She laughed again. “The appeals will only prolong your life for so long. In my opinion, there’s no hope for a reversal.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Ask me how many murderers on death row I’ve interviewed who survived. Go ahead, ask me.”
She walked to the door, her heels echoing as they clacked along the surface of the floor.
“Hang on,” he said. “How about a parting gift before you leave?”
Again, she turned, this time producing a smile. “What did you have in mind?”
“You can ask me a single question. Anything you like. I’ll answer it.”
It was like a rare diamond being dangled in front of a jewel thief, one he knew she couldn’t resist.
She glanced at a silver watch dangling from her wrist. “We hardly have the time right now.”
“Tick-tock, Miss Weston.”
“Why did you do what you did?”
“Are you asking about the theft, the murders, or both?”
She met his gaze. “I’m asking about the rape.”
The rape. He wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. Wasn’t prepared. He needed time. He kicked the chair back with his foot. Stood. Said nothing. The guard walked over, gripping Elias by the arm, warning him to calm down.
“We’re done here,” he said to the guard.
“You said ‘anything.’ Not talking about the rape won’t make it go away, Mr. Pratt,” Alexandra said.
Without looking back, he said, “Get another patsy for your story. We’re done here.”
She gasped, then swore at him, the heels of her shoes clanking the way to the door.
He just laughed.
The game had begun.
CHAPTER 19
Alexandra Weston
One Hour Later
For a first meeting, it had gone some of the way Alexandra expected—a little push, a lot of shove, just like she’d done with every other subject in the past. She’d planted a seed, massaged Elias’s ego with words to reel him in like “unique” and “interesting,” attempting to make him feel different from other felons she’d written about in the past. It was the way her first meetings always started out—simple, unassuming, set up to give her new subject the idea that he was the one in control, not her.
A sprinkle of flattery, and the waiting was officially underway. She doubted he’d make it a week without asking to see her again, and when he did, she’d already selected another subtle yet provocative outfit for the occasion. The thought of him stumbling over his words to answer her questions was almost comical.
She’d feign interest, soak it all in, take notes, and pretend to be the kind of caring, understanding woman he’d always wished for in his life. Sooner or later, he’d have no resolve, and she’d have her next bestseller.
The theft.
The rape.
The murders.
He may have refused to tell his side of the story in court, but with the right prompting, she’d get him there, and when she did, he wouldn’t have a secret left in the world.
Not once she was done with him.
CHAPTER 20
Present Day
The following morning my publicist called. By the lackluster tone in her voice, I could tell she hadn’t been successful in getting me what I wanted. “I tried to get Roland Sinclair’s cell phone number for you,” she said, “but I can’t.”
“What do you mean can’t?” I asked. “Sure you can. Call his publicist.”
“I did. He said Roland is very private. He doesn’t give his personal information out to anyone.”
“I’m not anyone. Did you tell him who I am?”
“I did.”
“And they know I’m the one who’s asking?”
“They know, Joss. I even left a message. They’re supposed to give it to him.”
“Mr. Sinclair lives in a small town in Colorado. If I can’t get him on the phone, how am I supposed to talk to him about Alexandra Weston?”
“I may have found another way. I messaged him through his website and received a reply from his PA. She wouldn’t give me her number, but she did tell me he isn’t in town at the moment. I asked her if he knew about Alexandra Weston’s death. She said he did.”
“Did she say where he was going?”
“She only said the trip was unexpected. Last minute.”
His sudden flight out gave me a glimmer of hope.
Alexandra’s funeral was taking place in the next few hours.
CHAPTER 21
Detective Murphy entered his office. A middle-aged, redheaded woman followed behind. She looked tired and hungry, and though Finch and I stood three feet away, she never looked over. Murphy sat at his desk, looked at me, and said, “Thanks for coming in.”
“You wanted to see me?” I asked.
He tipped his head toward the redhead. “Tell her what you told me.”
I glanced at the redhead. “Who are you?”
“Celia Burke.”
“Ah, you’re the coroner. I’m Joss, and this is Finch.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen your show.” She had a sour look on her face when she said it. “Murphy told me you asked if Alexandra Weston was poisoned.”
I nodded. She nodded too.
“She was. I found traces of fluoroacetate in her system.”
Finch raised a brow. “Fluoro what?”
“It’s a rodenticide,” I said. “She must have ingested it when she drank the coffee. Did anyone test the mug?”
Murphy shook his head. “I didn’t. It wasn’t found at the scene.”
“Wouldn’t she have tasted it in the coffee?” Finch asked.
Celia shook her head. “Fluoroacetate is water soluble. It has no taste, no smell. It’s not easy to come by anymore though. It was used on rodents in the ’40s. Now it’s mainly used against coyotes around here. They’ve been responsible for several pet deaths in the area lately.”
“It makes sense,” I said. “Alexandra was jittery, especially toward the end of our conversation. Her hands were shaking.”
