not our guy," Dutch said, taking a sip of Coke. I nibbled on a fry, watching the pair work things through.
"And Abby's handyman's in the clear, too. He was at the doctor's office getting a cortisone injection Saturday morning that left him completely unable to use his arm for the next couple of days."
"Hard to strangle someone with only one hand," Dutch said.
I bit back my "told you so" and let the two continue to talk uninterrupted.
"Since I was two for two I decided to look into Allison's phone records," Milo said. "We found lots of calls to Ohio in the weeks before her death. I haven't run all of them down yet, but there's an interesting one to Toledo she made the night before she died. She placed a call to a residence that lasted forty-five minutes, and then immediately after that she called Marco."
"Coincidence, Mr. Watson?" Dutch asked, holding one finger up comically.
"I think not," Milo replied in a very poor English accent.
"Who's the forty-five-minute call to?" I asked, feeling like we were finally headed in the right direction.
"The number is registered to a Karen Milford. I ran a quick background on her and other than the occasional traffic ticket, she's got no criminal record to speak of. Her husband's a different story, though. He's serving three years at the State Pen on a drug conviction. Now, there is one particular detail I thought you'd be mighty interested in," he said, looking directly at me.
"What?" I asked.
"The name of Karen's subdivision is 'Sherwood Forest' and she lives on 'Little John Lane.' "
Dutch's jaw dropped and he whispered, "Robin Hood and his band of merry men."
"Yup," Milo said. It was obvious that Dutch had brought him up to speed on the clues I'd picked up at Allison's house.
I smiled in spite of myself. Even though the topic was rather morbid, I finally felt like I was contributing.
"I called Karen at home but didn't get an answer, so I tried the place where she works. Her manager hasn't seen her in two weeks. In fact, the last time he saw her was the day before Allison was killed. She works as a telemarketer, and her manager said it's not unusual to have their employees just up and leave without notice. What is odd, however, is that she hasn't picked up her last paycheck yet."
Dutch looked quizzically at me and asked, "Abby, let me ask you this: Is your spidey sense sure Allison was killed by a man? Your other clues were that 'he' was short, wore oversized clothing, and had dark hair. What if Allison was killed by a butch-looking female?"
I had to think about that for a minute. The way I differentiated between the sexes was by sensing the intensity of the energy that made up the individual I was speaking about. "Male" energy felt more dominant than "female" energy. But there had been instances when I'd gotten them confused. A very dominant female might come across as a male, and vice versa. I looked at the detectives and said, "I'd be lying if I said I'd never mixed them up before. It's absolutely possible, but this energy felt really dominant, and so I assumed it was male."
Turning back to Milo, Dutch said, "Looks like we're taking a road trip."
"You read my mind," Milo said, crumpling the wrapper from his chili dog.
Dutch looked at me and said, "Abby, are you going to be okay here by yourself?"
My eyes widened. "Why can't I come with you?"
Dutch and Milo exchanged glances, "I know you want to contribute," Dutch said patiently, "and you've already been a big help to us. However this is still a police investigation, and I'd get my ass chewed if my captain knew I was dragging you across state lines."
I scowled and crossed my arms.
"Listen, we'll only be gone for a couple of hours," he continued. "We're just going down for a little look-see. I seriously doubt we're going to find a smoking gun. We'll fill you in when we get back. Okay?"
"Whatever," I said as I got up and dumped the trash from my lunch into the garbage. Dutch came over to me after a minute, and gave me his business card. "Listen," he said, "my cell phone number's on the front right here. If anything weird happens, or if you find something in those journals that's interesting, call me. You should be safe here, but just in case anything out of the ordinary happens and you can't reach me, call the number I wrote on the back and talk to Detective Anderson."
I sighed, still annoyed, and took the card, turning away from him and nearly stomping to the couch. I picked up Alyssa's journals and pretended to become immediately immersed. A minute or two later the pair filed past me. "We'll be back around seven," Dutch said, ruffling my hair again.
"Mmmph," I replied.
"I'll take you out to dinner when we get home, okay?"
"Mmmph." I said again.
"Bye, Abby," Milo tried.
