Freak

by Jennifer Hillier

  Kane didn’t answer.

  “Lady, you’re a piece of work.”

  Kane’s face turned to stone. “Perhaps I should call my attorney.”

  Torrance sighed. “We’re homicide, not vice, Ms. Kane. We know what you do for a living, okay? And personally, I don’t give a shit. Your so-called modeling agency is another department’s problem. What I do give a shit about is that I have a murder suspect in the next room who’s killed four women who all worked for you. I need to know what you know.”

  “I want immunity.”

  “We can work something out, I’m sure. Right now, it’s a good idea to foster goodwill, don’t you think? You give, I give. I got no problem with that.”

  “It depends on what you want to know.”

  “Tell us what you know about Jeremiah Blake,” Jerry said. “Start there.”

  Kane chewed her lower lip for a moment, then her face regained its composure. “Fine. I recognize the name. I’ve seen it in the past on credit card payments. He was a regular client for a few years, but I don’t know that I’ve seen him book anyone recently.”

  Jerry looked at Torrance questioningly. “The father was a client, too?”

  Torrance leaned in toward Kane. “I’m not interested in your clients from the past few years. What I want are the credit card numbers and/or PayPal email addresses of the clients who last booked Stephanie Hooper, Brenda Stich, Claire Holt, and Alice Bennett.”

  Kane was quiet for a moment. Finally she said, “If it gets out that I gave you this information, I’m ruined, Detective. My business is all about discretion.”

  “You give, I give, remember?”

  Kane turned away, pulled out her phone, and made a quick call, jotting something on a small pad she kept in her purse. Then she tore out the page, handing it to Torrance.

  The detective frowned. “Just one email address?”

  Kane nodded. “The same client booked all four women through PayPal.”

  Torrance handed the slip of paper to Jerry. The email address she’d scrawled was JB@serialkillerfiles.com. He looked up at his former partner. “Seriously, Mike? It’s too easy.”

  Torrance shrugged. “Who cares? It’s done. We got him.”

  Jerry frowned at the monitor. The kid was still rocking back and forth in his chair in the interview room. Dammit, maybe his instincts were off. The evidence was all there. Everything fit. Yet still . . .

  The kid’s chair tipped all the way backward, and a second later Jeremiah Blake was sprawled on the floor.

  “Told you he’d fall,” Torrance said.

  chapter 26

  MARIANNE CHANG USED to be Sheila’s therapist, but they’d both decided last year that Sheila would be better off working with someone else. Someone who could be objective. Someone who wasn’t a friend. Because Marianne was Sheila’s friend—her closest girlfriend, by far—and right now, her friend was giving her a look that was equal parts worry, sympathy, and anger.

  “I agree with Morris. You shouldn’t have gone to the prison. Whatever you said to her the other day obviously set her off.” Marianne sipped the vanilla latte Sheila had brought, and leaned back in her plush white chair. It was early for both of them, but with their schedules, sometimes the hour before classes and patients was all they could manage. “Thank God you saved your job.”

  “For now.” Sheila wrapped her fingers around her own coffee to keep her hands warm. Staring out the window of Marianne’s office, she sighed. “But they made it very clear that one more slipup and I’ll be out the door on my ass.”

  “You won’t slip up, I’m not worried. How’s your therapy going?”

  “Really well. We’re working through a lot of my childhood stuff.” Sheila grimaced and took a sip of her latte. “Not fun, but, you know . . .”

  “Necessary.”

  Sheila nodded.

  “Are you planning to visit Abby again?”

  “I’ve tried, but she’s taken me off her visitors list.” Sheila didn’t bother to conceal her frustration. “She’s got some balls on her, I’ll give her that. She knew exactly what she was doing when she told the world that I had an affair with Ethan, and that I’m a recovering sex addict. She knew damn well what it would do to my career. And if that crazy bitch thinks she can—”

  “Careful,” Marianne said.

  “What?”

  “You sound like you’re about to stoop to her level.” Marianne put her coffee cup down on the table between them. “Don’t do it. Don’t play her game.”

