Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1

by Maggie Shayne

  “Hey, Patty. Hang on.” He covered the phone with one hand, looked over at Rosie and said, “Personal.”

  Rosie nodded and headed for the coffeepot.

  Mason returned to the call. “Okay, I’m here. I have a question, Patty. It’s vital, and I swear to you now, your answer will go no further.”

  She sighed, and he wondered if she was disappointed at the reason for his call. “I’ll tell you if I can.”

  “You know about the recent suicide of Terrence Cobb, the man we think was the serial killer, the Wraith?”

  She hesitated. Then, “Yeah?”

  “He’d had a bone graft of donor material. I need to know if my brother was his donor.”

  “Mason, you know I can’t tell you something like—”

  “But you could save lives by telling me, Patty. And that’s what you do, right? Save lives?”

  There was a long pause. Finally she said, “I could lose my job if I told you that Eric was his donor. So I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you that he was.”

  “He was.” Mason repeated it.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Part of him had known all along that it had to be true. The gears in his mind started turning, trying fit the cogs together into a machine that actually worked. One of Eric’s recipients committed a murder just like Eric’s murders. Another got his corneas and started having visions of the victims. Maybe it was time to start believing in that shrink’s crazy theory after all.

  “Thank you, Patty. I hate to ask, but do you think you might be able to find out something else for me?”

  “Depends what it is,” she said, her wariness evident. “I’m not losing my job for you.”

  “I need to know where all my brother’s organs went.”

  “I couldn’t get that information for you if I tried.”

  “But you know who could.”

  “And I’m not telling you.”

  He sighed, but he wasn’t about to give up. “You’re right, and I don’t want you risking your career. You’ve put yourself on the line for me already, and I appreciate that.” Okay, he thought. Here goes. “I really appreciate you getting back to me. How about if I take you out sometime to say thanks?”

  Her reply was immediate. “How about tomorrow? It’s Saturday, and I’m off.”

  “I’m moving tomorrow.” He’d put it off long enough. The motel was eating into his savings, and he had a perfectly good fixer-upper ready and waiting. “And I’m going to have my nephews that night, but I’ll tell you what, how about breakfast Sunday morning?”

  “All right. Sunday breakfast, then.” She sounded disappointed. “Where do you want to meet?”

  He needed her alone, so he could talk his way into finding out where to get those medical records. “How about you drive out to my new place and I’ll cook for you? I’ll give you the address.”

  He rattled it off, but he wasn’t thinking about Patty anymore.

  He was thinking about whether one of those organ recipients had known about Eric’s secret life as a serial killer and had decided to carry on in his memory. Some warped sense of gratitude or some delusion of being possessed or some other fucking mental contortion. The why didn’t matter. The fact that Recipient One had framed Recipient Two for the most recent killing—brilliantly framed him, and probably hanged him, too—meant that he might be doing the same with Rachel. Trying to set her up.

  By planting dreams in her head? That’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it? What about Dr. Vosberg’s theory? That the killing gene is being transplanted with the organs? Can you really explain all of this in any other way?

  He shook his head until his inner voice went silent, because the good doctor’s explanation, the one the UFO freaks and ghost hunters of the world would jump on, was even more ludicrous than his own theory.

  And no matter who was right, Rachel might be at risk.

  So he needed to figure out who else had received organs and rule them out as suspects one by one. And he had to keep Rachel safe in the meantime.

  He had to keep her in the dark, as well. He couldn’t tell her what he thought. Not until he knew for sure. She was already scared shitless, and she probably would jump straight to some freaking paranormal explanation. Besides, he couldn’t tell her without also telling her that his brother had been the original Wraith. That she had the eyes of a killer in her head. Her own brother’s killer.

  God, she was going to hate him if that ever came out.

  So he couldn’t tell her. But he couldn’t let her far from his sight either, just in case. If nothing more, she would have an alibi. That was the best he could do for her right now.

  * * *

  The twins had a soccer game Friday afternoon, and it was cold as hell. Wind blowing, sky gray, air damp so that it chilled straight through to the bone. I had every right to be miserable.

  And I was, at the beginning. Muttering about the cold while my sister handed me a mug of hot cocoa from her Thermos. But once the game started I forgot to be miserable. I was on my feet so much my ass barely touched the frigid bleacher seats, no doubt deliberately designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. I was sitting on the bottom row, because I’d brought Myrtle, along with a blanket for her to lie on. She was wearing a pink fleecy sweater. I’d had to buy an XL. Whoever invented dog sizes oughtta maybe try owning one first, I swear. She’s a foot tall. Yes, two feet in diameter, but still, if that’s an XL dog, then what the hell is a St. Bernard?

  She was lying on the blanket snoring, not the least bit into the game she couldn’t see. But every time I jumped up and yelled for the girls, she would lift her head and look my way. It was cruel, what she was missing.

  It had been cruel that I’d been missing it for so long, too.

