Max glanced at her curiously. “Shall I wait for you?”
“No, you go on. That is, if Phil can spare me a moment?”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a little time. Walk me back to my office.”
They said their goodbyes to Max, then the two of them headed down the hallway.
“So what’s up?” Phil asked as he opened his office door and turned on the light. He motioned Marly toward a chair across from his desk.
When they were both settled, she said, “Are you familiar with a song called ‘Gloomy Sunday?’”
He glanced up. “Any particular reason why you’re asking?”
“My grandmother used to play it,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve always been curious about it.”
His gaze turned speculative. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what’s been going on around here?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “‘Gloomy Sunday’ is called the suicide song.”
Marly stared at him in shock. “Why?”
“You really didn’t know?” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “There’s quite a story behind it. I don’t know how much is true and how much is urban legend, but ‘Gloomy Sunday’ drew a lot of notoriety in Europe back in the 1930s when it was connected to a rash of suicides.”
Marly’s nerve endings tingled. “Connected how?”
“Supposedly the lyrics were quoted in a suicide note a man wrote before jumping out a seven-story window. Another man shot himself after hearing the song played in a nightclub. The stories go on and on, but my favorite is the errand boy in Rome who overheard a beggar humming the tune. The boy parked his cycle, gave the beggar all his money, and then threw himself off a bridge.”
Marly suddenly had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t help wondering if her grandmother had known about these stories, as well.
“I’ve got the Billie Holliday version here at the station if you’d care to listen to it,” Phil said. “As a matter of fact, I had a request for it just the other day.”
Marly glanced up sharply. “Do you know who made the request? And when?”
“I can find out. At least as to the ‘when’ part.” Phil swiveled around to the computer on his credenza. “We keep a log of all the requests made and played so that we don’t end up repeating the same songs over and over.” He scrolled down the screen, then paused. “Here it is. The request came in last Sunday, the thirteenth, just after noon. The caller specifically asked that ‘Gloomy Sunday’ be played at one o’clock that same afternoon.”
“Do you know the caller’s identity?”
“Nah, sometimes they give a name, but most requests are anonymous. My producer is the one who screens the calls. You can talk to her if you like, but I doubt she’ll remember. We have an all-day request line on Sundays, and we get a lot of calls for all kinds of music. She jots down the name of the song and the time and date it goes out on the air, and then later we enter it into the log. Like I said, we don’t like to repeat ourselves.”
Marly nodded, but her mind reeled with the information he’d given her. Sunday, the thirteenth, was the day of the first suicide. At one o’clock in the afternoon, Gracie Abbott would have just been arriving home from church and pulling into her garage.
CRYSTAL BISHOP LOWERED herself into the tub of hot water and sighed as she sank to her neck in bubbles. She was running late and should have settled for a quick shower, but a leisurely soak was just too tempting. Besides, she’d waited for Joshua plenty of times. She’d waited almost a whole year for him to call her after he and Marly broke up. He could damn well wait for her this time.
Still, she knew he’d be in a foul mood when she finally did show up at his place. He had little patience for tardiness, except his own, of course. It seemed to Crystal that he had little patience for anything she did these days. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was smart enough to read the signs.
It was obvious Joshua had someone else on the side. Someone Crystal would never have suspected, but she’d seen them together with her very own eyes that morning.
She’d just happened to be driving by, and there they were, standing pressed up against one another, gazing into each other’s eyes.
Crystal had been replaying that scene in her head all day, trying to make sense of it. Trying to convince herself it wasn’t what she thought. It couldn’t be. Not with the way Marly felt about Joshua.
From somewhere inside the house, Crystal heard something that sounded like a door clicking shut. She lay perfectly still in the bubbles, listening for the sound again, but when she didn’t hear anything, she decided it had either been her imagination or one of her neighbors slamming a car door—
No, there it was again. But a different sound this time, like someone rummaging through a drawer.
Crystal’s heart leaped to her throat. Someone was in her house, going through her things.
Normally, she wouldn’t have been so quick to jump to conclusions, but after everything that had being going on in town…old lady Abbott…those kids. And then poor Ricky…
She eased herself out of the tub and holding a towel to her chest, padded across the linoleum to close and lock the door. Then she glanced around. What was she going to do? There wasn’t a phone in the bathroom and her cell phone was in her purse. Even if she could somehow force open the window over the tub, she wasn’t sure she could slither through it.
Maybe she should be cool and wait it out, Crystal decided. It was probably a couple of stupid kids looking to score some drug money. They’d find her purse, take what little cash she had, then split. As long as she didn’t cause any trouble, they wouldn’t hurt her—
The knob on the bathroom door jiggled, and Crystal gasped, clutching the towel to her chest. Shivering uncontrollably, she watched the knob turn back and forth and then, in horror, she saw the lock rotate to the unlocked position.
