Rosie was standing close by, listening, making notes.
“Where the hell was her surveillance?” Mason asked.
He sounded as angry as I felt. That made me feel better somehow. That he was furious on my behalf.
“Alarm went off at the bank. They were closest, and their relief was due in twenty, so dispatch sent them to check it out.”
“And?”
“Brick through the bank’s window,” Rosie said. “Probably a distraction to get them out of the way so he could dump the body here without being seen.”
Mason nodded. Their killer was clever, he’d give him that. “Let me see your hands, Rachel.”
She held them out. “I touched him. I was going to check for a pulse, but his body rolled, and I knew he was gone.”
Mason looked her hands over. “Barely any blood on them.”
“Do I need a lawyer, Mason?” I asked. “Does anyone really think I bashed my best friend’s brains in, then dumped him on my own doorstep and called the cops?”
“No. No one thinks that. It’s standard procedure to check everyone at the scene of a murder. I want my ducks in a row on this. You do, too. Trust me on that. Should any evidence turn up later, you need your ass covered now.” He turned to Rosie. “Have Dennison get in here with the camera. Photograph her hands so we have it on record they were virtually blood-free and clearly hadn’t been washed.”
He was trying to help me. I got it now.
Someone came in and shot my hands. Someone else scraped under my nails and put the scrapings into a plastic evidence bag, sealed it with red tape and walked away writing on it with a Sharpie. I didn’t argue, because I didn’t have a thing to hide.
Rosie said, “The tire tracks in the driveway support everything you said, Ms. de Luca. Someone spun out of here, and there’s a blood trail from where the car stopped to your front door. Forensics wants permission to take a look at your car’s tires for a tread comparison.”
I nodded. “It’s in the garage. Knock yourselves out.”
“Absolutely not!” The voice came from the kitchen side of the house as my sister, who had her own set of keys to my place, came charging into the living room. “If you want my sister to answer any questions, she’s getting a lawyer first.”
“Hell, her and her damn scanner,” I said to Mason. Then I met Sandra’s eyes, shook my head. “Don’t, sis. Just...don’t.”
“I’m going to call Victor Kent, Rache. He’s the best criminal attorney I know of. Meanwhile, don’t you dare answer any further questions until you and he speak.” She pulled out her cell phone and walked away to make her call.
“You know I have nothing to hide. She’s just overprotective.” I met and held Mason’s eyes.
He stared back into mine for a long time, long enough that I knew he was looking for the truth there. So I let him look. He had to know I was telling the truth. And I knew that he was the one keeping secrets from me, not the other way around.
Meanwhile, it was clear to both of us that I was into this mess up to my neck. The killer was fucking with me, with the people I loved. I might not be able to do anything about that, but I was damn well going to find out Mason Brown’s secrets.
“Your home is a crime scene at the moment, Rachel. We’re going to need to check it thoroughly, and we’re legally allowed to keep you out until we do, even if your lawyer insists on us waiting for a warrant.”
I reached for my vodka, then thought better of it. I needed to stay sharp. I didn’t even know who to trust right now. “So it’s safe to say you guys are going to be here awhile?”
“Yeah. Like I said, it’s a crime scene.”
“What about me? Am I allowed to leave?”
“To go where?”
I blinked and looked at Sandra.
“To my house,” she said. “She just lost a friend, Detective Brown. That is who you are, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so.” She nodded, softened just slightly. “I’m taking my sister home with me.” She pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to him. “My office is in my home, so that’s the address. Phone, too. Let us know if you need anything.”
Mason looked at me, then at her, then at Rosie, who shrugged. Sighing he said, “All right. Go home with your sister.”
“Can I get dressed first? Pack a bag?”
“Nothing leaves the house until we’ve finished. Including your car, Rache. Sorry.”
I got up from my chair. “I love that car. Don’t you dare let them rip her to shreds.”
“There’s no reason to do that.”
He lowered his voice a little. “I’m trying to protect you here, not convict you. The killer was here, on your property. We need to check everything he could have touched.”
I nodded. “Car keys are on the hook in the kitchen.” I got up, felt the weight of my cell phone in my bathrobe pocket and decided it was coming with me whether the cops liked it or not. “Come on, Myrtle. Let’s go ride in Sandra’s car.”
Sandra, Myrt and I went out through the garage. I certainly wasn’t going out the front, where Mott’s body was still lying. Even Myrtle was less excited by a ride in the car than usual. It was as if she knew our lives had been turned upside down.
* * *
Sandra only lived two miles away so it wasn’t a long drive. I was putting off telling her my plans because I dreaded the inevitable fight. I needed her help to execute them, and she would need her computer to give it to me, but she was going to do her damnedest to talk me out of them, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
I looked back at Myrtle, already snoozing on the backseat by the time Sandra pulled into the driveway, cut the engine and headlights. I realized it was now or never. Better to argue out here than in the house, where we would wake the twins and Jim.
No such luck. The porch light came on, and I saw my sister’s perfect husband silhouetted behind the glass pane of the front door. Shit. This would be harder with him awake. Two against one wouldn’t be fair.
