The Perfect Murder

by Brenda Novak

  “Maybe that scenario would be easier to accept if it was your son and not mine,” he said.

  She didn’t have any children, but it was still a cheap shot. The pain he felt at Colton’s loss ate at him like acid, made him act in ways he’d never guessed he would. Some of that was because he felt partially responsible for Emily’s helplessness. She’d had no family to rely on. He should’ve done more to help her.

  “Screw you,” she said. “I’m tired of being sensitive. I’ve done all I can to support you. And now—”

  “And now that I’m really finding something, you’re giving up. Malcolm’s in Sacramento. He tracked down his high-school girlfriend and moved here to be close to her. And he’s living on the money he stole from Emily.”

  “Or you’re more involved with his ex-girlfriend than you want to admit,” she said.

  He rolled his eyes. There’d never been anything between him and the woman who’d placed the call that had brought him to the west coast. They’d only met face-to-face twice, and that was in a coffee shop. “We’re friends, Constance. I’m here because Malcolm’s here. You’ve seen the transcripts of their chats. I’ve faxed them to you.”

  “Who’s Your Daddy could be anyone! He claims to be someone named Wesley Boss who lives in L.A., and for all we know that’s true.”

  “It’s Turner, Connie. Mary should know. She dated him for two years.”

  “Why’d she have to call you?” she muttered.

  Because he’d tracked her down first, her and anyone else Malcolm had ever known, and asked them to call if they ever heard from him. He’d also told them why. “Are you kidding? She was an angel to do it. Judging by some of the things this Wesley Boss has said, he’s far more familiar with Northern California than Southern California. I don’t believe he’s in L.A. I believe he’s right here in Sacramento.”

  “That’s it,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore. I now realize I’ve been hanging on to a dream, to the memory of a man who no longer exists.”

  Closing his eyes, Sebastian let his head fall back. She’d just accused him of being interested in someone else, but it was probably the other way around. “What’s his name?” he asked.

  No answer.

  “Constance?”

  “Stop it. This isn’t about another man. This is about me being unable to cope with the person you’ve become. It’s over between us,” she snapped and hung up.

  Panic, caused by the finality in her voice, tempted Sebastian to call her back. But he didn’t. They’d never agree. Besides, she was better off without him. All he could think about was finding answers to the questions that’d been burning inside him since that hot summer day last year. That was when Emily’s neighbor had gone over to see why Emily hadn’t shown up to carpool for basketball practice and stumbled upon two bodies. They’d been murdered the night before.

  Opening his eyes, he focused on the transcripts in the seat next to him. Whoever sent those instant messages and e-mails to Mary claimed to be someone she’d met in the past, someone named Wesley Boss as Constance said, but Mary didn’t remember a Wesley Boss. Their first contact had come through a Web site she used to sell jewelry she made as a hobby, so it could’ve been anyone. After several months of “talking” to this person online, she’d come to the conclusion that it had to be her high-school sweetheart—Malcolm Turner. He knew too much about her to be anyone else.

  Sebastian had flown to Sacramento, hoping that the alias Malcolm was using would be enough to find him, but it hadn’t been so far. He’d managed to track down only four men in California named Wesley Boss, three in L.A. and one in Bakersfield. One was an old priest who didn’t even have a computer, one was happily married with five kids, one was a ten-year-old, and the other, the one from Bakersfield, was dying of cancer. Mary had been trying to get Sebastian an address almost from the moment she’d figured out who she was really dealing with, but Malcolm was too cautious. A man with his background knew how risky it was to contact someone from his former life. That made him traceable, if anyone was bothering to look. And Sebastian was doing more than looking—he was scrutinizing every possibility. He’d even hired a private investigator to see if he could trace through whatever means—legal or not—where the e-mails were coming from. But Malcolm was using a remote server. He’d thought of everything.

