Dead Run

by Erica Spindler

  That it would. The sweet, tangy concoction no doubt packed a deceptive wallop.

  “But you didn’t come here to shoot the breeze or drink margaritas, did you?”

  She shook her head. “No, though I wish I had. I came because of Mark Morgan.”

  “Mark?” His eyebrows shot up.

  “He said you were his friend. That he trusted you.”

  “That right? He bother to tell you he lifted six hundred bucks from my register, then left town? He trusts me, all right. To be a sap.”

  She shook her head, confused. “Left town? That can’t be right.”

  “It’s right, I guarantee you that. He left me a note telling me he did it.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “The night Tara died.”

  The night he and Tara planned to run away together. “I’ve seen him since then.”

  His gaze sharpened. “When?”

  “Last Monday.”

  He hesitated, as if deciding if the direction of this conversation was worth any more of his attention. He took a step away from her, signaling that he had decided it was not. “I don’t really have time for this right now. The drink’s on me, Liz.”

  “Wait!” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “He contacted me about Tara ’s murder.”

  He straightened and turned toward his new bartender. “Margo, can you handle the bar for a few minutes?”

  She nodded and Rick indicated for Liz to follow him to his office. She did, and there he shut the door behind them. They didn’t sit. “What’s going on?”

  “Mark’s in trouble, Rick. Big trouble.”

  “Go on.”

  “He was there that night, in the garden.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “He’s Tara ’s baby’s father. He’s the reason she was in the garden that night. They’d arranged to meet there. They were running away together.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch.” Rick crossed to his desk and sank heavily onto its edge. “The IOU he left. Of course.”

  “IOU?”

  “The six hundred bucks. He left me a note promising to pay it back. He said it was an emergency.” Rick passed a hand across his forehead. “What else did he tell you?”

  Liz launched into the story, finishing with Mark’s account of finding Tara dead, and running.

  “No joke he’s got himself in trouble,” Rick muttered. “Stupid kid. Did you tell him to go to the police?”

  Her silence was his answer and he narrowed his eyes. “Exactly how did you say you knew Mark?”

  “He contacted me last Monday. I never heard of him before that.”

  “Then why call you?”

  “He wanted someone to know everything in case…he disappeared.”

  “But why you?”

  She hesitated, considering her options. She could tell him the easy part of the story and probably get away with it. But at this stage of the game it seemed not only pointless but dishonest as well.

  And being dishonest with Rick Wells would be a mistake.

  “Because I had counseled Tara. And because I’m Pastor Rachel Howard’s sister.”

  She saw the moment he made the connection. “From Paradise Christian. The woman who disappeared.”

  It wasn’t a question. She answered anyway. “Yes.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I have to check on Margo. It might be a few minutes.”

  The door shut behind him and she sank onto a chair. Only then did she realize she was shaking. She clasped her hands together and moved her gaze over the office. No photos adorned his neat desktop, no awards, diplomas or other memorabilia hung on the walls.

  No, she realized. One picture. Mostly hidden behind the in-box on his desk. She stood, crossed to the desk and picked it up. It was a picture of Rick in his full-dress police uniform and a woman in a lovely spring outfit. Liz tilted her head. Rick’s graduation from police academy, she decided, judging by his crisply pressed uniform.

  That the woman adored him was obvious by the way she was gazing up at him. Because of the slightly fuzzy quality of the photo and the way the sunlight fell across her face, it was difficult to make out her features. She had coloring similar to Liz’s own; a slight build. She was pretty.

  A lump in her throat, Liz returned the framed photo to its spot on his desk. As she did, she discovered another photo tucked into the back of the frame.

  It was of a little boy with curly blond hair and Rick’s smile. He looked to be about three and was smiling at the camera, pure joy radiating from him.

  Who was he? she wondered. Rick’s son? A favorite nephew? Was the woman his wife? That would have been her first guess, but Rick didn’t wear a wedding ring.

  Though these days many men didn’t.

  She trailed her finger lightly over the boy’s image. She found something sad about the way Rick had the photographs tucked almost out of sight.

  She heard Rick at the office door and quickly replaced the child’s photo, then set the frame back where she had found it. She turned just as Rick stepped through the door.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Saturday’s my busiest night.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it-just not for what he thought. By peeking at those pictures she had pried into a corner of his life he obviously preferred no one see. “My timing stinks, but I didn’t…I was afraid for Mark. I think he’s in danger.”

  Rick sat and ordered her to do the same. “Now, start at the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Liz began. She told him why she had come to Key West, that she didn’t believe the police version of her sister’s disappearance. She relayed the content of the message her sister had left on her answering machine. “She said she had uncovered illegal activities on the island, something that involved the young people. She feared for her own safety. I believe those involved killed her. Nobody believed me…until Mark.”

  Rick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingers together. “Go on.”

  She repeated everything Mark had told her: that the group called itself the Horned Flower, that Tara had belonged and that they had threatened her when she tried to get out. “They describe themselves as a family and are both devoted to and possessive of other members of the family, as well as suspicious of those outside. So suspicious that Tara had to keep her relationship with Mark a secret for fear of reprisal. He said the group was into drug use and indiscriminate sex. Their shared ideology was hedonistic and atheist.”