I got out, resolved to take them both on and scooped my too-heavy bulldog out of the back. I carried her, because she was tired and this wasn’t her usual domain (and I tended to over-coddle her) as I walked to the house beside my sister. Jim opened the door before we got to it, came out in his pajamas, complete with striped robe and loafer-style slippers, and hugged me, dog and all. “Come on, kiddo. I made you some chamomile tea.” He patted Myrt’s head. “And I have a leftover piece of beef for you, chub.”
I let them lead me into the haven of their home. The entrance was just a landing, with a short flight of stairs that went up to the main part of the house and another set that went down to their finished basement, game room, laundry room and guest room. I carried Myrtle up so she wouldn’t have to negotiate the stairs. Shoes off first, though, like any normal visit. It always smelled good here. A combination of fabric softener sheets and Lemon Pledge. My dog would probably take care of that in short order if we were here long enough. I resolved that we wouldn’t be.
The living room had a railing around the stairway. We walked through into the combination kitchen/dining area. Everything else was down a hallway to the left, where I presumed the twins were asleep in their beds.
No, I didn’t. They were eavesdropping for sure.
I sat at the table and let Jim pour me a cup of tea, while Myrt accepted her treat and sank onto the floor near my feet to chow down. They left me alone for a few minutes, but the minute they returned I opened my mouth to launch into my case. Then I closed it again when Jim held up a hand and started to speak.
“Sandy tells me she’s hired Victor Kent,” Jim said. “I’m sure you don’t think you need a lawyer because you’re innocent, but a lot of people who thought that are in prison right now.”
Sandra turned to me, taking my hands in hers. “Look, you have to protect yourself. Just do what the lawyer says.”
“And what does he say?” I asked. “Not to cooperate? To make myself loo
k as guilty as possible? It’s obvious to anyone with a brain that I had nothing to do with these murders. I was blind through most of them, for God’s sake.”
“The police are desperate to solve these crimes, Rachel,” Jim said calmly, reasonably. He was the calmest, most reasonable man I knew. “You’re walking through a minefield here. Victor has already been in touch with Police Chief Subrinsky. He’s told them they can’t search the inside of your home without a warrant, and that will take time.”
“But what do I care if they search the house? I have nothing to hide.”
Jim heaved a sigh. “If someone is trying to make you look guilty, how do you know they didn’t plant evidence earlier so the police could find it after they dumped the body?”
“Okay, fine.” There was no point in asking for Sandra’s help, I realized. With her logical, clear-thinking husband around, she would never go along with my plan. I was on my own.
“I’m going down to the guest room,” I said. “I’m exhausted, and I need to get some sleep and think more about this in the morning.” I took a long drink of the foul-tasting tea to soak up any residual alcohol, gave them each a perfunctory hug, then picked up my bulldog and went down to the basement—and straight into my sister’s home office, the place where she made real estate deals left and right, even in a down market. She was good at what she did. The office was beside the garage, with its own ground level entrance for clients.
After setting Myrt on the floor, I closed the office door softly and turned on Sandra’s computer. Its start-up chime made me want to punch it in the monitor, but since no one came running, I guessed they hadn’t heard it upstairs. Quickly, I went to her business page, entered her user name and password—which were the same everywhere on the internet. Her user name was SandralovesJim, and her password was Misty-Christy. Then I ran a search for recent sales in Castle Creek, New York.
Mason Brown’s new home was the first one that popped up. Small town, and not exactly a booming real estate market. There were photos of the place, date of sale, name of the Realtor he’d used and the one who’d sold it, and, of course, the pièce de résistance, the address.
Now all I needed was a set of wheels. I got up and looked down at my attire. And a set of clothes, I thought. Luckily the laundry room was also in the basement. A pair of mom-jeans and a T-shirt were just the ticket. The twins’ shared first vehicle was sitting at the end of the driveway, which had just enough of a slope that I would be able to coast away a little before starting the engine. The keys were on the rack in the garage, and Myrt and I were on our way to investigate the investigator.
* * *
Mason Brown sat in the driveway of Rachel de Luca’s impressive home, watching the place long after everyone else had gone.
They needed a judge to sign a warrant before they could search the house, or the car, thanks to her high-end lawyer’s intervention, and the delay was frustrating.
Rachel herself had been cooperative until her sister had come charging in like the cavalry. He supposed that could have been an act, but he didn’t think so.
At least he was here, watching the place. No one was going to tamper with any evidence tonight. And by morning, noon at the latest, he’d have that warrant.
In the meantime, he pulled out the book the shrink had written. The guy’s theory was ridiculous, of course.
But he’d seen Rachel’s penchant for hot sauce firsthand. And she’d said that she’d never liked it before she got her eyesight back, and that she found it odd she loved it so much now.
His brother had loved hot sauce. Eric had sprinkled the stuff on everything.
Coincidence.
He’d figured he would toss the book, but instead, sitting here for the next several hours with nothing but time on his hands, he decided to skim through it again. And as he did, he started to question his own certainty. Dr. Vosberg had cited some pretty extreme cases. The vegan health nut who woke from her surgery with a craving for a Big Mac and fries—and later learned it had been her donor’s final meal.