"Mmmph," I said and waved good-bye without looking up.
The moment the door closed, I set the journal down, and stood up, peeking through the sheer window curtain as the two pulled away in Milo's car. "Jerk," I said. I paced the floor moodily and then plopped back onto the couch. I stared blankly at Dutch's living room wall, my brow furrowed and my attitude pissy. Deep down I knew Dutch and Milo were right. They couldn't very well traipse across state lines with Jane Citizen in tow, but it still stunk that we were so close to catching the killer and I was left behind.
Catching movement out of the corner of my eye I turned my attention from the wall to Dutch's silky cat, who had decided to grace me with his presence. Softening, I patted the couch next to me and in a moment Virgil joined me, deciding my lap was prime napping country. I stroked his soft fur and calmed down a little, lulled by his purring. In a little while, my eyes became droopy as the warmth of the room, the softness of the couch and the lullaby of Virgil's purr coaxed me into a nap. I pulled the afghan around me and curled myself around the cat, drifting off into a light sleep.
Not long after I had dozed off something woke me and I sat bolt upright, sending the cat hurtling off the sofa and running to the recesses of the house. My heart was thundering in my chest as I heard someone outside, fumbling with the door lock. I stood up and grabbed the afghan, holding it up as if I were naked and trying to shield myself. I looked to my right and left, wondering what to do. Should I hold still? Should I run out the back? I looked for a phone and remembered there was one upstairs in Dutch's room. I bolted up the stairs and had just reached the landing when I heard the lock on the front door give and the door open with a creak. Someone stepped into the foyer and I stared over the railing, trembling in fear. Something told me that neither Dutch nor Milo had entered the house. As I waited, a tall figure with platinum-blond hair moved into my view. The head turned, looking around the room, and finally called out, "Dutch? Sweetie? I'm home." I stood rooted to the spot as the woman's words tumbled over me like an icy rain. She must have felt my eyes because she looked up abruptly and jumped a little when she saw me staring at her. Recovering her composure she said, "Where is Dutch?"
Her voice was rich and smoky, laced with a thick European accent I couldn't quite place. I took in her features: She was tall with long legs and a shapely figure. Her eyes were large and brilliant blue, her lips full and rich. She had a heart-shaped face with high, elegant cheekbones and a small, pinched nose. Her hair was cut short to accentuate her face, and the effect was stunning. She reeked of sexuality, and I became immediately self-conscious. "Hello?" she said, waving her hand at me, pulling me out of my stupor.
"Who are you?" I demanded. I might be outgunned, but that didn't mean I wasn't going to put up a fight.
She crossed her arms at my tone, one finely arched eyebrow snaking upward slightly, as if to say, "Who are you to question me?" After a brief pause she answered silkily, "Why, I'm Mrs. Rivers, and I'd like to know where my husband is."
Game, set, match to Mrs. Rivers. Time for Elvis to leave the building.
"He's in Toledo. He'll be back by seven. I was just leaving." I turned and walked down the hallway into the spare bedroom, where I quickly tucked what few belongings I'd unpacked back into my su
itcase. I hauled this down the stairs, letting the bump, bump, bump of the suitcase announce my descent. Mrs. Rivers sat perched on the couch I'd just been sleeping on, thumbing through a magazine and ignoring me. For some reason this pissed me off, so I made a lot of noise as I gathered my purse and Alyssa's journals, tucking them safely into my purse. I headed into the kitchen, not really sure where I was going, but I didn't want to do my thinking in the living room where Blondie was looking her perfect, perky self.
I scanned the countertop, not really sure what I was looking for, and spied Dutch's car keys. "Screw him," I mumbled and took the keys, grabbed my belongings and headed out the back door through the garage. Outside in the driveway, I noticed that the heavy clouds that had threatened rain all day were finally releasing their moisture. Great. The Universe thought it appropriate to piss on my parade.
I loaded the suitcase into Dutch's car, noticing his lovely wife had parked her rental next to his—how romantic. I got in, turned the key and was backing out just as the door to Dutch's house opened and Blondie looked out. She raised a hand as if to stop me, and I smiled as I pulled into the street, waved to her, then squealed away down the block.