“The poison also caused her to vomit,” Celia said, “which explains why we found what we did in the toilet. It’s a nasty poison. The amount she consumed could have affected her perception.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“It could have made her hallucinate.”
“Aside from the jittery hands, she communicated she was okay when I talked to her. What else did you find?”
“The usual ... prints, hair fibers,” Murphy said. “It’s a public bathroom though, so there’s a lot to go through.”
“What about the knife recovered from the dumpster? Was the handle removed and tested?”
The question seemed to irritate her.
“The crime lab tested everything.” She sighed. “The odds of finding blood were slim considering it wasn’t the murder weapon.”
“The killer must have been there when she died,” I said. “She definitely didn’t have a cut on her neck when I saw her.”
Murphy nodded at Celia. “That will be all, Burke. Thanks for your time.”
She walked out, leaving the door wide open.
“Is she always this happy?” I joked. “Is she related to Blunt?”
“She’s on the shy side,” Murphy replied. “She doesn’t like people.”
“I appreciate you including me, but couldn’t you have given me this information over the phone?”
Murphy raised a finger. “I’m not done. Close the door.”
Finch reached out, pushed the door closed.
“Porter Wells called me this morning,” Murphy said. “He said you stopped by his house today, asked a lot of questions.”
“And?”
“He didn’t like it.”
“Porter Wells called just to say he didn’t like me showing up at his house?”
“He also asked for a restraining order. He doesn’t want you around him or Chelsea.”
“Are you kidding?”
He frowned. �
�There wasn’t anything I could do. Of course, he can’t get a restraining order over the phone. He needs to fill out a petition form.”
“I know that and you know that, but he may not. Did you enlighten him?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have time to hold his hand. He can figure it out like everyone else. I need to know why you went to his home though.”
“Did Barbara Berry come talk to you yesterday?”
“For a few minutes. Why?”
“I met with her. She said she thought no one here took her seriously. She claimed Porter was after Alexandra’s money and Doyle was a stalker.”
“I’m well aware of her opinions. We did a complete search of Alexandra’s home, talked to Porter, talked to Doyle Eldridge. There’s no hard evidence on either one of them. Sure, Porter’s full of himself and Doyle’s a little odd, but you can’t arrest someone for that. ‘Odd’ doesn’t make Doyle a stalker or a killer, and ‘pride’ doesn’t make Porter so money hungry he’d murder her for more of it.”
“Do you have any other leads? Any other suspects?”
“Look, the real reason I asked you here, Miss Jax, was to remind you to let us do our job. I’m not trying to be rude, but maybe it’s time for you to leave town.”
I nodded and walked out of his office, leaving Murphy behind his desk, still talking to me like I cared what he had to say.
“Now hang on,” Murphy called after me. “There’s no need to get upset. I appreciate your interest and your help. And I loved meeting you in person.”
I didn’t turn back.
I didn’t reply.
I just kept on walking.
CHAPTER 22
The female caller on the other end of the phone spoke in short, staggered sentences—fragments mumbled in strings of three or four words like the cell reception was cutting in and out. It took a minute before I recognized her voice. “Chelsea, I can’t understand you. Slow down. I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”
“There’s someone behind me!”
“Who’s behind you?”
“I don’t know. A man ... or maybe a woman. I can’t tell.”
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Yes, but where?” I asked.
She paused. “On the corner of ... umm ... Chestnut and Sixth.”
Still in the parking lot in front of the police department, I snapped my fingers, got Finch’s attention, put the call on speaker. “How do you know you’re being followed?”
“Every turn I make, the car turns too.”
“Can you tell what kind of car it is?”
“It’s ... ahh ... dark blue, like a bluish-black.”
“What about the make and model?”
“I’m not sure, an old lady car. It’s big.”
“Can you get a look at the person in your rearview mirror?”
“I see what looks like a coat with the hood pulled over the head, and he or she is wearing glasses.”
“What kind of glasses?”
“Sunglasses.”
“Hang on.”
I glanced at Finch, weighing the decision I needed to make. I could get to my rental car and find Chelsea or sprint back to Murphy’s office. I pivoted and ran, phone in my hand, Chelsea still on the line. Being a mediocre runner at best, I wasn’t surprised when Finch shot past me. He flung the door open to Murphy’s office. Murphy looked up and indicated we needed to wait. He was on the phone. I jerked the phone receiver out of his hand, slamming it down on its base.
He glared at me. “What in the hell do you think you’re—”
Finch leaned toward Murphy, communicated what was going on. I grabbed a piece of paper from his desk. It looked important. I didn’t care. I scribbled down Chelsea’s location on a piece of paper, handed it to him.
“Chelsea, you still there?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“What’s happening now?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you still being followed?”
“Yes. I don’t know what to do!”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. Help is on the way.”
“How far away are you? I don’t know how much longer I can keep looping around.”
“Stay as calm as you can. We’re sending someone to you.”