  “I wonder if they do cornea transplants for dogs?”

  Sandra reached down to pet her head. “I never thought I’d see you go soft for an animal, Rache. Myrtle has you wrapped around her forepaw.”

  “She does not.”

  “No? She owns more outfits than you do.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t do the frou-frou shit, you know that. I’m getting my inner girlie-girl off vicariously.”

  “Oh, so that’s all it is.”

  “Yeah, that’s all it—holy shit, Christy’s gonna score. Go! Go, Christy!”

  She had a shot but passed the ball instead. The red-headed Amazon she’d passed to flubbed the kick, and the goalie was on it like white on rice. I sat down, deflated. “Damn.”

  “Easy, Rachel. It’s just a game.”

  “Bullshit. It’s self-esteem, is what it is. I need to have a serious talk with that girl.”

  Misty and Christy were nearly identical on the field, but Misty played fullback and Christy was front line. They both wore black spandex leggings under their black-and-gold uniform shorts, and long-sleeved spandex turtlenecks under their jerseys to keep warm. On top of the leggings, white soccer socks and shin-guards. Hot-pink cleats. High blond ponytails, and smudges of black under their eyes.

  Mercenary-Barbie, your favorite doll goes rogue.

  The thought amused me so much I laughed a little bit.

  “It’s good to see you smile.”

  I shot Sandra a look. “What do you mean? I always smile.”

  “Not lately. Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”

  “About what?” The other team was speeding toward our goal, and I jumped up again. “Boot it, Misty! Get it out of there!”

  Misty complied. The black-and-white ball sailed a hell of a lot farther than I ever could have sent it and was promptly claimed by one of her teammates. I sat down again.

  “You’ve been looking rough, honey,” my sister said. “You have dark circles under your eye
s.”

  “They’re just tired from all this seeing. They’re not used to it, you know.”

  “Amy says you’re short-tempered.”

  “More than usual?” I asked with an innocent blink.

  Coach called a time-out. The girls came jogging to the sidelines, gathering around their bench for a thirty-second conference.

  Sandra was still going on. “She said you fell asleep at the computer yesterday. Is something—”

  “Be right back.” I handed her Myrt’s leash—you know, just in case my comatose dog decided to get up and go for a romp—and marched to the huddled mass of sophomores, yearning to breathe free. I put a hand on Christy’s shoulder and, leaning in close enough to speak for her ears only, said, “Next time you have a shot, you damn well take it, sweetheart. Fifty bucks in it for you, hit or miss.”

  The coach sent me a scowl, but I didn’t care. I was back at the bleachers seconds later, looking at the scoreboard and wondering how long five more minutes was in soccer time.

  “Amy says you’ve been seeing quite a bit of that cop.”

  “Amy’s got a whole lot to say about my personal life, doesn’t she?”

  “She loves you, and you know it.”

  “She’s gonna love herself right out of a job if she’s not careful. Did she mention I’ve been on three dates with David Heart from the support group?”

  “No. She must not think you’re serious. I agree with her, considering you’re still not using his actual last name.”

  “I keep forgetting his actual last name.”

  “So you’re not serious.”

  “He tried to stick his tongue down my throat after dinner the other night. How’s that for serious?”

  “You sound more grossed out than turned on.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I was. I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

  “And what about Detective Brown?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, big sister, I’ve seen Detective Brown a few times—because I want him to find our brother so we can bury him.”

  She lowered her head. “We don’t know for sure that he’s—”

  “Yes, we do, Sandy. I’m really sorry, but we do. His wallet was left behind, just like all the others. I told you that.” I also told her that Mason believed Terry Skullbones had been a copycat. A one-time killer. That scared the hell out of her, too.

  She blinked as the whistle blew and the girls ran back out onto the field. “Is your detective getting any closer to finding the…to finding who did it?”

  “No. Not yet.” I ignored the fact that she’d called him my detective, bit my lip and decided I was going to have to tell her about Mott. She’d hear about it sooner or later anyway. “Sis, last night Mott went missing.”

  Her head came up fast, eyes round as platters. “What? Oh my God, was it the same…?”

  “Yeah, it looks like the same guy.”

  She muttered something under her breath. I heard cuss words in there, and my sister never cussed. The girls were playing again, but Sandra was staring at me. “Rachel, that’s two victims who are close to you. It’s beginning to look personal. Have you thought about that?”

  How could I not think about that? It was personal. But I couldn’t tell Sandra that or she would have me on the first flight to Timbuktu. Thank God the action on the field picked up just then, giving me an out.

  “Hey, look at your daughter, sis.”

  Christy was dribbling for the goal, when she hesitated and faked a shot, swinging her foot past the ball so the goalkeeper dived in the wrong direction. Instantly my brilliant niece turned and took a real shot. The ruse worked, and the ball sailed straight into the net.

  I rose to my feet and pumped my fist. “Yes!”

