by Carsen Taite
“Well, that’s not helpful, but it makes sense since Riley works at home and Frank isn’t working at all.” Nick pointed at the intersection ahead. “Do I take a right or left up here?”
Claire consulted the map app on her phone. “Left. Look, I know the lookout might be a waste of resources, but if it eliminates them as suspects it will tell us more than we know right now.”
“Good point. We need some kind of a break.”
“Speaking of which, I’m still set on going to the Lofton Gallery tomorrow. If we can’t pinpoint Riley as the artist of the sketches we have after that, then it’s time to start showing these sketches far and wide.”
“We could start by showing them to Buster today. He’s bound to know if the artist is someone in the group.”
Claire considered the idea. “We could, but he might be inclined to protect whoever it is. He and Riley seem like they’re friends.”
“We’d at least have the opportunity to gauge his reaction in person.”
“Good point. I’m conflicted. Let’s play it by ear.”
“Agreed. I’ll follow your lead.” Nick pulled over to the right in front of a line of sleek and modern condos. “We’re here.” He stared at the building for a moment. “You know, this isn’t where I would’ve pictured Buster living. He struck me as more cabin in the woods than hip and trendy.”
“Look at you, judging a book by its cover,” Claire said. “Let’s talk about how to play this.”
“We need some hairs from the dog. You think of some reason why we’re here and I’ll pet the puppy.”
“Why do you get the fun job?”
“Because you outrank me, so you get to do the hard stuff,” Nick said. “There’s a price for being the smart one.”
“Whatever.” She knew he was kidding, but it wasn’t the first time lately he’d referred to her rank and the implication she wouldn’t be sticking around at detective level for long. He didn’t sound jealous. His tone was more wistful, like he’d miss her. If she got this promotion, she’d miss him too, and everything else about being on the ground, investigating cases.
Buster answered the door within seconds of them ringing the doorbell, a lively Boston terrier nipping at his heels. He reached down and scooped the puppy into his arms. “Sorry about that. Darcy here is incredibly friendly and as hyper as they come. I’ve been working on getting her not to go insane when the doorbell rings, but I have better luck simply staking out the front door when I know someone is on their way over.” He motioned for them to follow him into a small living room with a southwestern decor. “Have a seat.” He set Darcy down and she immediately ran to Claire who dutifully rubbed her head.
“She’s adorable.”
“She is. A bit rambunctious for an artist who works from home. I can’t leave any of my projects out for fear she’ll run headlong into an easel and send everything flying. The energy is good though. She definitely keeps me on alert.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Can I get either of you something to drink?” Buster asked.
“We’re good, thanks,” Nick said. “We just have a few follow-up questions.”
“Let me guess, that body that was found last Friday has something to do with the one you found in Deep Ellum?”
Claire risked a quick look at Nick who looked as surprised as she was by the question. She raised her eyebrows and cut her eyes to Buster, telegraphing to Nick to tread carefully.
“We can’t comment on an open investigation, but we are exploring all possible angles. Do you know Wendy Hyatt?”
“Never heard of her until her name was in the paper, but the basic description stood out. Twenty-something white female,” Buster said. “Sad news for sure. Both women were so young.”
“They were.”
“If there’s a serial killer on the loose, you really should tell people. It seems like the responsible thing to do.”
Would a killer offer that kind of advice? Claire considered and decided he might if he was trying to throw them off his trail. She took a moment to assess Buster as a potential killer. He was a nice-looking guy, although a little scruffy. If he’d approached Jill or Wendy, they likely wouldn’t have been on alert for danger. He looked more like someone’s nice uncle than a strangler. He was medium height, thin, but wiry. She’d read on his website that he built his own frames and woodworking was one of his hobbies, and she extrapolated from that he had enough muscle to strangle a victim, especially one who had been dosed with GHB.
Claire glanced at Nick. She knew she was supposed to cover for him so he could get hairs from the pup, but she decided to take a risk on an idea of her own. “I hate to ask this, but do you mind if I use your restroom?”
