Danny whipped around. “What the hell, dude? You scared the crap out of me!”
He shrugged out of his coat, not caring that drops of rain were splattering across his assistant and her computer. “That was the point. The music was too loud, Danny.”
She made a show of wiping a speck of moisture from her cheek. “So? It’s midnight, nobody’s here—”
“And you didn’t lock the door.”
“Oh.” The annoyed look on her face was instantly replaced by an expression of contriteness. “Lo siento, jefe. I could have sworn I locked it.”
He sighed. Good enough. He was too tired to lecture her anyway. “Still taking those Spanish classes, huh?”
“Sí, señor. My friend Pedro was helping me practice, but he just moved away, got a job in El Paso.”
“What are you doing here?” He shot her a look. “English, please.”
She shrugged. “I left one of my textbooks here, then decided I might as well check my email. Didn’t feel like going home yet.” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“I run the place,” he said. Seeing the look on her face, he softened his tone. “Didn’t feel like going home, either.”
He plopped down on the two-seater sofa in the reception area and stretched his long legs out. At the sight of his skinny ankles, covered in his usual white athletic socks which starkly contrasted with his black faux leather sneakers, Danny smiled. He grinned back. All right, so he wouldn’t be modeling for GQ anytime soon. Life would go on.
“You look tired.” His assistant’s face was kind. “Long day?”
“Day from hell. You don’t want to know.”
But of course she did—she always did—and so he filled her in quickly on the events of the day, from the body at the Sweet Chariot Inn, to his face-to-face with Abby Maddox, capped off with all the horror movie fun at the cemetery.
Danny listened raptly, nodding every few seconds, never once interrupting. Other than her superb organizational skills, her ability to listen and not ask questions until he finished speaking was his favorite thing about her.
“‘Free Abby Maddox,’” Danny repeated when he finally wrapped it up. “You know there’s a site called FreeAbbyMaddox.com?”
“Are you serious?”
She typed it into her computer and he tilted the monitor toward him. Soon the screen was filled with images of Maddox’s face. Some were from her days at Puget Sound State, two were taken the day she was arrested and hauled back to Seattle, and there were a few photos of her during the trial.
“It’s not your typical fan site,” Danny said. “At first I thought it was a place that just had articles about her, but people post all kinds of stuff, and a lot of it’s sexual. A lot of sickos out there, you know? As soon as you mentioned ‘Free Abby Maddox’ being carved on the body, it made me think of it.”
Jerry’s face was grim. “Good work. I’ll text Torrance.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’ll take you thirty minutes; you’re terrible with text. Let me send him an email.”
He was too tired to argue. Her fingers flew across the keyboard and a minute later it was sent.
“So tell me,” his assistant said, looking up at him. “You and Dr. Tao actually talked to Abby Maddox today?” Danny had been a student in one of Sheila’s classes a couple of years before, and like all Puget Sound State University students, she was well versed in the Ethan Wolfe/Sheila Tao/Abby Maddox trifecta. She’d even had Ethan as her TA for a term. “What was that like for Dr. Tao?”
“Sheila’s a pro. Wasn’t intimidated at all.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. She’s about the coolest professor I ever had. I very nearly applied to the graduate psych program because of her.”
“Nah, you’re right where you should be,” Jerry said. “The world has enough psychologists. What it needs is more criminologists, like you’re going to be. Just wish you weren’t leaving me next month. You’ll be hard to replace. You’re the best intern I’ve ever had.”
“I’m the only intern you’ve ever had.” Danny smiled. “So what does Maddox know?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out. I don’t know if she can give us the killer’s name, but she seems to know more about what’s going on than anybody else. I have to go back to the prison tomorrow. Great way to spend a Sunday.” Jerry’s face sagged as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that Maddox has been corresponding with the killer. Everything is just too coincidental.”
“Heavenly Rest is where Ethan Wolfe is buried.”