But that wasn’t possible. Not unless someone had somehow managed to jimmy the lock from the other side—
The door swung open and Crystal screamed and jumped back. The floor was wet where she’d stood dripping, and her feet flew out from under her. With a thunderous crash, she fell back against the tub, cracking the back of her skull on the porcelain.
Groaning, she put her hand to the back of her head and felt something wet. Trying to shake off the dizziness, she scrambled toward the door, but someone blocked her path.
Her breath came in tiny little gasps as she gazed up in confusion. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
Something fell on the wet floor beside her, and Crystal stared at it in horror.
And then, in slow motion, she reached for the knife.
Chapter Nine
Deacon detected panic on more than a few faces in the crowded auditorium that night. Most of those in attendance were parents of teenagers who’d gone to school with David Shelley and Amber Tyson, and they’d come to the meeting desperately hoping to hear something that could help them prevent such a tragedy in their own family.
But they had no idea what they were up against, Deacon thought as he leaned a shoulder against the wall and watched the proceedings get underway. They reminded him of lambs being led to the slaughter.
He scanned the auditorium, wondering if the killer was out there somewhere, well hidden among family and friends.
Shifting his focus to the stage, he let his gaze linger on Marly. She still wore her uniform, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed before how well it suited her body. For a small woman, she was surprisingly curvy. Curvy and sensuous and dangerously sexy. Dangerous for him, at least.
What was it about her that had gotten to him? She wasn’t beautiful or particularly sophisticated. She was just an inexperienced, small-town cop who packed a wallop the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in years.
Deacon hadn’t been able to get her out of his head since she’d fled his apartment the night before. He’d even dreamed about her last n
ight. Dreamed about her mouth, open and eager beneath his, her body pliant and willing against his. He’d awakened early this morning aroused and frustrated and more than a little unsettled by the ease with which she’d gotten under his skin. With the way he’d let down his guard with her.
Unable to fall back asleep, he’d stood at the window, watching another rainy dawn break over the horizon as he’d vowed to keep the situation with Marly firmly under control.
But in spite of his resolve, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all day, even after her brush-off that morning. And now he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
Her demeanor on stage was that of a woman who wasn’t particularly comfortable in the limelight, and for some reason, that made her even more attractive to Deacon.
She answered questions when they were directly addressed to her, but otherwise she seemed content to hover in the background and allow Max Perry to occupy center stage. Deacon hadn’t been overly impressed with the man the evening before, but tonight he had to admit that Perry conducted the meeting with compassion, insight and a good deal of common sense.
Deacon watched for a few more minutes, then slipped away. Outside, he located Marly’s car, and then glancing around, melted into the shadows to wait for her.
When she came out of the auditorium half an hour later, it had started to rain again. She glanced skyward, grimaced, then made a run for her car. By the time she got across the parking lot, Deacon was waiting by her door.
Marly stopped short. Ignoring the rain, she glared up at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“I thought I made myself crystal clear this morning,” she said coolly. “Now please move away from my car.”
Deacon stood his ground. “I was out of line last night and I want to apologize.”
She swiped her damp hair out of her face. “That isn’t necessary. I told you this morning, I don’t blame you for what happened. It was just as much my fault as it was yours. All I want to do is forget about it.”
“But can you?”
She gave a heavy sigh. “Not if you persist in pestering me about it. Look,” she said impatiently. “I accept your apology, okay? Case closed.”
Deacon nodded. “I appreciate that. But I still say we got off on the wrong foot. I’d like to make it up to you.”
She rolled her eyes. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
“I can’t. Not when lives are at stake.”
“Well, then you can relax,” she said with an edge of sarcasm. “I saw Ricky Morales’s autopsy report with my own two eyes today. Cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. It was tragic, just like all the others were. But it wasn’t murder.”
Deacon cocked his head slightly as he gazed down at her. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because of the evidence. Or maybe I should say, the lack of evidence. And contrary to what you seem to think, you didn’t prove anything to me last night.”
That sounded like a challenge to Deacon, and he was tempted to prove to her right then and there what he could do. It would be so easy to make her want him again. All he had to do was look into her eyes and make the connection. Manipulate her mind and her emotions until all she could think about was having him. Until her feelings became so intense they would overwhelm her.
Sex would be incredible between them. He could make it so. But then afterward when she knew, when she realized what he had done, she would hate him. She would never trust him again. Might never trust anyone, and that wouldn’t be right because a woman like Marly needed love, even if she didn’t know it yet.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said impulsively.
Marly looked shocked by the invitation. “I…can’t. I already have plans.”
Deacon felt a pang of unreasonable jealousy and wanted to ask her to cancel them. Instead he said with a shrug, “Coffee then.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Hot chocolate, tea, Coke. There’s a café down the block.”