  “Yes, but she—”

  “Listen to me.” Marianne leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Sheila. “You remember how Jerry was last year? After he was finally released from the hospital?”

  Sheila did. It had been a terrible time for Marianne. Jerry had been bitter, disillusioned, angry. His kind and humorous nature had all but disappeared, and even now, a year later, he hadn’t quite gotten it back. He had changed.

  “His bitterness seeped into every part of him, and then by extension, it seeped into every part of us.” Marianne closed her eyes, remembering. “He was so filled with hostility, always talking about wanting ‘that bitch to go down.’ It consumed him. It drove us apart.”

  “I remember.”

  “What Abby Maddox did to you, announcing your secrets on television, is the metaphorical equivalent of her cutting your throat. But guess what? Just like Jerry, you didn’t die. You saved your job.” Marianne’s tone was firm. “I’m not saying it’s not going to be challenging from this point on, trying to improve your reputation while ignoring what people are saying about you. But you can’t buckle. You can’t let her win. Whatever you’re feeling about her, you have to let it go. As cliché as it sounds, you have to rise above it.”

  Sheila was silent. Of course her friend was right. The anger and bitterness would eat her up if she let it. Finally, she nodded.

  “I read this morning that the police made an arrest. They found Jack the Zipper?”

  Sheila sipped her coffee. “Turned out to be a teenager. He confessed. It’s over.”

  “And this means Abby gets transferred.”

  “To minimum security.” Sheila sighed heavily. “She gets immunity for the Diana St. Clair murder.”

  “But not the murders of those homeless women.”

  Sheila shook her head. “They could still charge her with those, but it doesn’t look like they can pin anything on her. Abby Maddox could very well go free in three years. God help us.”

  “But only if she has a successful parole hearing,” Marianne said. “Which, between you and Jerry, I doubt it would be.”

  “Good point. I guess that does make me feel better.”

  “Speaking of Jerry . . .” Marianne’s voice was soft, tentative. “I know you’ve spent a little time with him lately. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s okay.” Sheila wondered how much she should say. “He’s . . . he knows you’re seeing someone.”

  Her friend’s mouth dropped open. “You told him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So he’s been following me,” Marianne said. Sheila looked away. Suddenly her friend laughed. “I knew it. I thought I saw him one morning, driving by, scoping out my house. New Jeep?”

  Sheila nodded reluctantly.

  Marianne laughed harder. “I know him too well. God, I love that man.”

  “He loves you, too.” Sheila smiled. “He misses you.”

  A comfortable silence descended upon them, and Sheila resumed looking out the window. The view of downtown Seattle from Marianne’s office was lovely, and she wondered—not for the first time—what it might have been like to go into private practice. She never thought she’d want to be anything other than an educator, but after yesterday’s meeting, it might well be something she’d be forced to consider one day.

  “I miss him, too.” Marianne’s choked voice broke through Sheila’s thoughts, and she turned her head back, shocked to see that her friend was crying. “I miss him so much,
Sheila.”

  “Oh, honey.” Setting her coffee down on the table, Sheila went to Marianne, putting her arms around her. “I know it’s been hard. I’m sorry. What can I do?”

  Marianne shook her head, sniffling. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I think about him every day. It’s still hard, imagining a life without him in it. But I’m still so hurt. The way he shut down, and shut me out . . .”

  “Of course you’re still hurt.” Sheila gave her a sad smile. “But as I told him, there’s no right way to cope with what he’s been through. Or what you’ve been through. It takes time to heal, and sometimes, that healing needs to happen separately.”

  “You think I’m being too hard on Jerry?”

  “I think marriage is hard, period.” Sheila gave her a squeeze. “You guys went through a terrible time last year, and Jerry didn’t handle it well. But I do think it’s fixable . . . assuming you want to fix it. Nobody’s saying you have to.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” Marianne said, the tears beginning to flow again. “I just know I miss him.”

  “Maybe you should tell him that. Start there. See what happens.” And then, delicately, Sheila asked, “How are things going with the new guy? George, right?”

  “It’s not serious. We have fun together, that’s all. He’s . . . easy. Which is what I need right now.”