I didn't drive very far before common sense caught up with me. Mrs. Rivers was probably at this very moment calling in her husband's stolen vehicle. I headed out to Woodward and took a right into Burger King, parking the car toward the back of the building. I had to dump the car.
I took out my cell phone and tried to turn it on, but nothing happened. "Shit!" I said aloud. I hadn't had a chance to recharge it since getting back from Boston. I looked around the Burger King but didn't see a pay phone. I looked right, then left. There was a gas station across the street with a sign that said pay phone. Perfect.
I got out and, dodging traffic I ran across the four-lane avenue to the gas station. The attendant sitting behind bulletproof Plexiglas let me borrow his phone book, and I began scanning the pages. I found a cab company that could have a cab to my location within an hour, and not wanting to push my luck, I agreed. Then I flipped the pages of the phone book to the area hotel section, and found a place about two blocks from my office. Perfect.
I couldn't go home—that would be the first place Dutch would look for me, and I was positive he'd come looking. Also, it would probably put me in the position of sitting duck for the psychopath who wanted to kill me and I was convinced was still out there. I considered going back to Boston, but I had clients to read, and mortgage payments to make. I had to work.
My head began to pound, so I rubbed my temples and decided to quit thinking about all of it. I played dodgeball with traffic again and made it safely back to Burger King. I had some time to kill and I was in dire need of some comfort food, so I went in and ordered a Coke and fries. Then I sat in a booth and looked dully out the window as I ate.
As I stared out the window the rain clouds grew thicker and more menacing, and within a short period of time the drizzle turned into a torrent. Lighting and thunder flashed across the sky in dramatic brilliance creating an orchestra of light and sound. I sighed heavily. The tempest outside mirrored the one raging in my head. I didn't know whether I was angrier at myself or Dutch. The truth was that I was extremely attracted to the guy, and I still fostered the occasional fantasy about our on-again off-again romance turning its way back to on. But all that was a moot point now. He'd lied to me. He was married. To a beautiful, exotic goddess. How the hell could I compete with that? I couldn't and I didn't even want to bother trying. I was angry for not picking up on it. My intuition should have mentioned this little fact, and it rattled my cage that I hadn't had a clue.
Finally my cab pulled up, windshield wipers flying. I ran out and pulled my stuff from Dutch's car. I threw his keys under the mat in the front seat, and shut the door. If the car ended up stolen, I figured it would only serve him right. I loaded everything into the cab, then quickly jumped into it myself but not before I was completely soaked. Realizing how soaked I was I quickly checked my purse to see if Allison's journals were still dry. They were. Luckily, on the floor of the cab was an empty plastic bag. I grabbed this and put the journals in the bag, then stuffed them with some difficulty back into my purse for safekeeping.
I had the cabbie drop me at the bus station. Once there I pulled my luggage through the double doors and over to a row of pay phones. I rummaged around in my purse, withdrew Dutch's card and, flipping it over, dialed the number on the back and waited. On the third ring, a man with a voice that sounded like gravel on an iron grate barked, "Anderson."
"Hi, this is Abigail Cooper, and I have a message for Detective Rivers."
"Go ahead," he said, no note of surprise in his gruff voice.
"Please tell him he can pick up his car at the Burger King on Twelve Mile. Thank you," I said and hung up the phone. I knew that the caller ID on Anderson's phone would indicate I'd called from the bus terminal, and I liked the idea of throwing Dutch off my trail. I was pretty certain he would think, for a while at least, that Greyhound had taken me to places unknown. Thankfully, the bus station was only three blocks from the hotel I'd chosen, although I knew I'd still get drenched.
I wheeled my luggage behind me and headed back outside. The rain hadn't let up, and I hurried as fast as I could to the hotel. By the time I got there I was nearly drowned.
The clerk looked at me slightly askance when I checked in, paying in cash and registering under my sister's name, but other than offering me a towel he made no comment about my state of disarray. As soon as I got to my room, I unzipped my suitcase and began pulling out my clothes. Everything that had been on top was soaked, but in the middle there was a pair of dry, albeit slightly worn, jeans and a cotton shirt.