  Popping the transmission into reverse, he backed out of the parking space. Regardless of the cost, he couldn’t give up. Mary was his conduit to the bastard who’d killed Emily and Colton and, right or wrong, he’d keep the promise he made while bearing their coffins to the grave.

  Jane had decided to interview Luther on her way home from work, the first task on her list of actions in the missing-girls case. But Oak Park was the most dangerous neighborhood in Sacramento, and Jane was fully aware of it.

  The metal of her gun pressed into her waist as she crossed the weed-infested postage stamp of dirt that comprised Luther’s front yard. In the early months after Oliver’s funeral, she’d learned how to shoot—Skye had seen to that—but this was nothing like a visit to the range. She’d never carried her Glock to someone’s house, never approached anyone with the thought that she might have to use it. Until now. Although she was currently undergoing the months-long application process, she didn’t yet have a license to carry a concealed weapon. She was breaking the law. But she hadn’t been able to reach David, and for the sake of the missing girls she couldn’t wait. She was far less afraid of the police than she was of Luther. She had a daughter at home, a twelve-year-old who’d lost enough already. No way would Jane orphan Kate altogether.

  Taking a breath to calm the butterflies swirling in her belly, she raised a hand to knock on a door that looked as if the hounds of hell had attempted to scratch it open. It was barely five o’clock, but darkness seemed to creep up on this part of the city much more quickly than the Watt Avenue area, where she worked.

  Expecting to hear dogs the size of horses, she wasn’t surprised by the cacophony of barking that rose to her ears as she stood at the very edge of the concrete stoop.

  Ro-of. Thump! Roof! Scratch. Ro-of! Roof! Thump.

  Unnerved by the ferocity, Jane decided that perhaps this was something she should put off until tomorrow. Maybe Jonathan, the private investigator who donated so much of his time to TLS, would be available then. Or David. She was about to head back to her car when a man’s voice cut through the racket.

  “Shut the hell up!”

  The dogs fell silent.

  Hands clammy with sweat, Jane watched uncertainly as the knob turned and the door opened.

  It was darker inside than out, which made it difficult to see anything except the whites of the man’s eyes. “I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said, “but you don’t belong here.”

  Three pit bulls growled at his feet. They weren’t nearly as large as they sounded, but they looked as if they’d tear her limb from limb, given half a chance. Fortunately, they knew better than to attack without permission. They didn’t even push their muzzles into the opening, the way so many dogs did.

  The man was definitely in charge. They weren’t about to disobey him…she hoped.

  “I’m—” When her voice squeaked, Jane cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m Jane Burke with The Last Stand.”

  “Whatever you’re sellin’, I’m not interested,” he said and slammed the door.

  The bang almost caused her to fall off the stoop. She glanced longingly at her Toyota Camry, parked at the curb, but the vision of Gloria, crying at the office, prompted her to knock again. She couldn’t fold that easily; her client was counting on her.

  One dog dared to bark—but ceased abruptly with a high-pitched whine.

  Certain the dog had just been kicked, Jane bolted for her car but forced herself to stop midway when the door reopened.

  This time the man stepped out onto the porch, where she could see him. But seeing him didn’t make her feel any safer. At least six feet four inches tall, he weighed
close to three hundred and fifty pounds and had the thick neck and huge biceps of a hulking lineman.

  “This better be good,” he said. Behind him, the dogs crouched, baring their teeth in a threatening snarl.

  Clasping her trembling hands in front of her, Jane pulled her gaze away from them. “Are you Luther Wilson?”

  “That’s none of your damn business.” His eyes narrowed. “But…suppose I was. What would you want?”

  She edged a step closer. Standing in the middle of the front yard as if she was afraid to come within reach made her appear weak, and she knew it. “I’m looking for your daughter.”

  “She not home.”

  “I’m talking about Latisha.”

  “Latisha don’t live with me. Never has.”

