by Jance, J. A.
“Excuse me,” Ali said. “This isn’t any of your business, either.”
“Yes,” he said. “I believe it is. Do you know much about the Korean War?”
“No,” Ali said. “Not really.”
“I was in it,” he said. “I was in Forty-one Commando Royal Marines—a cook. So I saw a lot of action but I didn’t do much fighting. I fed the guys who did, but I didn’t think I was worth much. I came home from the war and I was ready to just sit around and do nothing, but then a miracle happened—two of them actually. Someone sent me his Silver Star.”
“Like a war medal?” Ali asked.
Brooks nodded. “It belonged to a guy named Arthur Reed, whose life I happened to save when his vehicle crashed through some ice and he almost drowned. He sent me the medal when the war was over. Said he never would have been alive to receive it if I hadn’t saved his sorry butt to begin with.” Brooks fell quiet for a moment and then continued.
“I was always a bit different back home. My family wasn’t keen on having people of my persuasion hanging about. After the war I tried going home where my own parents treated me like an outcast. For a while I sat around wallowing in self-pity, but after Art sent me that medal, I made up my mind to come here to the U.S. in hopes of starting over. Once I got here, the other guy, the second Marine, heard that Anna Lee was looking for a bodyguard and driver, and he put me in touch with her. So that was the second miracle. The rest is history.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Ali asked.
“Because, according to what Mr. Holman tells me, you’ve been through your own kind of war, Ms. Reynolds. And I think you’ve earned your own kind of medal. When the police release it from evidence, I want you to have it.”
“I can’t possibly…”
“Yes, you can,” Brooks insisted. “I’m like Art Reed, you see. I had no idea how far gone Miss Arabella was. If it hadn’t been for you, chances are, I’d be dead now, too, right along with Mr. Ashcroft the third. That’s why I’m determined to pass it along. And now I’d like you to get dressed and come with me. I want to take you for a ride.”
“A ride,” Ali echoed. “Where to?”
“To the house,” Brooks said. “To Anna Lee Ashcroft’s house. To what I hope will be your house someday. I’d like to show you some of the changes I think are in order. Come on now, Ms. Reynolds. Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “I know what you’re doing. This is exactly how you used to treat Arabella—how you’d talk your way around her and get her to do what you wanted. It’s how you got her to be…normal.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Brooks said with a smile. “It worked for Miss Arabella, and I’m quite sure it will work for you as well.”
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Saturday, April 1, 2006
Happy April Fool’s Day. I woke up this morning laughing. What’s so funny? Well, let’s see. I’ve bought a house that needs everything—new plumbing, new wiring, new roof, new windows. How could any of that even remotely be construed as hilarious? For one thing, I’ve never built anything in my life.
I’m sure I’ll have plenty of help. My father is itching to get his hands on the place. So is my son, Chris. So is Leland Brooks. So is Dave Holman.
They’re all brimming over with suggestions about how to do this and that, and I’m prepared to take their ideas under advisement. But if this is going to be my house, I’m going to be the one with the final say. Next week I’ll be traveling down to Phoenix to interview several architects, and we’ll see if one of them measures up.
People who’ve lived through their own remodeling projects tell me that tackling this kind of job is no laughing matter, but this morning I beg to differ. The clouds finally seem to have lifted. Fixing Anna Lee Ashcroft’s house is going to be dreadfully hard work, but I’m looking forward to it. In fact, I can hardly wait.
After months of living in a fog of grief, I’m finally ready to step back out into the sunlight.
Demolition? Plaster dust? Building permits? All I can say is, “Bring it on!”
posted by Babe, 9:27A.M.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.A. Jance is the Top 10 New York Times bestselling author of the Joanna Brady series, the J.P. Beaumont series, three interrelated thrillers featuring the Walker family, and the Ali Reynolds series: Web of Evil and Edge of Evil. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona.
For a recipe for Sugarloaf Café sweet rolls please go to www.jajance.com and check the recipe page.
ALSO BY J.A. JANCE
ALI REYNOLDS MYSTERIES
Hand of Evil
Web of Evil
Edge of Evil
JOANNA BRADY MYSTERIES
Desert Heat
Tombstone Courage
Shoot/Don’t Shoot
Dead to Rights
Skeleton Canyon
Rattlesnake Crossing
Outlaw Mountain
Devil’s Claw
Paradise Lost
Partner in Crime
Exit Wounds
Dead Wrong
Damage Control
J. P. BEAUMONT MYSTERIES
Until Proven Guilty
Injustice for All
Trial by Fury
Taking the Fifth
Improbable Cause
A More Perfect Union
Dismissed with Prejudice
Minor in Possession
Payment in Kind
Without Due Process
Failure to Appear
Lying in Wait
Name Withheld
Breach of Duty
Birds of Prey
Partner in Crime
Long Time Gone
Justice Denied
AND
Hour of the Hunter
Kiss of the Bees
Day of the Dead
TOUCHSTONE
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by J.A. Jance
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jance, Judith A.
