When she pulled her Taser from its case, her hands stayed steady—a very good sign. Constructed from black plastic, the stun gun felt light and comfortable in her grip. With a simple click, she activated the laser sights. Sweeping the red dot about the room, she straight-armed the Taser.
“Clear,” she whispered.
No. That wasn’t right.
“Clear,” she said, in soft but audible voice. Yes, that was a bit better. She turned off the red light and resolved to practice handling both her Taser and her pepper-spray ultra system again tomorrow. Lightning doesn’t often strike twice, so it seemed unlikely she’d ever actually use her assembled arsenal, but one thing was damn sure, on the off chance lightning did strike again, she wouldn’t be caught unprepared.
TWELVE
Wednesday, July 31, 12:00 P.M.
Fifteen more days.
Scourge flexed his aching fingers. He wished he’d popped some aspirin, but he’d been too wound-up to think of it. Now, as he palmed his homemade bump key, the ache in his joints brought a sense of pride for a job well done. The first time he’d been in Faith’s home, he’d used her hide-a-key to get inside, but unfortunately, his timing had been off. Faith had arrived home earlier than he’d anticipated and spotted him inside the house, forcing him to scramble over the back fence before the police arrived.
And now, just as he’d figured, she’d changed her locks and ditched the hide-a-key.
Smart girl.
But not as smart as him.
He ran his fingers over the cold edge of the key he’d sanded down earlier today, closed and opened his palm around it, then smiled at the way his flesh blanched and retained the triangular pattern of the key’s shaft. The faintest of quivers beset his hands. What if the key didn’t work? What if he hadn’t sanded and smoothed it properly? With no one there to guide him, his confidence was low, but he’d followed the Internet instructions to the letter, and he’d made several practice keys first. He’d been diligent and careful and polished every speck of dirt off the shaft.
The key will work.
On a long inhale, he slipped the bump key in the back-door lock. The shaft sank in easily.
So far so good.
He pulled the key back just a bit, remembering what he’d read—this was the art of the bump. Next, he removed a small screwdriver from his pocket and used the handle to tap the key, just so.
The bump.
The bump, the click, the snap of the lock resonated down his arm.
Yes!
The key turned. The door opened, and once again he’d successfully penetrated Dr. Faith Clancy’s private sanctuary.
The house itself was not much, but the master bedroom was magnificently located on the east side of home. A large, eight-paned window banked with heavy wood allowed morning light to come flooding in, igniting the mustard-colored walls. He stuck his arms out and lifted them over his head, like a circus master inside a ring of fire, posturing for the crowd.
The screens had been removed, and the windows were kept crystalline clean, no doubt to enhance the coveted view of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range.
Sangre de Cristo.
The blood of Christ.
His skin grew hot, as if the walls of fire were closing in on him. He turned his back on the window, grabbed his knees, and took deep breaths until his nausea passed. He stood back up and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. No cause for alarm. True, at the moment, he couldn’t even think of blood without panicking, but Dr. Clancy would have him cured in no time, which is why he was here in her home, on a little scouting expedition. He was a planner. He liked his ducks in a row before he carried out a kill, and with Dr. Clancy, it was more important than ever to get things right.
Pacing her bedroom, he caught sight of something that interested him on the nightstand—a rather striking picture of Dr. Clancy cradling a newborn babe. He halted, lifted the picture, and tilted his head. Upon closer inspection he realized his mistake. The woman with the baby wasn’t Dr. Clancy. Her eyes were a paler shade of jade—by a fraction—her expression every bit as lost as the one Dr. Clancy wore when she thought no one was looking. A freckle dotted the corner of the woman’s lips, which were full and luscious like Dr. Clancy’s. Oh, yes. Of course.
This must be Grace.
His hand trembled as he replaced the photograph on the nightstand. How terrible for Dr. Clancy. Like Scourge, she had no one left. He pressed his index finger to his lips. Yes. She’d be happier, better off joining her sister and her parents in the great beyond. He’d take the utmost care to ensure her path to heaven was straight and easy. Scraping his fingernail across his teeth, he thought of a special touch. He’d leave Dr. Clancy with his very best rosary—the one Sister Cecily had given him in school. Many times he’d thought of leaving it at a kill, but he’d never felt the occasion was right. Now he knew why. That rosary was meant for Dr. Clancy, his healer, his savior.
All he had to do was get well so he could give it to her.
That decided, he moved on to the living room. There, a kiva fireplace extended to the viga-beamed ceiling. A creamy leather sectional decorated with an assortment of brightly colored throw pillows, a distressed wood coffee table, and a Navajo rug finished off the casual Southwestern look nicely. He approved of her taste and was especially glad to note she’d stuck to one theme for the house. Her office décor, what there was of it, was decidedly eclectic, and that threw him off-balance.
He liked things to match.
Speaking of disorder, a number of books were spread haphazardly on the coffee table, and a copy of Arizona Highways lay folded open. Several hiking trails had been marked with a sharpie. Oh, that was too bad. She was planning a trip. Sorry to know she wouldn’t be able to make that journey, he shook his head.