“My car is almost out of gas. I’m going to have to pull over.”
In unison, Murphy, Finch, and I yelled, “No!”
“Don’t pull over,” I said. “Unless your car stops, you keep going. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Are your doors locked?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Murphy leaned over to speak into the phone. “Chelsea, this is Detective Murphy.”
“Where’s Joss? I want to talk to Joss.”
“I’m here,” I said.
Murphy looked at Finch. “You two keep her talking. Have her circle the block a few more times until we can get to her. Do not let her park her vehicle for any reason or engage in any kind of contact with the person she believes is following her. Understand?”
Murphy bolted out of the door.
“Keep driving, but stay close to those cross streets,” I said. “Detective Murphy is sending someone now. Can the person behind you tell you’re on the phone?”
“I don’t know. I’m talking to you on my Bluetooth through the car.”
“When did you first notice you were being followed?”
“About ten minutes ago. I kept seeing the same car behind me when I stopped at each traffic light, so I turned into a neighborhood to see if the car would still follow me, and it did, through five streets and back out onto the main road I’m on now.”
“Are you alone?”
It was an obvious question, but I asked anyway.
“Yeah, it’s just me. I was heading to the funeral home. My mom’s services are in two hours. I wanted to go early and, you know, spend some alone time with her before everyone else gets there.”
Keeping her talking was keeping her calm. I kept going. “How was your visit with your mom’s lawyer?”
“He told me ... he said ... my parents are already divorced. I just don’t get it. How could she do that? How could she keep it from me? How could he keep it from me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe your mother was trying to protect you.” When she didn’t say anything, I said, “Chelsea, you still there?”
“Hang on a sec. The car was behind me a few seconds ago, and now it’s ... I don’t see it anymore.”
Murphy walked in.
“How far away are your guys?” I asked.
“One, two minutes tops,” Murphy replied. “Chelsea, I have two officers en route. Get back to those two cross streets so they can find you.”
A few seconds passed, and then Chelsea screamed.
CHAPTER 23
Chelsea’s voice, panicked and afraid, mewled through the phone like the wounded howl of a wolf—petrified, fighting to break free when there was nowhere to go. “The mother-effer is trying to force me off the road!”
A wave of guilt gripped me. I shouldn’t be here in Murphy’s office, waiting, incapable of helping her. I should have gone to her. Every agonizing second now was precious. Every second could save her life. It could also end it.
“Chelsea, what’s happening?” I asked. “Talk to me.”
“I have to pull over. I don’t have a choice. I have to!”
“No!”
I faced Murphy. “Why aren’t your guys there yet? How long does it take?!”
“They will be, anytime now,” he said.
Eyes wide, he glared at me, no doubt a nonverbal cue meant to warn me not to increase Chelsea’s anxiety level any more than necessary. I didn’t care. I wasn’t an optimist. I was a realist. “Any minute now might be too late.”
The sound of glass shattering echoed through the phone. A car door opened and slammed shut.
“Chelsea, are you there?” I asked. “Are you oka
y? What’s happening?”
“The car door behind me just opened. Someone’s coming!” she screamed.
“Can you get away?”
Sirens whistled in the background.
“Get away from me!” she screamed. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Get away!”
A shot cracked through my phone’s speaker, and the line went dead.
CHAPTER 24
Thirty minutes later, I sat on a chair inside the hospital room where Detective Murphy was having Chelsea checked out to ensure she hadn’t sustained any injuries. The shot we’d heard earlier wasn’t fired from an officer’s gun. And it wasn’t fired from her attacker. It was fired from Chelsea’s mother’s gun, which Chelsea had stashed inside the glove box after her mother’s murder.
“I’m fine,” Chelsea spat as the nurse inspected her. “I’m not missing my mother’s funeral over this.”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” I said.
“I’m not worried. I’m pissed that asshole got away.”
The asshole she referred to had fled on foot after Blunt and Parks failed to catch him. Or her. We still weren’t certain which gender we were dealing with. A tireless Officer Blunt was still searching. The attacker’s car had been towed. Every inch was being inspected.
“When can I get out of here?” Chelsea asked. “Please. I can’t miss the funeral.”
“I have a few questions first,” Murphy said. “Joss, can you give us a minute alone?”
Chelsea shook her head. “No way. She’s staying. I don’t know you.”
Offended by the comment, Murphy huffed then crossed his arms. “You know I’m a detective. I showed you my badge.”
“You ever see Training Day? The Shield? The Place Beyond the Pines? All cops. All corrupt. You seem nice. You’re probably a great guy just trying to do his job. But right now, the only adult I trust besides my fiancé is Joss.”
He laughed. “This isn’t a movie. This is real life. But okay, if it makes you feel better, she can stay.”
Chelsea glanced at the clock on the wall. “Can I be out of here in fifteen minutes?”
“We can postpone the funeral for a few hours if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. “After the car crashed into you, did you get a good look at the person following you?”
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