  He pivoted, but now that she’d gotten this far Jane couldn’t leave, not without the information she needed. What kind of caseworker would that make her? A coward of a caseworker—certainly no one Skye or Sheridan could trust. Ava didn’t think she had what the job required and hadn’t agreed with hiring her in the first place. If she walked away now, she’d only prove Ava right.

  She hurried to speak before Luther could close the door. “She’s gone missing, Mr. Wilson. So has Marcie. It’s been three weeks since anyone’s seen them. The police are investigating. Gloria’s frantic.”

  At her rapid-fire explanation, he swung around to face her. “What’re you sayin’? Someone kidnapped Latisha? Someone kidnapped her and Marcie?”

  “We don’t know. But it’s possible. It’s also possible they’ve run away, or been injured and are lost.” The pervasive chill of deepening dusk in mid-January seemed to seep into her bones. “Murder is, of course, another possibility.”

  Although he didn’t actually speak, his eyes revealed plenty. He hadn’t known his daughter was gone. He wasn’t sure how to react to the information, but he wasn’t as shocked as a lot of men would be. Living in this neighborhood, he’d probably seen too much to gasp at the word murder. “Why would anyone wanna kill her?” he asked at length. “She a good kid.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. You haven’t seen or heard from her in the past three weeks, have you?” she asked.

  “No. But I never hear from her. She’s a straight-A student, too damn good for her father.” His wide shoulders seemed to hunch forward. “But maybe that’s ’cause I ain’t been much of a father.”

  Jane made an effort to conceal her surprise at his honesty and regret. “Do you know if she had any involvement with gangs or—”

  “I told you. She a good kid. She’s no gangbanger.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “What does Gloria say?”

  “That she and Marcie are gone. That’s all. Even the police can’t locate them.”

  Stepping back, he looked her up and down. “If you ain’t with the police, who are you? Gloria ain’t got money for no P.I.”

  TLS was well-known in some circles. Skye and the others who’d founded the charity had solved several high-profile cases. As a result, they’d been popular with the media. But there was no doubt a large segment of Sacramento’s one million residents had never heard of them or hadn’t paid more than passing attention. “I’m a victims’ advocate. I work for a charity that’s been operating in the area for about seven years. Gloria came to ask for my help.”

  He fingered his clean-shaven chin. “So you came down here out of the goodness of your heart?”

  She ignored his skepticism. “I make a nominal salary, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Whatever they payin’ you ain’t enough,” he said. “You have no business in this neighborhood. I suggest you don’t come back.” Eager to gain its freedom, or rip out her throat, one pit bull crawled forward. His toenails clicked on the metal weather stripping across the opening, but Luther growled a quick “Get inside,” and the dog did exactly that—with its tail between its legs.

  “I’ll ask around,” he said to her, “see what I can find out about Latisha and give you a call.”

  She fumbled in her purse for a card. He must’ve recognized the shape of the gun handle beneath her sweater as her coat parted because he made a tsking sound and shook his head. “Don’t ever bring a weapon to a man’s house unless you’re prepared to use it.”

  He thought she was a joke, the gun some sort of accessory—like earrings or fake nails.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “You heard me. That’s askin’ for trouble. Folks ’round here got no respect for poseurs, no matter how fine they look.”

  Jane locked eyes with him. Now that she’d met “Lucifer”—now that he was standing directly in front of her—she realized there wasn’t much about him that intimidated her. Not after what she’d been through. Despite his size, he wasn’t half as frightening as Oliver had been. Jane didn’t think anyone could be as frightening as her slight, soft-spoken and coldly calculating spouse.

  “My husband was a serial killer, Mr. Wilson. He murdered four people by stabbing them to death and he nearly killed me in the same way.” She raised her chin to reveal the scar where he’d slit her throat. “I survived by the narrowest of margins. But I did survive. And I promise you I’m prepared to shoot anyone who tries to hurt me again.” She smiled and stuck out her card. “Please call me if you come up with anything on Latisha. I’m determined to find her and Marcie.”