Buster smiled. “No problem at all. There’s one down that hall to the right of the guest room.”
Claire ignored Nick’s questioning look and walked down the hall. When she was completely out of sight, she pressed on the door farthest from the living room, pleased when it opened into what appeared to be the master suite. She listened closely to Nick’s and Buster’s voices, distant now, and decided to risk a moment of snooping around.
His incredibly tidy room made her feel like a slob in contrast. She was usually very tidy as well, but she’d been off-kilter the past two weeks and the result was piles of laundry and an unmade bed. She walked past his king-sized bed and glanced into the open doors of his closet. His wardrobe was casual overall with a couple of suits hanging toward the back. She kept going, crossing the threshold to the master bath. A quick sweep of the crystal clean room revealed a bottle of generic ibuprofen and an economy-sized bottle of contact lens solution.
She hadn’t really expected to find a partially used bottle of GHB sitting on the bathroom counter, but she’d held out hope she’d find some kind of clue pointing away from Riley. She took one last look around and tiptoed back to the bedroom door when she heard the muffled snorts of Buster’s Boston terrier followed by Nick’s raised voice.
“Hey, Darcy, come play with me.”
“Don’t mind her,” Buster said. “Once she gets obsessed with something, she’s tenacious as hell.”
Claire could hear footfalls on the wood floors, headed her way, and then Nick’s voice again followed by the scamper of dog feet, away from her this time. “Come here, Darcy. Good girl, Darcy. Good girl.”
“She likes you,” Buster said. “She almost never comes to someone that quickly.”
“Dogs love me,” Nick said.
Claire rolled her eyes and eased the bedroom door back into the almost closed position she’d found it in. She walked across the hall, opened the guest bathroom door, and flushed the toilet and then ran the faucet. A moment later, she slipped out of the bathroom, loudly closed the door, and walked back into the living room. She grinned at Nick. “Did I hear you getting attached to this nice doggie?” She bent down to pet Darcy’s head. “She’s a cutie for sure.”
“Oh, I’m very attached,” Nick said, giving her a wink. “A second ago, Buster looked the other way and I was considering ducking out of here with this sweet little girl.”
Claire took his words as a sign he’d managed to get some of the dog’s hair while she was in Buster’s bedroom. All she wanted to do now was get out of there as fast as they could, but they hadn’t really asked him anything and she didn’t want to raise suspicions. “One of the other members of your sketch group said that you all met up at the bridge last month. I’m sure it’s nothing, but it is kind of a strange coincidence that we’ve found two dead bodies in locations that seem to be popular spots. Do you recall seeing anything or anyone out of the ordinary at any of your meet-ups?”
Buster rubbed his chin. “I can’t think of anything offhand. We usually get a fair number of people stopping to see what we’re doing. People like watching us draw and sometimes they’re even aspiring artists who’re interested in joining the club. Just in the last six months, we’ve had a couple of people join that way. Warren and Jensen for example.
”
Claire consulted the list of artists in the group. They hadn’t spoken with either of these people and she immediately moved their names up in importance. She wasn’t sure why—maybe it was simply the desire to divert attention from Riley, but she needed the focus to point elsewhere. “Are they amateur artists or pros like you?”
Buster laughed. “My pro status changes from time to time. I’m doing well right now, but if we get another dip in the economy, art is one of the things people give up first, and I’ll be eating ramen again. The kind from the grocery store aisle, not the fancy Japanese restaurant kind. Of all the people in our group, I’d only consider a few professional artists.” He ticked names off on his fingers. “Riley Flynn has been an art instructor for a while, and she just signed on with the Lofton. Natalie Solis has sold several pieces to galleries around town. Other than that, most of the people who participate are doing it as a hobby.”
Claire noted the way he smiled when he said Natalie’s name, and she remembered them sitting close the first time she’d seen them at the bar. “Are you and Natalie a couple?”
“Couple? We’re a bit more casual than that. We’ve known each other for a long time and we’ve dated on and off.” He scrunched his forehead. “Is that important to your case?”
