The Final Victim

by that's me

  She's an­xi­o­us to get back to him. But Aimee is the­re. She told Char­lot­te to ta­ke her ti­me shop­ping and not worry abo­ut an­y­t­hing. He's in ca­pab­le hands.

  'That wo­uld be fi­ne," De­tec­ti­ve Do­ra­do in­forms her, af­ter con­fer­ring with so­me­body el­se in the ro­om, pro­bably Wil­li­am­son. 'Just as long as you can get right over he­re. We don't want to de­lay this."

  "I'm he­aded stra­ight to the ca­use­way," she pro­mi­ses, sli­ding in­to the dri­ver's se­at, the ice cre­am in back for­got­ten.

  "Looks li­ke the storm re­al­ly is co­ming, Je­an­ne," Me­la­nie com­ments from the win­dow, which she just lo­we­red to a crack to ke­ep the ra­in from blo­wing in. "Tro­pi­cal Storm Do­ug­las. The sky is get­ting dark out over the wa­ter."

  Jeanne nods.

  "I don't think it'll be up­g­ra­ded to a full-blown hur­ri­ca­ne, tho­ugh. At le­ast, I ho­pe not."

  "So do I," Je­an­ne li­es.

  A hur­ri­ca­ne wo­uld be won­der­ful, re­al­ly. A hur­ri­ca­ne that wo­uld flat­ten the who­le dar­ned pla­ce. Then it wo­uld no lon­ger be in her hands.

  Hers…

  And Me­la­nie's.

  I can't do it wit­ho­ut her help.

  But she'll be happy to ob­li­ge, as she al­ways is.

  You know I'd do an­y­t­hing for you, hon…

  Anything?

  There's only one way to find out.

  "Melanie," she says he­avily, "I ha­te to send you out in this, but I ne­ed you to do so­met­hing for me be­fo­re the storm gets any wor­se."

  With anot­her high-pit­c­hed, des­pe­ra­te grunt, Phylli­da slams her ba­re fe­et aga­inst the do­or.

  It re­fu­ses to bud­ge.

  She sinks back in ex­ha­us­ti­on, her legs raw and ble­eding whe­re they're bo­und at the an­k­les and kne­es with un­for­gi­ving nylon ro­pe. It's the sa­me with her wrists, bo­und be­hind her. And her sho­ul­ders and up­per back throb un­be­arably af­ter ho­urs-days… we­eks?-in this ex­c­ru­ci­ating po­si­ti­on.

  She has no* idea how long it's be­en, or even whe­re she's im­p­ri­so­ned. She only knows that she's in so­me kind of brick, win­dow­less ro­om, may­be a cel­lar or an un­der­g­ro­und bun­ker.

  There's no fo­od or wa­ter in the ro­om, but it's far from empty.

  The first ti­ling she fo­und was her Gran­dad­dy's an­ti­que ra­dio, of all things. At le­ast, she thinks that's what it is. She ac­ci­den­tal­ly struck the obj­ect when she was rol­ling aro­und the mud flo­or, in a fu­ti­le se­arch for…

  Something. An­y­t­hing that might help her to get out of he­re.

  It was only when her fum­b­ling fin­ger­tips fo­und the big, old-fas­hi­oned di­als that she re­ali­zed what the obj­ect was-and that it was use­less in terms of a pos­sib­le me­ans of es­ca­pe.

  She's simply trap­ped he­re in the dark, with the ra­dio-and ot­her things.

  At first, she tho­ught she had fo­und a child's body. It wo­uld ex­p­la­in the fe­tid odor that ho­vers in the stag­nant air.

  Then she re­ali­zed it was a doll.

  There are three of them. Doll fur­ni­tu­re, too.

  She stop­ped ex­p­lo­ring when her hand gra­zed what felt li­ke a co­iled sna­ke, and wa­ited in ter­ror for it to stri­ke.

  But it didn't.

  She isn't go­ing to ex­p­lo­re an­y­mo­re. Not in the dark.

  There's not even a hint of day­light aro­und the pe­ri­me­ter of the only do­or; no way of sen­sing the pas­sing of ti­me… when she's even con­s­ci­o­us to think abo­ut it.

  Most of the ti­me, she's out cold, which is a bles­sing.

  Then she won't ha­ve to think abo­ut what hap­pe­ned to her… or of what might hap­pen next.

  But so­me­body has to be lo­oking for her out the­re.

  Brian will try to find her.

  Once he re­ali­zes I'm mis­sing. God only knows how long it's be­en.

  Or even Char­lot­te… Char­lot­te might re­ali­ze…

  Please, Char­lot­te. Ple­ase open yo­ur eyes. Ple­ase ta­ke a lo­ok at what's go­ing on right un­der yo­ur no­se, for God's sa­ke! Ple­ase!