She nodded. “The Red Duck. It’s been there forever.”
“Will you meet me there?”
She started to say no. Deacon could tell it was on the tip of her tongue, but then suddenly she changed her mind and nodded.
If he was lucky, she wouldn’t figure out why until much later.
MARLY ARRIVED AT THE café first, and rather than waiting for Deacon, she hurried inside, brushing raindrops from her shoulders and hair. A bored waitress showed her to a red vinyl booth by the window and once Deacon arrived, poured him a cup of coffee. A few minutes later, she returned with Marly’s hot chocolate.
The rain was coming down harder now, beating a steady rhythm against the plate glass window. Nights like this always got to Marly. Made her feel lonely and bereft.
Ignoring the hollow feeling inside her chest, she lifted her cup, letting the steam from the hot chocolate ward off her chill. “How did you know where to find me tonight?” she asked curiously.
“I heard about the meeting on the radio this afternoon.”
She made a face. “You heard that? Did I come off as lame as I think I did?”
“You were fine.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Marly sighed. “It was Navarro’s idea. I guess he figured he’d rather have me on the radio than running around town with a gun. Can’t say as I much blame him for that,” she muttered. “I haven’t exactly found my niche in the police department yet.”
“You seemed in control of the situation at Ricky Morales’s house the other day,” Deacon pointed out.
Marly glanced up in surprise. “Did I?” She felt unaccountably pleased by his observation.
He took a tentative sip of his coffee, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. “So what made you want to be a cop?”
She shrugged. “I never really wanted to be a cop. I needed a job and there was an opening at the police department.”
“What did you do before that?”
“I worked at a church.”
His brows rose. “Reverend Rush’s church?”
Marly’s jaw hardened. “Yeah, as a matter of fact.”
Deacon set aside his coffee. “This morning when I saw the two of you outside the police station I got the impression that you know each other fairly well.”
“I guess you could say that.” Marly spooned a bite of whipped cream from her hot chocolate. “Joshua and I were once engaged.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, but Marly could tell that she’d surprised him. Maybe even shocked him. “What happened?” he finally asked. Then, “Never mind. That’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s not,” Marly agreed. “It’s no one’s business, but that doesn’t stop people around here from talking about it. Some of them have made it pretty clear they think I’m an idiot for letting a man like Joshua slip through my fingers.”
“I would have thought it the other way around,” Deacon said.
Marly’s stomach fluttered with awareness. Okay, maybe she didn’t exactly trust the man, or trust herself with him, but he did have a way with words, she had to admit. “You only say that because you don’t know me very well,” she accused.
“No. I say that because I’ve met Reverend Rush.”
Marly couldn’t help grinning. “What, you weren’t bowled over by all that boyish charm? That movie star charisma?” She took another bite of the whipped cream. “You should see how his congregation treats him. They practically worship him on Sundays, and he loves it. He revels in the adoration, not to mention the generous contributions from his most faithful devotees.”
“I take it you don’t exactly have regrets about the breakup,” Deacon said.
“Let’s just say, I spent the first eighteen years of my life with a man like Joshua Rush. I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my life with another.”
Their gazes met across the table, and Deacon nodded, as if he understood completely what she was saying. It was a momentary bonding that caug
ht Marly by surprise. And took her breath away.
Her heart began to pound as she realized they were completely alone in the café. Even the waitress had somehow disappeared.
She thought again about the kiss they’d shared, and before she could help herself, her gaze dropped to Deacon’s lips. They were full and well-shaped. Sexy and kissable. What would he do, she wondered, if she leaned across the table and planted one on him? Would he pull away?
Not if last night was any indication. Marly had a sudden image of him hauling her across the table and kissing her back until she had no will of her own. Until she lived for nothing else but the feel of his lips on hers, the whisper of his warm breath against her neck, the pressure of his hands on her breasts…
She tore her gaze away and stared out at the rain.
After a moment, Deacon said, “Tell me about your father.”
Marly frowned. “Why do you want to know about him?”
“Because I have a feeling that to know you I have to know about him.”
She stabbed at the whipped cream with her spoon. “There really isn’t much to tell. He’s a domineering megalomaniac who tried to control every aspect of my life, just like he does my mother’s. I’ve watched him browbeat and bully her for years. She can’t so much as plan a menu without his okay. He tells her how to dress, how to wear her hair, even what she can eat for dinner. If she gains a pound, he ridicules her until she drops it. If she buys a dress without his permission, he makes her take it back. If he could control her every thought, he would. But he can’t do that. At least…he couldn’t with me.” Her voice hardened. “He could make me wear clothes that I hated and eat food that I despised, but he couldn’t control my mind. No one can.” Her gaze dared him to dispute her.
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