“Yeah. That’s right.” Jerry blinked in surprise. “How’d you know that?”
“You know I followed the case. Everybody did.” Danny fiddled with the papers on her desk, not meeting his gaze.
“It’s okay,” Jerry said, but he felt a twinge at the back of his neck. He hated to admit it, but her interest in Ethan Wolfe bothered him, not that he blamed her. “Wolfe went to your school, and so did Maddox. I get it.”
“It’s just . . . she’s a psychopath.” Danny’s voice held an undertone of wonder. “I majored in psych, and I know a psychopath when I see one. And now I’m a criminal justice student, hello. I wouldn’t let my guard down around her, you know?”
“Smart girl.”
“By the way . . .” She hesitated. “There was a reporter hanging around outside today.”
“I spoke to her. You’d think they’d get tired of me saying ‘no comment.’ Right when I thought all that crap was dying down . . .” Jerry looked at his assistant sternly. “Remember, don’t ever talk to them.”
“Give me some credit, dude.”
Stifling a yawn, Jerry watched as she typed something into her computer. A moment later, another invoice was printed and added to the stack. He could feel his eyes wanting to close, and knew he should be signing off on those invoices before he passed out completely, but he couldn’t seem to get up off the sofa. The loveseat here was more comfortable than the one he had at home—Marianne had taken most of the “good” furniture with her when she’d moved out.
“Listen, it’s late. I’m heading home.” He forced himself to sit up, eyes bleary. “I don’t want you here alone. Want me to drop you somewhere?”
“I’ve got my bike.”
“We’ll put it in the trunk. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
She shut down the computer and followed him out. He carefully locked the door behind them and they headed down the stairs to the parking lot behind the building.
“So, what’s next?” Danny was in front of him and her ponytail bounced along with her as she skipped down the steps. “You said you found a third body. What happens now?”
“It’s back to the prison first thing in the morning.” Even just saying the words, Jerry felt the weight of it all on his shoulders. He honestly couldn’t think of a place he less wanted to go. “So Maddox can sign off on her deal. Then, she talks. And tells us what she knows.”
Danny pushed the back door open and headed for her bike, which was chained to the rack beside the door. “Sounds easy enough. Can I come?”
“Where? To the prison?”
“No, to the Taj Mahal.” Danny rolled her eyes. “Yes, the prison.”
“I guess it’s not a terrible idea.” Jerry popped the rear hatch on his Jeep and lifted her bike up. “I could use the help.”
What he didn’t say was that he could use the buffer, someone else in the room with himself and Maddox to keep things civilized. It had helped having Sheila there today, and he dreaded going back alone. He didn’t trust himself around Abby Maddox.
Danny climbed into the Jeep’s passenger side. When Jerry got in beside her, she said, “So you think she’s been corresponding somehow with the killer. That’s really sick when you think about it.”
“Damn skippy.” He started the engine and pulled out of the lot.
“You think he writes to her?”
“Don’t know, didn’t ask.”
“What would the letters say?”
“Don’t know, haven’t seen them yet.”
“Does she—”
Jerry finally laughed. “I don’t know. You can ask her yourself tomorrow.”
Danny snuggled back into the seat, her young face glowing in the light. He could tell she was excited to meet the notorious criminal, and while it was irritating, Jerry really couldn’t take it personally. She was just a kid. She wasn’t trying to offend him.
Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of the converted warehouse she called a loft. He’d seen where she lived once before, in the daylight, but right now it looked positively unsafe. It was surrounded by abandoned buildings and Jerry was pretty sure one of them had been a crack house at some point.
“You should move,” he said, rolling down the window. He kept his eye on the small group of men smoking near the building’s entrance. “I don’t like the unsavory looks of your neighbors.”
Danny chuckled and reached for her bag. “Two of those unsavory guys are my bandmates. We practice in the abandoned building next door. Some kind of machinery used to be manufactured there, and the whole place is soundproofed. We can play as loud as we want.”