  But her co­usin won't see it. No­body will.

  Not un­less they stum­b­le ac­ross it, as Phylli­da did. And even when she saw the shoc­king truth, she co­uldn't qu­ite pro­cess it, co­uldn't bring her­self to be­li­eve her eyes. She just sto­od the­re, slack-jawed- Un­til so­met­hing slam­med in­to her, and ever­y­t­hing went black.

  If only I had fal­len as­le­ep that night…

  If only I had go­ne out in­to the ra­in to call Bri­an…

  If only I had de­ci­ded to ho­nor my mar­ri­age vows, and pick up the pi­eces in­s­te­ad of de­ci­ding to run away…

  None of this wo­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned.

  She'd be sa­fely at ho­me in Ca­li­for­nia, in­s­te­ad of wa­iting to be res­cu­ed from this li­ving hell…

  Or wa­iting to the at the sa­dis­tic hands of the last per­son she ever wo­uld ha­ve fo­und me­na­cing.

  CHAPTER 16

  "So what you're tel­ling me," Char­lot­te lo­oks from Do­ra­do to Wil­li­am­son and back aga­in, "is that my co­usin Gib is a drug ad­dict?"

  "For what it's worth, he says he's not an ad­dict. He's a co­uri­er."

  "Reliable as Fe­de­ral Ex­p­ress," Wil­li­am­son adds with a sar­do­nic sha­ke of his bal­ding he­ad. "Only they use trucks and en­ve­lo­pes, in­s­te­ad of com­mer­ci­al air­c­raft and fa­ke ha­ir spray con­ta­iners."

  Charlotte sha­kes her he­ad, unab­le to be­li­eve Gib wo­uld ac­tu­al­ly smug­gle drugs in­to the co­untry from Me­xi­co. "Why wo­uld he do so­met­hing so stu­pid?"

  "Cash," Do­ra­do says. "That's usu­al­ly the mo­ti­ve for an­y­t­hing, in­c­lu­ding at­tem­p­ted mur­der."

  "So you don't think my co­usin is the one who shot Roy­ce?"

  "We didn't say that… only that the ali­bi he ga­ve us- his re­al ali­bi, not the ori­gi­nal one he used-chec­ked out. He was net­wor­king with so­me Co­lom­bi­an pals that night."

  "Networking? What do you me­an?"

  "Savannah is a pri­me port city on the 1-95 cor­ri­dor bet­we­en Mi­ami and Bos­ton," Wil­li­am­son in­forms her, as if that ex­p­la­ins ever­y­t­hing.

  At her blank lo­ok, Do­ra­do jumps in. "I gu­ess he de­ci­ded that Sa­van­nah was con­ve­ni­ent for bu­si­ness and de­ci­ded to try and drum up so­me whi­le he was he­re- on­ce he re­ali­zed he wasn't go­ing to fly ho­me to Bos­ton an in­s­tant mul­ti­mil­li­ona­ire, an­y­way."

  Charlotte sha­kes her he­ad, trying to ab­sorb what they're tel­ling her. "I tho­ught he was a law­yer up North."

  Williamson is sha­king his he­ad.

  "So he's…j­ust a drug smug­gler? Did he re­al­ly even go to law scho­ol?"

  "Yes. But he blew thro­ugh most of his trust fund when he got it, and he's be­en in debt for ye­ars," Do­ra­do tells her. "He wo­und up go­ing to a lo­an shark at so­me po­ints, fi­gu­ring that if he co­uld just get the mo­ney up front and ke­ep him­self af­lo­at, he co­uld even­tu­al­ly ba­il him­self out the old-fas­hi­oned way."

  "By get­ting a job?" Char­lot­te asks, still not fol­lo­wing.

  "By in­he­ri­ting mil­li­ons," Do­ra­do co­un­ters. "We think he was ban­king on yo­ur Gran­dad­dy to kick the buc­ket the who­le ti­me he was in law scho­ol, and when that didn't hap­pen…"

  "He hel­ped him along," Wil­li­am­son sup­pli­es.

  Dorado throws him a ca­uti­o­us glan­ce. "May­be."

  "Maybe," the ot­her de­tec­ti­ve ec­ho­es grud­gingly.

  "And not by his own hand. He re­al­ly was in Me­xi­co the night yo­ur gran­d­fat­her di­ed. We chec­ked it out." 'Was he de­aling drugs?" Met with twin nods
, Char­lot­te asks, "But why?"

  "Why not? Fast, easy cash. Plus, he was a fi­ne, up­s­tan­ding ci­ti­zen. Who wo­uld ever sus­pect him?"