  “What you’re describing is a cult,” he murmured. “There are thousands of loosely joined and highly organized groups in the United States that meet the criteria that defines a cult, basically a group organized around a central figure and singular philosophy. Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church, Crowleyism, the Charles Manson family all fit the criteria though each is very different from the other.”

  “Whatever they are, they had great power over Tara and she was terrified of them. He believes they killed her because she tried to break away from them. He believes they killed my sister as well.”

  Rick looked unconvinced. She pressed on. “Mark decided the best way to expose the group was to become one of them. He left me a message saying he was being initiated last night. He told me to come to you if I didn’t hear from him.” She held her hands out, palms up. “So, here I am.”

  For a long moment, Rick was silent. When he finally spoke, his tone was low, measured. “Have you asked yourself if Mark was truthful with you?”

  “No. Why wouldn’t he have been?”

  “Maybe he had something to do with Tara ’s death?”

  “No way.” She shook her head for added emphasis. “You didn’t see him when he talked about Tara, about that night. He was in love with her.”

  “Do you have any idea how many victims are killed by the very people who claim to love them? A lot,” he finished, answering his own question. He paused as if to allow his words time to sink in. “I was a cop, Liz. I’m thinking lik
e a cop here. Sorting through the facts, looking at this from all angles.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “Frankly? No, you’re not. You’re too close. Emotionally involved. Overwrought.”

  Making a sound of frustration, she stood. “I’m so tired of people telling me that. I’m not overwrought. Mark feared for his safety. He contacted me so someone would know what he was doing and sound the alarm if he disappeared. He’s disappeared, we have to do something!”

  Rick stood. She had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Okay,” he murmured, tone as calm and soothing as if attempting to reason with a headstrong child. “You’re fine, steady as a rock. Just hear me out. In all probability, Tara was killed by the accomplice of a man who murdered young women in Miami, or someone who is copying his crimes. There’s a chance your sister fell victim to the same maniac. Or that she suffered a mental breakdown and ran off, the way the police think.”

  She opened her mouth to deny it was true, and he held up a hand to stop her. “Your sister’s been missing what? Three months?”

  “Four,” she corrected. “She was last seen July twelfth.”

  “So, where’s her body, Liz? Tara ’s killer made no attempt to conceal his handiwork. If you hadn’t found her that night, someone else would have the next morning. Taft worked in the same manner.”

  He had a point; she had wondered the same thing.

  But she knew she was right.

  “Maybe he wasn’t ready to reveal himself?” she offered. “Maybe he panicked? There could be a hundred explanations for why Rachel’s…”

  She let the words trail off; his expression softened. “The KWPD is working in conjunction with the sheriff’s department and the Florida Crime Bureau in an attempt to locate the killer. Perhaps Tara was a member of a group called the Horned Flower, but I hardly think a bunch of pampered teenagers is capable of butchering one of their friends. And trust me, Tara was butchered.”

  “Please help me,” she whispered. “I have nowhere else to turn. No one else to turn to. Mark said you’d know what to do.”

  “I’m sorry. Go home, get some sleep. In the morning-”

  “In the morning Mark might be dead. Are you sure you can live with that?”

  CHAPTER 28

  Sunday, November 18

  2:45 a.m.

  “I can take it from here, Margo,” Rick murmured, zipping then locking the deposit bag. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

  “Are you sure?” She ran a damp cloth over the seat of a chair, then set it upside down on the table. “I don’t mind staying.”

  Rick smiled at the newest member of his staff. He had been lucky to find her. Not only was she personable, reliable and attractive, she could flat-out hustle drinks. “What, no love connection tonight?”

  “Nope. I’ve nothing better to do than sleep. How about you?”

  “When you get to be my age, sleep’s a good thing.”

  She rolled her eyes at that. “You’re what? Thirty?”

  “Try thirty-six, Margo.”

  “Only ten years older than I am. Not that much.”

  Only a decade, Rick thought, amused.

  “I could pour myself a glass of wine and keep you company.”

  He would have to be deaf and blind to miss the invitation in her question. He pretended to be both. The day after Mark disappeared, she’d walked in looking for a job. Considering Libby’s reliability and Mark’s sudden departure, he had all but fallen to his knees in thanksgiving. The last thing he was going to do was muck that up by getting involved with her. Besides, he believed some lines shouldn’t be crossed. This was one of them.

  “Help yourself to the wine, but don’t stay on my account.” He lifted his gaze to hers and smiled, hoping to take the sting out of his next words. “I’m alone a lot, Margo. It suits me.”

  Disappointment crossed her features and she quickly looked away. “That’s cool.” She grabbed her purse from under the register and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “Considering I’ve got to open tomorrow, I think I’ll pass on that drink.”

  She crossed to the door, then stopped and glanced back at him. “So, who was that chick who stopped in to see you? Your girlfriend?”

  “No such luck, Margo. Just a friend of a friend.”