Then there was the man who’d never played a note of music in his life but sat down at a piano and started playing after receiving a heart from a concert pianist.
Was it possible that Eric’s organs had carried his warped need to kill on to a new host? More than one, even?
And if so, was it someone else? He already knew it couldn’t possibly be Rachel herself. She was the most logical candidate, given that she was connected to each of the murders since Eric’s death, and he was very afraid the current killer was targeting her now, either to frame her for his crimes or to make her one of his victims.
But while he didn’t think she was a murderer, he was convinced there was something going on.
He knew the house wasn’t locked. Why lock it when there was a cop sitting in the driveway watching the place? He could easily go in and take a look around. But no. He was doing this by the book. He’d broken the law he was sworn to uphold once already, in covering up Eric’s crimes, and that was enough for one lifetime, thanks very much. Not to mention it was biting him in the ass every time he turned around.
No, he’d just wait for the warrant. If there was evidence inside, it wasn’t going anywhere.
* * *
Mason’s new house was cute, a neat little turn-of-the-century farmhouse with a small barn off to the side. The house was white with red trim, the barn red with white trim, and both looked to be in decent shape, given their obvious age. The U-Haul trailer I’d seen in his apartment driveway the other day was parked in front, closed but not locked. That would be my first stop. I was half hoping all his belongings would still be in it, and I wouldn’t have to break and enter a cop’s home. I left Myrt in the car and went to see what I could find. But when I opened the trailer, jumping as the door squeaked on its hinges, I found it empty.
I closed the door again, then stayed quiet for a minute, just listening, watching the place. It was dark as hell, dead silent. I heard crickets somewhere, a night bird or two. But nothing else, except the wind and the cars passing on distant Route 81.
Okay, I had to do this. I had to.
I headed up the porch steps but then stopped halfway, because I’d caught sight of something in the barn, and for some reason it brought me up short. Through the slightly open door I could see the nose of a white pickup truck.
Isn’t this a stroke of luck? Little brother kept the truck.
The voice in my head was so clear and so unexpected that I jumped as if I’d heard it out loud. And yet, despite how freaked out I felt, I found myself walking toward the barn, toward the truck. A few spindly weeds hidden in the tall grass grabbed at the legs of my borrowed jeans. They were Sandra’s and a size too big, but the twins’ would have been a foot too long and too tight to let me breathe. I’d opted for comfort. There was a night breeze, soft but chilly, sending shivers down my spine. Or at least I thought they were caused by the wind.
I stopped at the barn door, gripped it and slid it open. It had casters in a track up top that squealed in protest. I cringed at the noise, and something inside flapped its wings and moved deeper into the barn, scaring the hell out of me. Then all was quiet again.
I looked at the truck and just for the hell of it tried the driver’s door.
It opened. Cool. There wasn’t much inside. A pair of leather work gloves. A broken ratchet on the floor. A travel mug that hadn’t seen a dishwasher in way too long.
I reached for the glove compartment and opened it, flipping through the stuff inside and finding an expired insurance card.
Eric Conroy Brown. It was my donor’s truck, all right. Maybe this was where I could find out more about him and get some answers to my questions.
I dug around the rest of the truck but found nothing of interest except for a pair of sunglasses I just loved for some reason and was tempted to steal. I put them back instead, got out and walked around to the back. The bed was lined with chrome toolboxes, all of which were locked.
I ha
d to get into them. I had to. Impulsively, I ran my hands underneath the wheel wells, and lo and behold, I found a magnetic box affixed to the inside of one with a key inside. I climbed up on the tailgate and slipped the key into the lock of the first toolbox. It turned, and I lifted the lid.
The only thing inside—well, besides lots and lots of tools—was a satchel, like a duffel bag. Frowning, I pulled it out and sat down on the barn floor to unzip it.
* * *
Mason was reading about a perfectly wonderful husband who began beating his wife after receiving the kidney of a man who’d done time for domestic violence, when his cell phone rang. He closed the book and picked up the phone. “Brown.”
“Hey, pal, it’s Rosie. We got the okay to take the imprint from the tire of her car, but the judge said no more than that until he’s had time to review the case. Chief Sub says just get the imprint and then surveil the place from outside until morning. Someone will relieve you then.”
“All right.”
He got out of the car, taking his kit with him. The garage had two overhead doors and a side door, which was the one he used to go inside. He found the light switch, flipped it on and headed over to take a rubbing from the tread of the car’s rear tire. It was an easy task. Lay the paper on the tire, rub the charcoal back and forth to get the impression, take the whole thing in to the station and have an expert compare it with the cast taken from the tire tracks in the driveway. He also noted the size of the tires. To the naked eye, they were narrower than the tracks he’d seen earlier in the driveway, but a comparison would say so for sure.
Then he straightened and, in spite of the rule book, took a look at the inside of the garage, walking slowly around the car but carefully touching nothing on the way. There was a utility sink in the back. Something on the front of it caught his eye, and then his heart sank a little. It looked like blood, smeared along the top lip of the deep sink.
Sleep With The Lights On Page 21