But what could he do? The clock was ticking.
He made a few quick entries into his notepad regarding the placement of doors and windows, the floor plan of the home, and especially noted any potential weapons Dr. Clancy might have at her disposal—best to stay out of the kitchen, where a cast-iron skillet and a block of butcher knives might ruin his whole day.
Just a final look around the backyard for brush that could provide cover and the best place to scale the fence in the event of another emergency, and he’d have all the information he needed. Last time, he’d suffered more than a few scratches getting over that fence. A spot near a bench or tree would be ideal. He pushed out the back door, and the smell of gardenias hit him in the face.
Followed by an earsplitting high-pitched bark.
“Heel, Chica! Heel. There’s no one back there,” called a small, boyish voice trying its best to sound stern.
More barking.
“I said heel!”
His eyes darted around the yard. The brush was scant around the house, and he didn’t see a ready hiding place.
“She’s not home, girl. I’ll show you.”
Footsteps on gravel.
The gate squeaked open. No time to scale the fence and disappear like last time.
His blood cooled in his veins.
A very good sign. He didn’t feel even the slightest flutter of a palpitation. That meant he was getting better already.
Smiling, he dropped into one of the lounges on the back porch, flipped open the Arizona Highways magazine he’d pilfered from inside, crossed his feet at the ankles, and whistled “Dixie”—literally.
“Hello? Is someone there?” That Vienna Boy’s Choir voice again.
Then there they were, a boy and his dog—a pair straight out of a Disney movie—except for the fact the dog was more bone than bark. Certainly wasn’t the type of dog to cause him any trouble. She looked like she barely had the strength to stand. “I like your dog,” he offered casually, peering over his magazine.
“Her name’s Chica. Who’
re you?”
“I know. I heard you calling her. Chica’s a nice name.”
Chica tugged forward on her leash, growling.
“I’m Tommy. Who’re you?”
Scourge said nothing, merely waited. The boy frowned, began backing toward the gate. Oh dear. This kid had seen his face. As much as he didn’t need the extra trouble, he couldn’t let this slide. This boy and his dog were exactly the type of thing that might come back and bite him in the ass. A loose end.
That meant collateral damage could not be avoided.
The boy kicked the gate open with his heel and was just edging out of sight when Scourge answered, “Who do you think I am?” He put down the magazine and stared directly into the boy’s eyes. What did it matter now if the kid got a good look at him? The damage was done.
“Are you Faith’s brother?” Tommy asked.
Why not? “I am. You’re a very good guesser.”
“Is Faith here?” Tommy asked, as Chica strained forward on her leash again, still making those aggressive noises in her throat.
“No. She’s at work.” He got to his feet, went to the boy, and offered his hand.
The boy’s palm was sweating when he shook with Scourge, pumping his arm up and down a bit less than enthusiastically.
“And the thing is, my sister doesn’t know I’m in town. It’s a surprise. So you’re not to tell. You wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“N-no. But my mom says I’m not allowed to keep secrets.”
“Oh, sure. That’s right. Never keep a secret. But you know, Tommy, a surprise and a secret are not the same thing. I missed my sister today, and it might be a while before I get back over here. You like Dr. Clancy, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then don’t ruin this for her.”
Tommy reeled Chica in close to his body. Patted her head. “It’s okay, girl. Hush.” Then he nodded. “Okay. I promise I won’t tell.”
“Attaboy. Where do you live, son?”
Tommy pointed to the house next door, but then suddenly dropped his hand, as if he knew he’d made a mistake. “I gotta go. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“Maybe I should take you home to your mother. Is your mother home, Tommy?”
The boy shook his head violently. “Please, don’t do that. I’ll get in trouble if my mom finds out I was talking to you.”
He scratched his chin. “I guess if you won’t tell, I won’t tell. Your mom’s right. You shouldn’t talk to strangers or keep secrets either. Good thing I’m not a stranger, just a brother with a big surprise for Dr. Clancy. I won’t take you home, Tommy. I won’t get you in trouble. I’d rather be friends.”
“Me, too.” Tommy’s hunched shoulders relaxed.
“Shall we shake on it, buddy?”
They pumped hands again, then Scourge gave Tommy a high five.
Tommy turned to go and then looked back over his shoulder. “Will I see you again?”
Scourge threw his arms wide and chuckled. “You better believe you will, buddy. You can count on it.”
THIRTEEN
Thursday, August 1, 10:00 A.M.
Where was Torpedo?
It wasn’t often anyone kept Luke waiting, and he didn’t care for the experience. Especially not in his own office. Especially not when he’d invited Faith to join him. His corporate attorneys had insisted Teddy Torpedo Haynes was not just a showboating media darling. He was the best criminal-defense attorney money could buy—never lost a capital case and played exceptionally well with Southwest juries. Luke pushed a hand through his hair. This asshole better be good because he was wasting Faith’s time as well as Luke’s.
The door to the conference room in his downtown business suite swung open.
