by Lisa Jackson
Strike two.
He finished his Coke, answered a few calls and caught up on some paperwork, but all the while the Grave Robber case scratched at the edges of his brain. As afternoon eased toward evening, he was still turning the case over in his mind. He was missing something, he thought, something vital. The damned killer was teasing him with notes, brazenly mailing some kind of clues to him and Reed wasn’t getting it. He pulled out a yellow legal pad, clicked his pen and started making notes. He started with the notes from the killer. Though they were already being analyzed by the lab and a police psychologist and probably an FBI profiler by now, Reed decided to mentally grapple with them himself. This was his communication with the killer. His link. There had to be something in the letters addressed to him that only he would understand. He wrote down the contents of the first letter, the one he’d received at the office with the return address of Colonial Cemetery on the envelope.
ONE, TWO,
THE FIRST FEW.
HEAR THEM CRY,
LISTEN TO THEM DIE.
This had been his introduction to the case. The killer was telling him that he was going to find two victims, even though Pauline Alexander had been buried for years and had died of natural causes. The way Reed read it, the killer was taunting him, not offering any information other than that these two were the first of what were sure to be more. Both Bobbi Jean and Pauline were victims of a sort.
TICK TOCK,
ON GOES THE CLOCK.
TWO IN ONE,
ONE AND TWO.
Again, the references to two victims, or…did the killer know about the baby?
If so, there would be three…one and two adding up to three…But at that point there had only been two bodies—unless it was a reference to Thomas Massey, who was already dead at that point. If Massey were part of the killer’s scheme, and not a random grave that the killer had happened upon.
“Think, Reed, think,” he growled. There was something else in here, something that had to do with time. What? Was the killer on some kind of schedule? Was he that organized? Why contact Reed?
“Come on, you son of a bitch, figure it out,” he growled as he wrote down the contents of the third note:
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…
SO, NOW, DON’T YOU WONDER HOW MANY MORE?
More taunting. The killer was playing with him. And feeling superior. Speaking to him directly with the “you” in the second line. But there was something about the configuration of the last note that seemed off. Something that bothered Reed. “One, two, three, four.” Almost like a nursery rhyme, but it was obviously a reference to the bodies as well. Four victims, meaning that not only Barbara Jean Marx and Roberta Peters were victims, but also Pauline Alexander and Thomas Massey. Otherwise, why count up to four? Unless the killer’s playing with you and there are two other victims stashed in occupied graves that you haven’t yet unearthed. “Hell,” he muttered and was glad he could hand the note to the FBI’s psychological profiler. The Feds would have a heyday with this one.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, looked over all the reports and evidence again and searched his E-mail where he found the preliminary report on Thomas Massey. An African-American who had four children flung to the far corners of the country and an elderly wife living in a small house outside of the city. Massey had been a janitor for a private school years ago as well as a deacon in his church. His wife, Bea, had worked part-time as a bookkeeper while raising the kids. From all early accounts, Massey hadn’t had any run-ins with the law and he and his wife had been married forty-five years at the time of his death.
Then, there was Roberta Peters, sixty-three, a widow. No children. Lived alone in the old home she and her husband had occupied since 1956. He’d died four years earlier.
So what was the connection between the victims. Or was there one?
…don’t you wonder how many more?
Reed’s jaw tightened. Obviously the murderer wasn’t about to stop. Reed wondered if there was a finite number involved. Probably not. The question was rhetorical. The bastard wouldn’t quit his deadly game until the police either cuffed or killed him and Reed was hoping for the latter.
Maybe he’d get lucky and could do the honors himself.
CHAPTER 13
“You don’t want to stay for dinner?” Charlene Gillette asked. Barely a hundred pounds, her skin pale, but her makeup impeccable, she was perched on the cushions of the window seat overlooking the terraced grounds of the Gillette estate. It was dark outside, the shrubbery illuminated by lamps strategically placed near the brick walls. On the kitchen table, near a bouquet of birds-of-paradise, was the morning’s edition of the Sentinel, laid flat, Nikki’s story visible, forgotten reading glasses mounted over the headlines.
“It has nothing to do with wanting, Mom,” Nikki said, her stomach nearly growling at the savory smells of pot roast emanating from the oven. Pecan pie cooled on the counter and potatoes boiled on the stove. Sandra, the sometimes maid, sometimes caretaker, was tossing a spinach salad with pears and blue cheese. Nikki stood near the counter, picking at pieces of chopped hazelnuts that hadn’t yet made it into the bowl.
“You’re always on the go. Would it hurt you to sit down and share a meal with us?”
“Of course not.” But Nikki was already thinking ahead, that she had to get the new key to her apartment, that someone had broken in, a little secret she’d keep from her parents. Otherwise they’d be worried sick and insist she go to the police or stay and live with them…neither being an option.
“I don’t know when you’ve relaxed,” Charlene observed.
“It’s not my nature.”
“Like your father.”
Sandra lifted an eyebrow as she scooped up a handful of the hazelnuts and sprinkled them atop the spinach leaves.
“Is that so bad?”