I was freezing by that time, so I took a long hot shower and tried not to cry while I soaped myself down. It was a struggle.
However, while I was in the shower I came up with a game plan: Tomorrow morning I'd go to my office early, get my appointment book and my recording equipment. I had a small device I used when I did readings over the phone that recorded the reading. Thanks to my sister I'd added a considerable number of clients to my list from Boston so the device definitely came in handy.
Once I had the recorder, I could come back to the hotel and do the readings from the safety and privacy of my hotel room. I could order room service so I wouldn't even have to go out. All I had to do was make it to Monday when I didn't have any clients. Then I could fly back to Boston and do my readings from my sister's house. I figured four days stuck in a hotel room wasn't so bad.
Later, after I'd dried my hair and crawled into my nightshirt, I climbed up onto the bed and puffed up the pillows. I thought about turning on the TV, but I wasn't really into reruns. I looked around and spied my purse, with Alyssa's journals sticking out. I reached over and looked down at the worn leather-bound books. "Eenie, meenie, minie, mo," I said as I balanced each book in my hand, shifting them like a scale.
My attention kept going to the more recent of the two, the one Alyssa had written eight years previously. I put the first one down, opened the second and quickly became engrossed in the life of Alyssa Pierce at seventeen. I smiled as I remembered being that age myself, and how things were always bigger and more important in adolescence.
The journal itself was rather innocuous, filled with stories about parties she'd gone to, her boyfriend, volleyball tournaments and final exams. On one page she'd doodled little hearts inserting things like, "Frank and Alyssa forever" and "Mr. and Mrs. Milford" into the center.
I smiled, remembering a boy I'd been that gaga over when I was her age. That, however, made me think about how I'd been gaga over Dutch, and I sighed again. Shaking my head and refusing to give in to my moody thoughts, I went back to reading the journal. My intuition kept buzzing in my mind and I knew I was missing something here. I closed my eyes and focused, and the words "Mr. and Mrs." kept swimming around in my mind. My eyes popped open and I quickly reached for my purse and pulled out the mind-map of Alyssa's mu
rder that I'd drawn on the plane. My eyes darted across the page until I found the branch I was looking for, "Heart Husband." My heart began to race as the dominoes fell into place and I put the picture together. Alyssa had probably been married before and her ex-husband must be the man who had stalked her. I looked back at the name encircled in the hearts—"Frank Milford,"—and I knew I'd heard that last name before.
I thought for a moment, tapping my finger anxiously on my lower lip. Then I had it—Karen Milford was the name of the woman Allison had called the night before her death. The same woman Dutch and Milo were currently on their way to Ohio to talk to. There had to be a connection; Karen was either a close relation or Frank's current wife. I thought hard again remembering that Milo had said that Karen's husband was in jail. That meant that she must be the sister— but wouldn't she have a different last name?
My brow furrowed, and I shook my head to clear it. I didn't know yet how Karen figured into this, but if I was right, and Alyssa was married to Frank Milford before, that could be why she and her sister had fled Ohio without leaving an obvious trail. Frank must have found her somehow, all these years later, and staged her suicide by leaving at the scene the Dear John letter she'd written him when she left him. It also explained the shredded wedding dress. Frank would have been furious that Alyssa was about to marry someone else, and after shooting her, he would have taken his rage out on her dress.
When Allison put it all together she must have contacted him, setting him off on his bloody rampage. I thought back to the reading I'd given Allison. I'd told her that there was a brother figure who was responsible for the loss of her sister and now I was sure Frank was the "brother from Ohio" that I'd picked up on. A brother and a brother-in-law are indistinguishable to my intuition. They have the same psychic connection for me. It all made perfect sense. Excited by my conclusions, I got up to pace the floor.
The question that remained was what should I do about it? I could call Dutch, but I didn't want to talk to him. I eyed the phone guardedly. I could call Detective Anderson again and leave a message with him. I paced the floor again, thinking. If I called Anderson now, he would know that I was calling from a nice quiet hotel room instead of a noisy Greyhound.
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Page 23