  Where had that come from? he wondered as his employee left. The words had sprung so easily from his tongue, as if the meaning behind them had just been sitting there waiting impatiently to be uttered. Not in this lifetime. Even though he found Liz Ames attractive, he had no plans of becoming involved with her. Or anyone else for that matter.

  With a small shake of his head, he returned his attention to closing out the bar. Or rather, he thought, a small percentage of his attention-just enough not to totally screw up the mindless jobs he had performed a million times before. The rest of his attention turned to the reason for Liz’s visit tonight.

  He had to go to Val. Mark had been Tara ’s boyfriend. Tara had been pregnant with his child. He’d been in the garden that night. The first to the scene, according to Liz. He had left that scene without reporting it and was now AWOL.

  That made him a suspect. A prime suspect.

  Rick frowned, thinking about the money Mark had lifted from his register and the IOU he’d left in return. Maybe Mark had needed the money to pay Tara off? Or to make her and their “problem” disappear? Maybe she had refused to abort the baby and he’d killed her? Could she have been blackmailing him? Threatening to make trouble for him?

  But to whom? And blackmail him for what? Mark’s wages barely kept a roof over his head. It wasn’t like Mark was a married man or someone who would have a lot to lose should his predicament come out.

  Typically a blackmailer used the thing a person valued most against him. Rick thought for a moment, working to pinpoint what that thing was. The Mark Morgan he knew valued his Christian faith above all. So how would Tara have been using that against him?

  Rick flipped off all but the security lights, set the alarm, then stepped out into the sticky night, motorcycle helmet under his arm. He glanced up at the inky, star-studded sky. Perhaps Mark and Tara had fought. Perhaps he had discovered the baby wasn’t his. He could have flown into a jealous rage and killed her.

  That scenario fit the killing method. Killing with a blade was more personal than killing with a gun. The attacker had to actually touch his victim, physically subdue them as they fought for their life, feel their body spasm in death, their blood stream across their hands or splatter against their face.

  Rick swung onto the bike and started it. That took an emotional detachment few possessed. Professional killers. Trained military. The true psychopath. Or it took passion. Hatred. Love. Jealousy.

  Rick eased away from the curb, heading south. Problem was, neither of those scenarios explained the Gavin Taft connection. Mark was too young to have been Taft’s accomplice. Therefore, if Mark had killed Tara, he would have had to have studied Taft’s murders before he did the crime. Actually, it would be an ingenious way to throw suspicion in another direction.

  But it also placed the murder squarely in the premeditated category.

  The light at Truman Avenue changed to red and Rick slowed to a stop, the powerful engine purring beneath him. Premeditated murder? Mark? That would mean Mark had planned Tara ’s killing beforehand. Goodbye, crime of passion. Hello, murder in the first degree. Which, if proven, afforded the maximum sentence the law allowed. Which, in the state of Florida, was the death penalty. A crime as heinous as this one had death penalty written all over it. The prosecutor would go for it, Rick didn’t have a doubt about that.

  The light turned green. Rick took a left onto Truman. Could Mark have committed this crime? And why involve Liz Ames? Why create this whole Horned Flower scenario?

  As a backup alibi.

  Rick sucked in a sharp breath. The pieces clicked into place. Liz would be a perfect choice. Mark had no doubt learned from Tara that she was Pastor Howard’s sister. At the same ti
me, he’d learned that she didn’t believe the official explanation for her sister’s disappearance. And that her sister had claimed to Liz that she had uncovered some sort of evil conspiracy.

  Perfect, Rick thought, checking over his left shoulder, then executing an illegal U-turn, heading back in the direction he had come. Mark would have realized that if he contacted Liz with the story, she would not only buy it, but proclaim it to any who would listen.

  Mark had used Liz. He had attempted to use Rick.

  Mistake, Rick thought grimly. Big mistake.

  He made it to Duval Street, passed Paradise Christian and the Hideaway, drawing to a stop in front of Liz Ames’s storefront. He removed his helmet, dragged a hand through his damp hair then lifted his gaze to her second-story apartment.

  Despite the hour, her lights were on. He had known they would be.

  He swung off the bike and glanced toward her lit windows once more. And found her standing there, gazing down at him. He lifted a hand in greeting, and pointed toward her door. She indicated she understood.

  A moment later, she unlocked it. She wore a pair of running shorts and an undershirt. Her feet were bare.

  “I’ve figured it out,” he said. “I know why Mark contacted you.”

  Wordlessly, she motioned him inside. She bolted the door behind them, then led him upstairs.

  Once in the living room, he faced her. “You might want to sit down.”

  She did as he suggested. He laid out his theory for her, leaving nothing out. When he finished, she simply gazed at him, expression stricken.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “About what?” Her voice shook slightly. “Having an opinion?”

  “Shattering your hopes. I know how desperately you want to believe this conspiracy theory. Because of your sister.”

  She passed a hand across her eyes. “And how did Mark learn about Gavin Taft?”

  “Any number of places. Most probably the Internet.”

  “He was in love with her, Rick. If you had only heard him that day. It broke my heart.”