Her mother didn’t answer directly. Instead, she snapped her fingers as if she’d just remembered something important. “Oh, honey, by the way, guess who stopped by earlier today?”
“I couldn’t,” Nikki said honestly. “You know too many people around here.”
“Not me. Someone you know, er, knew.”
“Who?” Nikki asked, not really caring.
“Sean,” she said with a little glimmer in her eye, and Nikki inwardly groaned.
“Sean Hawke? What was he doing here?”
“He just stopped by to see me. His mother and I did go to school together, you know.”
Nikki remembered. Though she didn’t want to.
“He asked about you.”
“I already talked to him.”
“And?” One of her mother’s eyebrows rose.
“And nothing. He wanted to get together. I thought it was a bad idea.”
“Really? But I always liked Sean.” She lifted her hands to the sides of her head as if to ward off a blow. “I know, I know. It didn’t work out. He was interested in someone else, but you know, you were both too young, then. Maybe now—”
“Never, Mom, and I can’t believe you’re saying this. Sean was and is a snake. End of subject.” Nikki couldn’t help but be irritated. Charlene seemed to think she was an old maid just because she was over thirty. Which was ridiculous. “Dad never liked him,” she pointed out and thought she saw, from the corner of her eye, a curt nod of Sandra’s head.
“Your father is suspicious of everyone.” Charlene folded her arms under her small breasts. Her jaw was set in that hard, uncompromising line Nikki had seen all too often. “That attitude comes from being involved with the law and seeing the dark side of life every day.”
Nikki heard the garage door open. “Speak of the devil.”
Her mother’s spine stiffened slightly, as if she were bracing herself, and Nikki felt a pang of wistfulness. What had happened to her parents, who, when they were younger, had danced and laughed, their eyes crinkling at each other’s jokes, each trying to outdo the other? They had seemed devoted, yet independent, and above all else, respec
tful of each other. They had been kind. They had been happy. They had been in love, even after four children and over two decades together. Their happiness had eroded over the years, worn away by Andrew’s death and their own perceptions of ever-nearing mortality. Age and sorrow had sapped Charlene of her wit and her vitality, while those same two demons had embittered her father.
Sandra swept away the final crumbs of the nuts as the retired Honorable Judge Ronald Gillette opened the door from the garage and stepped into the warm light of the kitchen.
His cheeks were ruddy, his nose always red these days, his blue eyes sparkling despite too many visible veins. Some people thought he looked like Santa Claus, but he reminded Nikki of Burl Ives’s portrayal of Big Daddy in an old movie version of Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. “Hey, Firecracker!” he boomed and gave his youngest child the bear hug she’d come to expect. He smelled of cigar smoke, rye whiskey and rain. “So, you finally made page one! Congratulations!” Another squeeze.
Nikki was grinning ear to ear as the embrace ended. “Finally being the integral word in that sentence.”
Big Ron chuckled. “It’s not as if you’re over the hill.”
“Yet.”
“Well, maybe we should have a drink to celebrate. Char—?”
“No.” She shook her head and tried to hide the knots of disapproval pinching the corners of her mouth.
“You will, though?” he asked Nikki.
She thought of her scheduled meeting with Cliff. “I’ll have to take a rain check, Dad. I’ve got work to do.”
“It’s only one drink.” He was already walking toward the den. Her mother turned her attention toward the darkened windows and Nikki caught sight of Charlene’s pale reflection in the glass, saw the pain and disapproval in that ghostly image.
“You okay, Mom?”
Charlene blinked, managed a smile. “Right as rain.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would ya?” Nikki plopped onto the cushion next to her and hugged her mother. Charlene smelled of Estee Lauder and powder. “You saw the doctor yesterday. What did he say?”
“What he always does. That everything is all in my head.” With a glance toward the hallway where her husband disappeared, she added, “He suggested I visit a psychiatrist.”
Nikki took her mother’s hand and was surprised that it felt bony and small. Her rings were so loose the stones kept sliding toward her palm. “Would that be so bad?”
For a second Charlene’s chin wobbled, then she looked into her daughter’s eyes. “So, you think I’m crazy, too.”
“Not crazy. Depressed.”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“Not at all. There’s a big difference.” Nikki tried to be kind. But it was tough when the truth had to be said. “It’s just that you seem so unhappy, Mom.”
“Well, there’s a brilliant observation,” Charlene snapped angrily, then caught herself and extracted her fingers from Nikki’s grasp. “I’m fine. Fine. Don’t worry. Please.”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway and again her mother’s lips pursed slightly, as if she could barely stand to be in the same room with her husband. She managed a tight, forced smile just as Big Ron walked into the room carrying two short glasses. Ice cubes clinked in a pale gold liquid. “Here ya go,” he said, handing one glass to Nikki.
“She said she didn’t want a drink,” Charlene said.
“Did she?” He winked at his daughter. “Guess I didn’t hear that.” Clicking the rim of his glass to Nikki’s, he said, “Here’s to more big scoops and bylines on the front page.”
“Thanks.” She took a tentative sip, found the drink tolerable, and tried to ignore the tension in the air.