  The condescending air that’d bothered her so much evaporated, but it wasn’t replaced with anything more positive. “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” he said.

  Three

  “Are you sure you want to get involved in this?”

  Detective Willis’s voice came over the phone as Jane stood at her stove, stirring the homemade broccoli-and-cheddar-cheese soup she was making for Kate’s dinner. She’d grabbed a chicken salad as a late lunch and didn’t plan on eating much more today. Now that she was thin again, there was no way she’d let herself gain weight. She wanted nothing to do with the woman she’d been during the Oliver years. Her status as a wealthy socialite before Oliver went to prison; her subsequent fall from grace and expulsion from the tennis-club set; her downward spiral, driven by desperation and despair; her illicit affair with Oliver’s brother; even her job as a two-bit hairstylist. That wasn’t who she was anymore. Taking this case was part of her transformation. “I’m positive.”

  “I’m doing all I can, Jane,” he said. “I’ve gone to Luther Wilson’s house three different times. He’s never home or he won’t answer, I don’t know which. I’ve left my card, but he never calls.”

  “He opened the door to me.”

  “Probably because you’re a woman and quite obviously a civilian. He didn’t feel threatened.”

  “So? I got to talk to him. That helps, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course it helps, but you don’t have the experience to—”

  “How will I get any experience if I never have my own cases? I mean, come on—you have so much to do. With Skye and Ava out of town, and Sheridan on maternity leave, I have time. I can focus on this. Why not let me do some of the legwork?”

  “Because I’m not thrilled about you going into Oak Park like you did this evening. Who knows what other risks you might take?”

  She’d known in advance that it might be unsafe. She’d brought her gun, hadn’t she? When she’d married Oliver, she’d had no idea of the monster that raged behind his pleasant face…. “Are you telling me I did something Skye wouldn’t have?” she challenged.

  There was a slight pause. “No. The fact that she’s in South America right now should tell you that. I’m certainly not happy about it.”

  “Exactly. I did what I needed to do, and I handled the situation just fine. I believe Luther Wilson will look around, like he said, and call us if he comes up with anything.”

  “What if this case really heats up, gets dangerous?”

  His mention of heat reminded Jane to lower the temperature on the burner so she wouldn’t burn the soup. “If every person in law enforcement thought only of the
danger, the bad guys would win every time. Then no one would be safe.” What if Skye hadn’t taken the risks she did? Jane wouldn’t be around. “Anyway, in this instance, I think the chances of any danger, at least to me, are minimal. These poor girls are probably dead.” Jane hated to acknowledge that, but it was true. And if she wanted to be good at her new job, her new life, she had to deal in the truth. Deal with the truth. When this was over, she’d be lucky to be able to tell Gloria what’d happened to her sisters.

  “You could handle that?” he asked. “You could handle getting a call tomorrow saying their bodies have been found?”

  “Stop protecting me,” she said. “That kind of loss is hard, but it’s part of what we do. I’m tired of all the coddling. Skye’s protected me for too long. I’ve been at the charity for six months. I’m eager to take my own cases.”

  He blew out an audible sigh. “Then what can I say?”

  “Say you’ll welcome my help.” Kate entered the kitchen, dropped a kiss on her cheek and grabbed some of the bread Jane had set out for dinner. “Hi, babe,” she murmured before returning to her conversation. “David?”

  “Okay, you can help.”

  “Good. Is there anything you’ve uncovered that you’d like to share with me?”

  “I wish there was,” he said. “I’ve spent three weeks on this case and have almost nothing to show for it.”

  “Have you had a chance to talk to Timothy Huff?”

  “Gloria’s father? Don’t worry about him. He has an airtight alibi. He was in Arkansas when the girls went missing, staying with a cousin. As a matter of fact, he’s still there.”

  So she wouldn’t have to visit the pool hall this coming Friday. “What about the car?”