  The buzzer sounded, and the girls formed a screaming, squealing happy huddle in the middle of the field. I knew they would be busy for ten more minutes with the obligatory “good game, good game, good game” high fives with the other team, then picking up their equipment, and after that Sandra would still have to wait to sign the coach’s clipboard so she could reclaim the girls and drive them home. This wasn’t my first soccer game. Just the first one I’d been able to see. And I was damn near giddy about that.

  I got up and coaxed Myrt to her feet, as well. “I’m gonna put Myrtle in the car and turn on the heat. She’s about frozen.”

  “She’s warmer than any of us.”

  “I’ll meet you by the van to say bye to the girls.”

  She sighed. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’m all right.” I am so far from all right it’s not even funny, but I need to go home so I can sleep and dream of Mott and maybe find out where he is, because it’s the only thing I can think of to do. “Meet you at the minivan.”

  “What are you doing this weekend, sis?”

  “Helping a friend move,” I said. I’d been shocked as hell when Mason invited me along to meet his nephews and see his new place, and I hadn’t actually given him an answer, only said I’d call him and get the address if I could make it. And I’d only just now decided I would go. I assumed he had motives that had nothing to do with anything personal and everything to do with the case. He wanted to keep me close. I just wasn’t sure if it was because he thought I might be in danger or because he thought I might lead him to the serial killer. I was at least pretty sure he didn’t think I was the serial killer. Either way, it was cool with me. I wanted to keep him close, too, so I could learn everything he knew, one way or another.

  * * *

  When I arrived home, I put the car into the garage. I didn’t always, especially if I was in a big fat hairy hurry, as I was then. It was just starting to get dark. The soccer game had run into the dinner hour, so I’d joined Sandra and the twins for a celebratory fast-food fest at the combination McDonald’s, Mobil station and convenience store, making sure to display suitable excitement over Christy’s goal. Okay, so that hadn’t really been a challenge. I’d handed over the fifty I’d promised her, and given another one to Misty to keep things fair. By then it was pushing seven. Another few minutes home, but only because I drove really slowly over my rutted dirt road, then through the gate—which I closed for once—and into my driveway. After I put the car in the garage, I closed the door and locked it, too. Myrt and I went in through the door that led from the garage into the kitchen, and I locked that for good measure. And I set my alarm system for once, so that it would start chirping if the door was opened without the code being entered first. I did not want to be driving around in my sleep again. That was freaky. I could have killed someone. I wished there was a lock on my driveway gate. I’d never thought it necessary, but now it was on the top of my to-do list.

  At least with the alarm on the door, the chirping would wake me if I tried that little trick again. I hoped. God knew I didn’t use the security system often enough to be able to enter the pass code in my sleep.

  Myrt danced around my feet once we were inside. That was as active as she ever got, to be honest. She’d been quite content to snooze on the passenger seat until after my McMeal with the fam, but when I came back out to the car, she was done with that. Her interest became focused on sniffing the red-and-white bag I’d brought with me, knowing it contained a cheeseburger just for her. I know, she was already chubby, bordering on fat, but we hardly ever had junk food, and everybody needs to indulge now and then, right?

  I opened the bag as soon as we were inside the kitchen, broke the burger into pieces and fed one to her. She ate it with the same relish I eat chocolate.

  I couldn’t wait to get to sleep, thinking maybe I’d dream about Mott and figure out where he was or who had him. Part of me was scared, too, because I didn’t want to see him die. I couldn’t stand that.

  As it turned out, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t t
hink I would ever sleep again. My fear apparently outweighed my worry about my friend. I thought about taking a pill, but I needed to be able to wake up fast if I got a clue where Mott was. I turned off all the lights except for the bathroom one and lay there staring at the ceiling for several hours. Eventually I turned on the TV and propped myself up on pillows to try to manually put myself into a coma by watching one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. The same six or so stories, over and over and over, word for freakin’ word. By the third cycle, my eyeballs were drooping.

  A car door slammed, and they popped open. Was it a real sound, or had I dreamed it?

  Seconds passed, then there was some kind of a thud from downstairs. Myrtle sprang up onto all fours—no shit, she sprang—and let out a low growl, while I sat up in bed, frowning. The TV was still on. I found the remote and hit the mute button. Tires spun as whoever had been down there sped away.

  I had this weird moment of wondering if I was in a dream or actually awake, and then decided the only way to find out was to head downstairs and check for myself. The night-light was on. I turned on the big lamp beside the bed, got up and pulled on the bathrobe hanging from the bedpost. It was the ugly green one. It was fluffy and plush, mint-colored, and made me look about twice my actual size. But it was also my fave because it was so snuggly cozy warm.

  Shoving my feet into slippers, I went into the hall. Myrtle hustled down the little portable steps I’d put by the foot of the bed for her so she could get up and down. It was the first time she’d used them without me putting a hand on her back to guide her. She reached the bottom and hurried ahead of me, cutting me off so short that I damn near tripped over her.