Okay, so maybe that was pretty cool. Danny was the lead singer in an alternative rock band—Jerry couldn’t remember the band’s name, or maybe he’d never asked her—and he could see that a warehouse would be the perfect place to rehearse.
But playing music here was one thing. Living here was another. He didn’t care if the real estate analysts had declared this neighborhood an “up-and-coming” area of Seattle. In his opinion, it was much too industrial to feel like home.
“Seven sharp, okay?” he said as they got out of the Jeep. He popped the back and hefted her bike out. “Be outside on time. Don’t make me buzz you. We have to be at the prison by eight.”
“Why so early?” Danny stifled a yawn and pointed to her friends. “I still have a couple of hours of rehearsal tonight.”
“You’re kidding. It’s midnight.”
She gave him a look that made him feel old. “It’s the only time we could all meet. We have a gig tomorrow night at the Pink Elephant. You should come. Show starts at eleven.”
“Hell no. Way past my bedtime.” Jerry pointed at her and raised an eyebrow. “And girl, I come back for you tomorrow and you’re not waiting for me outside, I keep on driving.”
“Chill, dude. I’ll be ready.”
chapter 11
MORRIS WAS RED, Morris was heaving, and Morris was pacing. None of these things was a good sign, but all three combined? Sheila clutched a pillow to her chest and braced herself for the onslaught. Maybe she should have waited till morning to talk about this. They’d both had a long day, and midnight wasn’t the best time for a serious discussion.
He pointed a large finger at her and she cringed. “You’d better explain this to me before my head explodes.”
“Morris—”
“What in the world would possess you to go to a prison and talk to that psycho bitch?” Morris shouted. The sound actually hurt Sheila’s ears and she wondered if the neighbors could hear them. Morris was not a soft-spoken guy to begin with, but at full volume, she could feel the walls shaking. He continued to stomp around their bedroom, not waiting for an answer. “I’m gonna kill Jerry for bringing you there. Goddammit, he knows better. Abby Maddox is dangerous, Sheila. She’s a murderer—”
“We don’t know that yet,” Sheila said.
He stopped and turned, his face growing redder. “Excuse me? We don’t know that? Since when don’t we know that?”
She clutched the pillow tighter. “You need to hear me out. I know what I’m doing.”
“All evidence to the contrary.”
“Morris, please.” Sheila reached over and put a hand on his arm, her go-to technique for calming him down. Thankfully, it worked. His breathing slowed slightly. “Just listen for a minute.”
“Talk.”
Sheila chose her words carefully. “If there’s a chance I can help solve these new murders, then I need to try, okay? I know more about Ethan and Abby’s relationship than anybody else. I can get her to talk to me, I know I can.” She took a deep breath. “You know what I went through with Ethan. You know he blamed all the murders back then on her.”
“And you said you believed him.”
“Because I did at the time. I’d been in his basement for three weeks, thinking I was going to die. Believing what he said about Abby gave me hope, because it meant that if she was the murderer, then Ethan wasn’t. Which meant that maybe, just maybe, I’d survive.”
She didn’t want to think about it now, but it was impossible to keep the images out of her head. A lot had happened in Ethan’s basement. Awful things, terrible things, things she hadn’t told anybody about, not the cops, not her therapist, not even Morris. Especially not Morris. And she never would.
“But let’s be honest here.” Sheila’s voice quivered. “Ethan was a sociopath. Looking back now, he lied about absolutely everything. Why wouldn’t he lie about Abby, too?”
Morris didn’t speak. Sheila could tell by his face—brows furrowed in concentration, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead—that he was processing what she was saying.
“The bodies were all found in Ethan’s basement,” she said quietly. “He had a kill room. He had all the tools to . . . dispose of them. And considering what he did to me . . .” She swallowed and took a second to gather her thoughts. “I don’t know what Abby’s involvement was in those murders last year, but I no longer believe anything Ethan said to me. I’m not saying she didn’t do them, but I can no longer say for certain that she did. It’s up to the prosecuting attorney to figure that out. What I do know is that women are being murdered now. And if there’s any way I can help . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off.