Swallowing his irritation, he got to his feet and offered his hand to Teddy Torpedo Haynes. “I’m Luke Jericho. Call me Luke.” He inclined his head toward Faith, who’d also risen. “That’s Faith Clancy, my brother’s psychiatrist. Call her Doctor if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a bit. I’m Teddy Haynes but y’all can call me Torpedo.” The squat, well-fed attorney pulled his black Stetson off in a backward sweep, revealing a strawberry blond comb-over. The combination of hair spray, Stetson, and male-pattern baldness left some patches of hair glued flat to his scalp while others stuck straight back behind his ears like Winged Mercury.
“Any relation to Richard Racehorse Haynes?” Faith walked over and shook the Torpedo’s hand.
“Not far as I know. But winning in the courtroom is in my DNA just the same as it is in his, so never you mind the technicalities.” Torpedo hooked his black Stetson on a coat pole in the corner of the conference room and took a seat at the head of a table that seated twenty.
That was Luke’s seat. Once again, he swallowed his gall. The only thing that mattered was Dante. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a white hat? For the jury’s sake?”
“I don’t see a jury in here, son. So no, I’ll let my true colors show.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Luke caught a definite rise in Faith’s eyebrows.
“And this pretty little filly”—Torpedo winked at Faith—“knows a jury would pick up on a cheap trick like that anyway. I got a better one up my sleeve.” He proceeded to swing his arm wide, knocking Luke’s cup off the table and dousing himself in cold, black coffee. “Now that little stunt will buy the jury’s sympathy for sure.” He ripped off his Gucci jacket and tossed it on the floor. “Poor Torpedo, he’s a walking disaster. I hope his client’s innocent. Hate to see him have to lose the case on top of being a boob.”
Haynes was known for his theatrics both inside and outside the courtroom, and apparently Luke and Faith were going to get the full dog and pony. Which was no problem just as long as Torpedo made good on his promise to bring Dante back home where he belonged and wipe the Jericho name clean. If the Torpedo could do that, Luke didn’t give a flying fuck about the man’s hat size.
Torpedo rubbed his hands together. “Shall we get down to business then?” He motioned a stay-put to Faith and Luke, who’d both gotten up to clean up his mess. “You got people for that, son.” He thumped a microphone on. “Testing, testing.”
Faith reseated herself and openly rolled her eyes. “We can hear you perfectly well without the mic.”
Torpedo shrugged and clicked off the microphone, plopped his bared elbows on the table. “First thing you should know is my courtroom skills are every bit as good advertised.” He pounded his chest with one fist and made a sound reminiscent of hocking a loogie. “Trust me, the jury loves a common man. They’re pudding in my hands.”
“You mean putty?”
“Whatever. The point I’ll make is this.” His tone changed here, and he pulled his shoulders back, looking shrewdly at Luke, his beady black eyes suddenly gleaming with intelligence. “You don’t want me to prove myself in the courtroom. If I’m really earning my keep, this case won’t get that far.”
Up until this very minute, Luke had been seriously doubting his choice of counsel. But if this guy was good enough to trick him into believing he was a poor Country Joe, no telling what he could do with a jury. He wasn’t sure he liked the Torpedo, but he decided right then and there he was going to have to trust him. “Okay. How do we accomplish that?”
“First, it would help an awful lot if we could establish an airtight alibi for your brother for at least one of the murders. If we can eliminate him as a suspect in even one case, it casts grave doubt on the validity of each and every one of his confessions.”
“That shouldn’t be hard; I mean, assuming he’s innocent, he should be able to account for his whereabouts in at least one of the four cases,” Faith said.
Torpedo pulled a toothpick from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth. As he spoke the toothpick pumped up and down. “That might be true in mo
st cases, but I’m afraid in this situation there are some complicating factors. For one thing, the guy’s a loner—that means he spends a lot of time alone.” Chortling at his own joke, Haynes almost choked on the toothpick.
“My brother’s innocent. And he’s not always alone.” Luke’s mind went to the prostitute he’d caught Dante with at the casita. There were bound to be others. Maybe one of the women could vouch for his brother. Luke dragged a hand across his face and forced himself to smile. He knew what language Torpedo spoke, because he spoke it too—money. “If you need funds for a PI to help locate . . . and motivate . . . witnesses, it’s no problem.”
“If money were a problem, I wouldn’t be here. It’s a given you’ll provide whatever I need.”
Luke wheeled his chair back from the table, crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever you need.”
“Good.” Torpedo spit his toothpick at the trash and missed. “Now then, the complicating factor I was referring to is time, not money, and I don’t mean ordinary time. I mean time of death. You see, there isn’t one. Not really. No one can say exactly when any of the victims went missing, and the bodies were found at least several days postmortem. So the medical examiner had no physical indicators to establish a tight time of death.”
“You mean like liver temperature and rigor mortis.” Faith frowned, her eyes darkening with concern for Luke’s brother. He touched his heart to signal his appreciation for that concern, but she kept her attention focused on the attorney.
“Yep.” Haynes nodded.
“What about social media?” Faith started taking notes on the tablet she’d brought with her.
Confession Page 11