Cruel intent / by J.A. Jance.
p. cm.
“A Touchstone Book.”
1. Reynolds, Ali (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Internet—Fiction.
3. Blogs—Fiction. 4. Housewives—Fiction 5. Serial murderers—Fiction 6.
Arizona—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3560.A44C78 2008
813'.54—dc22 2008013649
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6387-7
eISBN: 978-1-4516-7577-1
ISBN-10: 1-4165-6387-3
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For Bill, in memory of B. Jo.
CRUEL INTENT
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
{ EPILOGUE }
/>
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
{ PROLOGUE }
Sipping a cup of freshly brewed Colombian blend, Peter Winter sat on the couch in his spacious family room, inserted the DVD into his computer, and then waited for the slide show to appear on his fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV. He kept the “before” photos in a group by themselves, and he flicked through those first. The befores showed five slender blondes, each smiling sweetly into the camera—into his camera. Rita Winter, Candace Miller, Melanie Tyler, Debra Longworth, and Morgan Forester. The five of them looked enough alike that they could have been sisters. Their faces were remarkably similar, with wide-set blue eyes, delicate features, and flawless complexions. They all had straight white teeth and carbon-copy smiles—superior smiles, knowing smiles, cheating smiles.
In addition to their beauty-pageant good looks, that was another thing the five women had in common—they were all cheaters. Second, all of them were greedy, always wanting more—always requiring more—than they had been given. Finally, of course, there was the dead part. That showed up in the “afters”—in those, the women weren’t alike at all, except that they were dead and looked it; well, four of them did anyway. The first photo was a grainy copy of a news photo with the body already covered by a tarp. Peter had missed the opportunity to take his own portrait, but since then he had corrected that oversight.
The photos showed Peter’s handiwork in brutal detail. The women, all of them naked and bloodied, lay either where they had fallen or where he had placed them. Posed them, as the profilers liked to say. Most people would have been repulsed by the photos. He found them exciting. Invigorating. Especially when he had reached this point—the time when he was about to add one more to his collection.
He hadn’t expected it would come to this with Morgan. He had figured he’d use her and lose her. That was the way he liked to operate, and it was a philosophy that had worked fairly well over the years, with a few notable exceptions. But some dumb blondes were smarter than they looked. It had come as a rude awakening when that pretty little piece of tail had turned on him and tried tracking him down at work. That had been the end of it. Or at least it had signaled the end of it. It had taken him some time—weeks, in fact—to get all the pieces in place, but today was the day. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Whistling that familiar Sunday-school tune, he switched off the DVD player and the TV set, removed the DVD, and stashed it in the safe in the back of his closet. At the same time, he removed his precious good-luck charm—the heart-shaped Tiffany key chain Carol had given him. It was loaded now with something far more powerful than keys, and on days like this—days when he was primed for action—he wanted the key ring with him. As long as he had that talisman in his pocket, he felt safe.
After pouring a second cup of coffee, Peter set about gathering and packing his equipment. He didn’t need to carry much. He brought along a fully loaded syringe, a set of scrubs, a pair of surgical gloves, and a pair of paper surgical booties. Blood spatter on scrubs was easily explained and easily gotten rid of. Surgical booties left no traceable footprints at the crime scene, and when they went into the hospital incinerator, they left behind no traceable forensic evidence, either.
Gloves were another matter. More than one dumb killer had been taken down when damning fingerprints were found inside gloves worn while committing a crime. But working in a hospital made disposing of surgical gloves pretty much foolproof. As long as they and his used hypodermics went into the proper containers in the proper examination rooms, he could be relatively sure they’d never be seen again—and never examined for incriminating forensic evidence.
He added a pair of leather driving gloves. Those were a necessity. They were the only way to ensure that he didn’t leave behind a damning fingerprint or two in the rental car. They also kept him from running the risk of being seen driving while wearing surgical gloves; that certainly would have raised eyebrows. With driving gloves, you had to be careful not to drop one at a crime scene. Watching O.J.’s long-ago murder trial had taught Peter all about that. When he needed to unload a pair that had reached the end of the road, he dropped them off in a Goodwill donation box.
The next thing he loaded into the briefcase was that day’s weapon of choice. In this case, he planned to use an ordinary household hammer, and not one he’d picked up from his neighborhood Ace hardware. Those might very well have some distinguishing markings on them. No, he chose to use one he’d bought at a garage sale in North Phoenix. The woman, a relatively new widow, had been selling her husband’s tools in preparation for moving into an assisted-living facility. Initially, Peter hadn’t wanted the whole lot, but she’d offered the entire kit at such a bargain-basement price that he had taken all of it, rolling tool box included.