  Another silence, again not uncomfortable, followed. Both women stared out the window, lost in their own thoughts.

  Then quietly, Sheila said, “Morris wants to postpone the wedding.”

  It was Marianne’s turn to be sympathetic. She leaned her head on Sheila’s shoulder. “Well, shit. I guess nobody’s healing as well as we’d like.”

  Sheila gave her friend another hug. “At least we have each other.”

  chapter 27

  JERRY WAS BEGINNING to feel claustrophobic in Jeremiah Blake’s garage, but it was still better than being in the kid’s bedroom, which really did smell terrible. Earlier that afternoon, they had found a box under Blake’s bed that likely contained personal items from the victims—an earring, a bracelet, a necklace, a ring. Jerry had found himself relieved that it had not been a box full of unwashed underwear—or worse, body parts. The way this case had unfolded, nothing would have surprised him.

  Elsewhere in the house, traces of blood had been detected in both the kitchen and the adjoining dining room, and it appeared that the walls and floors of both areas had been scrubbed down with bleach recently. There was no way to know yet if the blood specks belonged to any of the victims, or if it was someone else’s altogether. Unfortunately testing would take a few days.

  Jerry wasn’t sure what they were supposed to find now in the garage, and he was growing impatient. Searching through people’s stuff was tedious. He tripped over a box of old books and cursed.

  “We’re supposed to be looking for evidence of other crimes,” Torrance explained, poking through yet another shelf full of tools. Four more cops were still inside the house, searching. “Do you not want to be here for this? You’re so testy today.”

  “I’m just having a hard time picturing the kid doing it. We’re missing something. I’d bet my badge on that.” Jerry slumped on top of a plastic crate, his long, skinny legs splayed out on the dirty concrete.

  “If you had one,” Torrance said with a grunt.

  Jerry fingered the temporary ID clipped to his belt. “You know what I mean. I feel it in my bones. You know those instincts never go away.”

  Torrance’s gloved hands were picking through a black Hefty garbage bag. He’d found it in the backseat of the red 1969 Corvette that was propped up on wooden blocks and probably didn’t run anymore. The ’Vette might have been a sweet ride at one point, but whoever had taken it apart didn’t seem to know how to put it back together again. The wire shelves at the sides and back of the garage were all filled with car parts.

  “Old clothes.” Torrance’s face wrinkled as he got a whiff of the garbage bag’s contents. “There’s vomit on some of them. And urine. Fucking worst smell ever.”

  Jerry wasn’t sure about that. Dead bodies smelled pretty bad, too. “All men’s clothing?”

  “From what I can tell, yeah.” Torrance tied the bag up and shut the door of the Corvette. “No idea if they’re Blake’s or his dad’s. Man, I need air, I’m gagging.”

  The detective pressed a button on the wall and the garage door opened slowly. They’d left it closed so as not to attract the attention of Blake’s neighbors, but the stench of vomit and urine was too much.

  Jerry turned toward the incoming fresh air, his headache subsiding a little once the cool breeze hit his face. “So what now?”

  Torrance sighed. “This is just routine, pal. To see if there’s anything more we need to know about our young serial killer. But Blake did confess, we have his DNA on the last one, and he kept souvenirs that I bet we can trace to the vics. What more proof do you need?”

  Jerry mulled it over. “Why zip ties?”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s he trying to accomplish by carving Maddox’s name on the bodies?”

  “You’d have to ask him that.”

  “Why did he threaten us with ten possible victims? He was caught after number four.”

  “Again, you’d have to ask him that, but you have to admit that getting us to believe there could be ten murders created a sense of urgency,” Torrance said. “Maybe he thought he could actually kill ten women and get away with it, or maybe the final tally never mattered. Who the hell knows.”

  A shadow appeared behind them, and both men whirled around.

  “Hi there.” It was the man from next door Jerry had noticed a couple of days before, whom Torrance had already questioned. He was dressed in a business suit and holding a briefcase as if he’d just come from work, which he probably had. “So you’ve arrested him, then?”

  Torrance frowned at the intrusion. “Hello again, sir.”