  "Not me," Char­lot­te mur­murs, numb. "How did he do it?"

  "It was a ni­ce lit­tle gig," Wil­li­am­son in­forms her, so­un­ding li­ke every de­tec­ti­ve on every cop show she's ever wat­c­hed.

  Except this is re­al. Chil­lingly, hor­rif­yingly re­al.

  "He'd jet down to Me­xi­co-he even bo­ught a ni­ce ti­mes­ha­re down the­re-and co­me back with a pri­cey so­uve­nir every ti­me." Pa­using to lo­oking at her mo­re clo­sely, Do­ra­do sli­des over the cup of wa­ter he po­ured her from the co­oler when she first sat down. "Why don't you drink so­me of that?"

  She sha­kes her he­ad. "No, thanks, I'm-"

  "Really. You sho­uld ta­ke a sip. You don't lo­ok li­ke you're fe­eling that gre­at."

  "I'm just… I've be­en re­al­ly ti­red the last few days." 'You've be­en thro­ugh hell."

  She nods. "I gu­ess it's cat­c­hing up with me."

  "So lis­ten to Flo­ren­ce Nig­h­tin­ga­le over he­re and drink so­me wa­ter," Wil­li­am­son says gruffly, and ig­no­res the dark lo­ok Do­ra­do sho­ots in his di­rec­ti­on.

  As Char­lot­te sips, Wil­li­am­son tells her, 'We're go­ing to lo­ok mo­re clo­sely in­to yo­ur gran­d­fat­her's de­ath, Mrs. Ma­it­land. And yo­ur hus­band's sho­oting."

  "And yo­ur co­usin is still our pri­me sus­pect," Do­ra­do in­serts.

  "I tho­ught you sa­id he was in Me­xi­co when Gran­dad­dy di­ed, and when Roy­ce was shot, I tho­ught he-"

  "His ali­bis don't me­an crap," Wil­li­ams says, and adds, "par­don my French."

  "He co­uld ha­ve had an ac­com­p­li­ce," Do­ra­do tells her.

  "Or hi­red a hit man," Wil­li­am­son adds.

  Charlotte lo­oks from one de­tec­ti­ve to the ot­her, ut­terly over­w­hel­med. "So what now?"

  "So now we check out the ali­bis of an­y­body el­se who co­uld ha­ve had the slig­h­test mo­ti­ve to hurt Ma­it­land," Wil­li­am­son says, as much to his par­t­ner as to Char­lot­te.

  "We've be­en trying to re­ach yo­ur ex-hus­band," Do­ra­do in­forms her. "Do you ha­ve any idea whe­re we can find him?"

  It's all she can do not to squ­e­eze the wa­ter right out of the cup in her clen­c­hed hand. "He li­ves in Jac­k­son­vil­le. You sho­uld check his apar­t­ment, I wo­uld think."

  "No shit, Sher­lock." That, of co­ur­se, co­mes from the ever-elo­qu­ent Wil­li­am­son.

  Dorado ela­bo­ra­tes, "We ha­ven't trac­ked him down the­re yet. We'll go over the con­tact in­for­ma­ti­on aga­in with you. We al­so ne­ed to spe­ak to yo­ur co­usin Phylli­da. Is she still sta­ying with you?"

  Charlotte he­si­ta­tes only bri­efly be­fo­re sha­king her he­ad. "No, she was sup­po­sed to fly back to Ca­li­for­nia Sa­tur­day night."

  "Supposed to?"

  "I'm as­su­ming she did. But when I tal­ked to her nanny yes­ter­day, she hadn't co­me ho­me yet. They sa­id she wasn't on the flight."

  Again, {he de­tec­ti­ves ex­c­han­ge a glan­ce. Do­ra­do asks for the flight in­for­ma­ti­on.

  "How was the­ir mar­ri­age?" Wil­li­am­son wants to know.

  "Not gre­at, I don't think."

  "Would you be sur­p­ri­sed if yo­ur co­usin Phylli­da li­ed to her hus­band, or you, abo­ut whe­re she was go­ing?"

  Charlotte con­tem­p­la­tes that and finds her­self re­li­eved at the pos­sib­le ex­p­la­na­ti­on for Phylli­da's whe­re­abo­uts. May­be she's ha­ving an af­fa­ir or so­met­hing. "I wo­uldn't be sur­p­ri­sed at all."

  "Would you be sur­p­ri­sed if she was a con­s­pi­ra­tor with her brot­her to harm you, yo­ur hus­band, or yo­ur gran­d­fat­her?"

  "Not re­al­ly, no." Not­hing wo­uld sur­p­ri­se her at this po­int.