To mollify her mother and because she was starved, she stayed for dinner, listening to her father’s golf stories and fishing stories and trying to lure Charlene into conversation to no avail. They took dessert in the family room, eating the pie and sipping coffee while Nikki tried not to notice how late it was getting. She’d nearly finished when it hit her that she’d forgotten all about Simone. Again. Good Lord, she was turning into one of those flaky friends she hated. “Oh, geez, I’ve got to run,” she said, leaving half a piece of pie and all her coffee on an end table.
“Where’s the fire?” Her father was seated in his favorite worn leather recliner. His legs were raised, his shirt unbuttoned and he’d lifted a pant leg to unbuckle the holster he wore at his ankle. He’d always carried a hidden weapon after an attempt had been made on his life, the result of a particularly unpopular courtroom decision.
“I told Simone I would meet her at the gym,” Nikki explained as she picked up her purse. She glanced at her watch. “If I hurry, I can still make it.”
“But we never get to see you,” Charlene complained as Big Ron rubbed his calf muscle. He’d placed his holster and pistol upon the coffee table.
“Pick that damned thing up,” Charlene said, jabbing a finger at the gun. “The last time you left it out Lily came over with Ophelia!”
Big Ron didn’t move except to change the channel on the big screen with his remote.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Charlene’s mouth drew into an unhappy, persecuted line.
Nikki hated to leave. A fight was brewing. “I’ll be back. Soon. Promise.” She dropped a kiss on her mother’s head, then gave her father another hug before streaking out of the house. Her parents had come to an uneasy truce. They’d be okay. Yet, she crossed her fingers.
How had she forgotten her friend? As ambitious as she was, she didn’t believe in work to the exclusion of all else. Family and friends were important. And yet she was ditching out on her folks, hadn’t called her sister back in two days, had left Trina to deal with Aimee and Dana the other night and now had nearly stood up her best friend. “Oh, yeah, Gillette,” she reprimanded, “you’re a great friend.”
She drove home pushing the speed limit, stopped by the owner’s apartment where she was handed two shiny new keys and was told that the new locks were “guaranteed to keep unwanted boyfriends out.”
“Thanks,” she’d said, flashing a smile and racing up the stairs. She hesitated as she slid one key into the new lock, but the door swung open and her cozy little apartment was just as she’d left it. At least, she thought so. Agilely, Jennings hopped down from the kitchen counter to rub around her legs. She took the time to pet him, give him some new food, and change. She then called Cliff Siebert on his cell and explain that she’d meet him at the Weaver Brothers truck stop, but that she was running late because of her date with Simone. Then, with only a modicum of guilt at leaving the cat again, she locked the door securely behind her before flying down the stairs. She had five minutes to get to the gym before the class started.
Unfortunately, it was a twenty-minute drive.
CHAPTER 14
“…that’s it for tonight. Thank you.” Jake Vaughn bowed, clapped his hands together and smiled at the class as he straightened. Nikki, her body drenched in sweat, felt muscles she hadn’t remembered existed. She’d gotten to the kickboxing class ten minutes late and missed stretching, but had managed to squeeze into a vacant spot next to Simone as her friend had worked out and ogled the instructor.
“You’re embarrassing,” Nikki said, swiping at her face with a towel as most of the other class members gathered their gear and walked out of the gym with its gleaming hardwood floors, high ceilings and basketball hoops.
“You think?” Simone laughed. Her black hair was pulled atop her head in a loose, seemingly casual knot that Nikki suspected took half an hour to get just right. Her skin was a natural golden tone, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of the workout, or from being so close to Jake, Nikki wasn’t sure which. “I didn’t think anything could embarrass you,” she said, dabbing at her forehead with the ends of the towel she’d draped around her neck.
“You were wrong.”
“Then, prepare yourself for being mortified.” After shooting a “watch this” look at Nikki, Simone walked boldly ov
er to Jake who was stowing some of his athletic gear into a nylon Nike bag.
Nikki couldn’t hear the conversation but assumed Simone was asking him out. He was smiling broadly, nodding, then shaking his head. Letting Simone down easy. What was wrong with the guy? Simone was a knockout in her leotard and tight little shorts. Jake had to be gay. Why else would Simone be interested in him? She was always attracted to the guys who were unavailable—either married, recently divorced, or somehow emotionally damaged. This was the first time that Simone had been interested in someone who wasn’t physically interested in her. A real blow to her ego. Except the guy was probably just not interested in women.
Nikki slung her towel over her neck as Simone and Jake parted ways. “He’s busy,” Simone said, her good mood replaced by confusion. Her dark brows were knit, her lips compressed.
“Because he’s gay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Bet?”
Simone sighed dramatically. “No! That’s a dumb bet. But since Jake can’t join me, how ’bout you? Dinner?”
“I love to be second choice,” Nikki mocked.
“Oh, for the love of God, Nikki, that’s not fair. You’re always blowing me off for some other person, usually not even a cute guy—just some”—she made air quotes at this point—“big, and I mean really, really big, assignment.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I’ve been a flake, okay?” Nikki glanced at her watch. She had to meet Cliff in less than an hour.