  The man nodded to Torrance, then stuck his hand out toward Jerry, who shook it. “Hi there. Cameron Frye. So, did you guys arrest Jeremiah?”

  Torrance didn’t blink. “Yes, we did.”

  “For drugs?”

  “No,” Torrance said. “For murder.”

  The neighbor took a step back. The look of shock on his face was almost comical. “Christ. I thought he might have done it, but wow, I didn’t really let myself believe . . . poor JJ.”

  Jerry and Torrance exchanged a look. “Who’s JJ?” Jerry asked.

  “Jeremiah’s father,” the neighbor said, confusion crossing his features. “His full name is Jeremiah Jonas Blake, but he goes by JJ, and the kid goes by Jeremiah.” He raised an eyebrow. “You guys should know that, since JJ is the one who’s dead.”

  “Jeremiah’s father is dead?” Jerry said, his eyes widening.

  “You guys just told me he was.” Frye took another step back. “Wait, what’s going on?”

  Torrance stepped forward. “Maybe you should tell us, sir. What makes you think Jeremiah Blake Senior is dead?”

  “That’s not the murder the kid’s arrested for?” Cameron Frye looked like he wanted to run. “Oh, shit, I—”

  “Start talking, Mr. Frye,” Torrance said.

  “I haven’t seen JJ in almost five weeks.” Frye’s gaze flickered from Torrance to Jerry, and he continued to back out of the garage. “He’s never been away this long.”

  “We were told he works on a crab boat.”

  Frye clutched his briefcase close to his body, as if wanting to seek comfort from it. “Well, yes, JJ is a crabber. Difficult work, but it pays well, and they need the money. His wife died of cancer twelve, thirteen years ago. He’s been raising Jeremiah alone, which isn’t easy. As I told you before, the kid’s had a lot of emotional problems. I don’t know the details, but I know he doesn’t socialize with other kids. He’s in his head a lot.”

  Torrance and Jerry both nodded.

  “But JJ’s jobs don’t usually last this long. Two, three weeks, tops. JJ a
lways lets me know when he’s going to be away so I can keep an eye on the house. Jeremiah’s eighteen now but he’s not very responsible. I was expecting JJ back about two weeks ago, but I haven’t seen him. I asked Jeremiah about it, and he got all weird on me.”

  “Weird how?” Torrance asked.

  “Like he knew the answer but didn’t want to tell me.” Frye saw the looks on their faces. “Hey, I’m a father to two teenage girls. I can tell when kids are lying.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this to me before, Mr. Frye?” Torrance’s eyes narrowed. “I asked you all kinds of questions about the kid then. Why didn’t you tell me what you suspected at that time?”

  “Because I know it sounds crazy. I don’t know that I even really believed it, or even that I do now. It’s just, I saw you guys come back, you said murder, and I just assumed . . .” The neighbor’s voice trailed off, and he shrugged, helpless.

  Torrance stepped closer, invading the invisible boundary of Cameron Frye’s personal space. Reflexively, the man took yet another step back. “Tell us why you suspect Jeremiah Blake killed his father. I don’t care how crazy it sounds, just talk.”

  Frye looked around but the street was quiet. He stepped a little farther out of the garage. “Okay, indulge me for a second.” He pointed to the grass. “Gentlemen, take a good look at the lawn.”

  The two men followed Frye’s gesture to the front yard, where the grass was very green, but long and unkempt. Weeds were cropping up in several spots near the edges of the driveway. It didn’t look horrible, but it did look as if it had been neglected for a few weeks.

  “Jeremiah hasn’t mowed the lawn since his dad left,” Frye said. “That was five weeks ago. And trust me, if he thought his dad was coming back anytime soon, he’d have kept it looking good. To me, that means he knows his dad isn’t coming back.”

  Torrance looked dubious, but the man’s reasoning actually resonated with Jerry. Whenever Annie went away for a conference, the house would be messy right up until the hour before she was due back. If Jerry didn’t know exactly what time she’d be coming home, he’d clean up the night before, just to be on the safe side. It saved them both an argument.