  Not even if she was to find out that Gran­dad­dy had dis­co­ve­red what they we­re up to, and so wro­te them out of the will be­ca­use of it.

  What do­esn't ma­ke sen­se, if that was true, is his fa­ilu­re to con­f­ront Gib and Phylli­da abo­ut it.

  Unless he did.

  But why wo­uldn't he go to the aut­ho­ri­ti­es?

  Williamson is mo­ving on brus­qu­ely, as if he's tic­king off a men­tal chec­k­list. "I un­der­s­tand yo­ur hus­band al­so has an ex-wi­fe in New Or­le­ans?"

  She nods, her tho­ughts tum­b­ling over each ot­her li­ke shells in an in­co­ming ti­de. "But I don't know her ad­dress or her num­ber off the top of my he­ad."

  "We'll get it. What abo­ut his da­ug­h­ter?" Do­ra­do asks, hand po­ised on his no­te­pad.

  "She'd know it, but-"

  "No, I re­ali­ze that she'd know whe­re to re­ach her mot­her. What I'm as­king is whet­her she wo­uld ha­ve had any re­ason to hurt her fat­her."

  "None at all. And an­y­way, she was in New Or­le­ans when he was shot."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because I cal­led her the­re se­ve­ral ti­mes af­ter it hap­pe­ned to-"

  "Land li­ne or cell pho­ne?"

  She frowns. "Cell pho­ne."

  "She co­uld ha­ve be­en an­y­w­he­re, Mrs. Ma­it­land."

  "No, she flew in."

  "After it hap­pe­ned?"

  "Yes, the next mor­ning."

  "Did you pick her up from the air­port?"

  "No, she to­ok a cab, but I saw her lug­ga­ge," she adds kno­wing they're abo­ut to tell her the cab do­esn't pro­ve Aimee even ca­me from the air­port.

  She clo­ses her eyes, then tri­um­p­hantly tells them, "I re­mem­ber, she had chec­ked the su­it­ca­se. The­re was a whi­te bag­ga­ge cla­im tag fol­ded aro­und the han­d­le. I re­mem­ber be­ca­use I as­ked her abo­ut chec­king it."

  "Did you no­ti­ce the da­te on it?"

  "No, but it did say ATL-SAV. My hus­band's lug­ga­ge al­ways says the sa­me thing when he gets back."

  "It co­uld ha­ve be­en an old tag of his, then."

  She va­cil­la­tes for a tro­ub­led mo­ment, won­de­ring if Aimee co­uld ha­ve pos­sibly- "Wa­it!" she says, re­mem­be­ring. "I'm po­si­ti­ve she was in the air­port, in New Or­le­ans. I he­ard the an­no­un­ce­ment for her flight bo­ar­ding that mor­ning whi­le I was tal­king to her."

  The de­tec­ti­ves lo­ok at each ot­her. "Do you re­mem­ber which flight it was?"

  She nods, ple­ased with her­self. "Del­ta. Con­nec­ting thro­ugh At­lan­ta. That's why I re­mem­ber the an­no­un­ce­ment, be­ca­use my hus­band has ta­ken that sa­me flight when he co­mes back from vi­si­ting her."

  "So he vi­sits her a lot?" Wil­li­am­son asks, whi­le Do­ra­do jots down the flight in­for­ma­ti­on.

  "He do­es now."

  Too la­te, she re­ali­zes what she sa­id.

  "I me­an, he do­es." She nods ve­he­mently. "They get along very well."

  "But the­re was tro­ub­le bet­we­en them in the past?"

  "Detective, my hus­band lost his son, Aimee's lit­tle brot­her, a few ye­ars ago. It just abo­ut rip­ped his fa­mily apart. He and his wi­fe and da­ug­h­ter-well, they had to bla­me so­me­body. I know what that's li­ke. Roy­ce bla­med him­self. So did Aimee and Ka­ren."

  It's Wil­li­am­son who bre­aks the un­com­for­tab­le si­len­ce.

  "We'll ne­ed to check out yo­ur step­da­ug­h­ter's ali­bi, Mrs. Ma­it­land."

  "It'll be our first pri­ority," Do­ra­do pro­mi­ses. "We'll ma­ke su­re she re­al­ly was on that flight. If she was, then you ha­ve not­hing to worry abo­ut."

  "She was," Char­lot­te tells him, lif­ting her chin re­so­lu­tely.

  But God knows she has ever­y­t­hing to worry abo­ut.

  Aimee… Ka­ren… Vin­ce…

  They're go­ing to put ever­yo�
�ne who has an­y­t­hing to do with the Re­min­g­ton fa­mily un­der a mic­ros­co­pe.

  And God only knows what they're go­ing to find.