So far he’d used only one of the tools he’d purchased that Sunday afternoon—the hacksaw—on the nosy little bitch in Greeley, Colorado, who had asked way too many questions. Getting rid of her had been an especially gratifying experience, but it had also been very messy. Exceedingly messy, as the after photo clearly showed. He’d had a lot of trouble getting himself cleaned up afterward and had worried about leaving something behind that might be traced back to him.
He expected that using the hammer would be simpler. If he did it right, there’d be far less blood to deal with, and what there was would be easier to control. Having blood evidence lying around was actually quite helpful. It gave the cops something to focus on, and that was the whole secret to getting away with murder. You had to give the cops plenty of blood evidence and make sure they found it where they expected to find it. And if you could muddy the water enough by having two prime suspects rather than one, that was even better.
Last but not least, he picked up his digital camera. Before he put it into the briefcase, he replaced the batteries. These shots were important to him. He didn’t want to miss a thing.
After closing his briefcase he snapped the locks. Stopping by the kitchen sink, he rinsed his coffee cup and put it in the dishwasher. At the front door, he paused long enough to look around. There was nothing out of place, nothing at all, and that was the way he liked it.
Squaring his shoulders and whistling “A-Hunting We Will Go,” he set out to do just that.
Matthew Morrison left home that Monday morning a little past five-thirty. Knowing he’d be heading out early on Monday, he had checked a Taurus out of the motor pool late Friday afternoon. By a quarter to six, he was on the 101 and driving south, heading to Red Rock, heading to Susan.
The last thing he had done before he left the house was turn on Jenny’s coffee. He hoped she wouldn’t notice that the coffee would be a whole hour older than it usually was, but he doubted she’d pay any attention to the clock on the pot. As far as coffee was concerned, the important thing for Jenny was that she didn’t have to make it herself when she finally scrambled out of bed around seven-thirty. When she deigned to appear in the kitchen, she wanted her coffee there and at the ready.
Matt’s customary departure time of six-thirty meant that his drive to the state government campus in downtown Phoenix usually involved dealing with rush-hour traffic. This morning and this early, there was barely any traffic at all. Anxious and excited, Matt kept reminding himself to slow down. Today of all days, it wouldn’t do for him to get a speeding ticket.
During the last week, ever since Susan had suggested they should meet at last, Matt had done his best to maintain an even keel. Last night, though, he had almost given the game away when Jenny caught him whistling as he loaded the dishwasher. “What the hell are you so happy about?” she had demanded.
Eighteen years ago, when they first married, Jenny had been a reasonably good-looking woman. That was no longer true. Her constant negativity had turned the corners of her mouth into a perpetual sneer. Frown lines marred her forehead, but her lack of beauty was much more than skin-deep.
Matt, who prided himself on keeping a positive mental attitude no matter what, had done what he could to change her. P
redictably, that hadn’t worked. Now, it turned out, he was changing himself and doing something for Matt for a change. He was going to get lucky. He had stopped at Walgreens on Sunday afternoon—not his neighborhood store, of course—and bought a package of Trojans. Just in case, he’d also brought along the sample of little blue pills that he’d ordered over the Internet.
Better to be prepared, he told himself. This might be his one chance, and he didn’t want to mess it up.
As the after-school bus rattled toward the end of its route on the Verde Valley School Road, only three children remained—the Forester twins, Lindsey and Lacy, and little Tommy Breznik. Tommy, far in the back, was engrossed in a handheld video game and oblivious to everything around him. As she did every day, Lacy sat silent and apart, with her face pressed to the window while her sister, Lindsey, chattered away with Mr. Rojo, the bus driver.
“Miss Farber said we’ll be taking a field trip down to Phoenix just before Christmas,” Lindsey was saying. “Do you think you’ll be our driver?”
Conrad Rojo liked kids, but he especially liked Lindsey, a bright child who talked a blue streak. Her sister, on the other hand, never said a word. It was strange to think that the two second-graders who looked so much alike could be so different.
“That depends,” Conrad Rojo told her. “Somebody else sets up the scheduling.”
“I hope it’ll be you,” Lindsey said. “Of all the bus drivers, I think you’re the best.”
Even though there was no traffic visible in either direction, Conrad turned on the flashers as he approached the turnoff to the Foresters’ place. He was surprised not to see Mrs. Forester’s white Hyundai Tucson parked at the end of the half-mile-long drive. For three years—as long as Lindsey and Lacy had attended Big Park Community School in the Village of Oak Creek—Morgan Forester had been waiting for her daughters at the end of the lane when the bus dropped them off. Conrad, who took the safety of his charges very seriously, was reluctant to leave the girls alone.