She had explained her reasons as best she could. Morris was either on board, or he wasn’t. There was nothing left she could say.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Then finally, he said, “And there’s no one else?”
A wave of relief passed over her. “No,” Sheila said, letting out a breath. “Nobody who could get to her like I could.”
Morris continued to pace, something he did when he was working out a complicated problem. His executive assistant liked to complain that he had wear patterns on the carpet in his office. “I’m sorry, darlin’, but this whole thing is a big fat steaming pile of cow dung. And you’re stepping right in it. She’s using Jerry. She’s going to use you, too.”
“Maybe so, but I can handle it. So can Jerry. You have to trust us. You have to trust me.”
Morris’s jaw worked.
“What’s really bothering you about this?” Sheila asked softly. “Talk to me.”
He stopped pacing and sat down beside her on the bed. “Okay, here’s the thing. Whenever I’m doing a deal, the one thing I’ve learned is to always be one hundred percent aware of what’s in it for the other guy. It’s easy to focus on what we want—hell, you’re a psychologist, you know this is what people do. We see the world through our own filters. We focus on our own needs.”
“Yes, that’s human nature.”
“But it’s dangerous to see the world this way. It’s dangerous to focus on what we want, and not give any thought to what other people want. If I’m doing a deal and I’m not completely aware of what the other guy wants, I’m gonna get screwed. Happens every time.” Morris’s brow furrowed. “The important question here is not what Abby knows. The important question is, what does Abby want?”
And just like that, Morris had nailed it. That was the exact right question to ask, and Sheila had to smile. “Her freedom,” she said. “Most of all, she wants her freedom.”
“Exactly. And she has nothing to lose. And that’s what’s scaring me.” Morris leaned toward her, his blue eyes fixed on her face. “In my experience, darlin’, people with absolutely nothing to lose and everything to gain are the most dangerous peop
le around.”
Sheila nodded. She couldn’t disagree. Abby Maddox’s freedom was hanging in the balance, and of course the woman would do anything possible to save herself. Abby would grasp at anything she had to, would use anyone she had to. She was a survivor.
Sheila knew all about survival. Maybe more than most people.
“Okay,” she said, meeting Morris’s gaze firmly. “I hear you. I will keep my eyes wide open, and I promise you I’ll be careful.”
“But you’re still going.”
“As many times as it takes.” Sheila squeezed his arm again. “I have to do this, Morris. Please try and understand that. I can’t not help. Please don’t ask me to step away when there might be something I can do. You didn’t see those pictures. You didn’t see how young they were.” A lump caught in her throat.
Morris sighed and ran a hand through his thick brown hair. The sigh told Sheila the argument was over, and she finally let go of the pillow she’d been squeezing.
“I’d like it on the record that I am adamantly opposed to this.” His voice was gruff.
“Consider it recorded. Adamantly.”
“When are you going?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Jerry’s visiting her in the morning with her new deal.”
“Can I go with you?”
“Absolutely not.” Sheila smiled, but her tone left no room for further argument.
He finally lay down on the bed. Crisis averted. Sheila snuggled up beside him, resting her head on his burly chest, and breathed in his scent. She loved the way he smelled. Clean and citrusy and warm. Always warm.
“Speaking of Jerry, how is our friend?” Morris nuzzled the top of her head.
“He’s not great.” She snuggled closer. “I’m worried. He’s so skinny.”
“He’s always been skinny.”
“Not like this. I have to wonder if he’s even eating. With Marianne out of the house . . .” She looked up at her fiancé. “Do me a favor and call him? Take him out, stuff him with food, get him talking. I don’t think he has anybody to confide in. He tried talking to me, but I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair to Marianne.”
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