Claire smiled. “Not at all. I noticed your easy affection with each other the first time we talked and thought it was sweet is all.” She changed the subject quickly. “Is there anything else you think might be helpful?”
“Not really.” He reached for Darcy and rubbed her ears. “Have you had a chance to talk to everyone on the list I gave you?”
“Almost,” Claire said. “We appreciate your help.” She stood, ready to get out of there and get the dog hairs to Reyes. “Thanks again.”
She and Nick were almost to the door, when Buster called out for them to wait. He reached for a pad of paper and scrawled a note and handed it to her. “Our next meet-up is Saturday. Feel free to stop by. You might be able to catch the people you haven’t talked to yet.”
She glanced at the note. Farmer’s Market 2 p.m. “Thanks. We might drop by.”
She and Nick had just gotten in the car when both of their phones started buzzing. She read the text on hers, while Nick answered his call. RF hasn’t left the house all day. Just had food delivered. Probably in for the night. She started to type a reply, but Nick’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“We have another one.”
“What?”
“That was dispatch. There’s another body. South side of Old Red,” he said, referring to the original red sandstone Dallas courthouse that was now a museum. “White, twenties, female, strangled. Ready to roll?”
Claire stared at the screen on her phone, anxious to send some texts of her own. “Feel like driving?”
Nick was out of the car in a flash and they switched places. As he sped downtown, she checked in with the unit outside Frank Flynn’s place. Status?
Left about four hours ago. Hasn’t been back.
Stay close. Text me when he shows up.
She switched back to the other text. DO NOT lose sight of her. No matter what. If she leaves, follow and text me location.
Claire hit send and set the phone down. Nick looked over at her. “Any news?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s not the same MO,” he said. “Could be a copycat.”
“I guess we’ll know in a few minutes.” Claire wanted to say more, but all she could think about was how relieved she was that Riley was at home and had been all day. But what if they found another sketch and it turned out to be Riley’s? What would that mean for the case? And what would it mean for Riley?
Chapter Fourteen
Riley lowered the blinds and dimmed the lights. Her studio had been flooded with light all day, and she blinked to adjust to the sudden change. Today had been a good day. She’d rolled out of bed, brewed a pot of tea, and spent hours painting. No weights to lift, no classes to teach, no parents or detectives dropping by to pull her into drama and intrigue that wasn’t hers.
Of course, not every interaction with Claire had been unpleasant. She’d actually enjoyed both of the meals they’d shared at Mia’s, and even though she’d stalked out of the last one, she could admit at least fifty percent of that had been about her own sensitivity about her father. He was a complicated issue, and she didn’t expect anyone to understand how she could love the memory of the man she’d known and feel sorry for what he’d gone through, but still hold on to residual anger about the big gaps in her life because he lacked good character.
Lacked. The mistakes he made were fifteen years in the past. What if he really was a changed person, more like the man from her childhood than the one who’d ripped it away? If he was, how would that manifest now? It was too late for things like teaching her to drive, giving advice about college, or any of the other father-daughter things a teenage girl should be able to expect from her dad. Could he possibly have some role in her life now that wasn’t tangled up in anything to do with his court case? She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, unable to process the possibilities and the risk of wanting what might only be a mirage. Maybe someday.
Riley walked through her studio, picking up stray brushes and tubes of paint to be cleaned and stored. While she was painting, she was a tornado, more concerned about plowing forward than leaving a tidy trail in her wake. When the room resembled a living space instead of an artist studio, she poured an inch of Jameson’s and sank onto the couch.
Thoughts of her father led her to think about Claire, and Riley wondered if she were similarly tucked away in her own home with the spirit of her choice. Did Claire share her love of a well-lit apartment or would she be more of a house with a yard kind of person? Was she neat and orderly or too busy to care about mundane things like household order? Riley sipped her whiskey and let her mind wander and body relax. For the first time in days, contentment was not a stranger and she slipped into an easy slumber.
Bang, bang, bang.
Riley shot awake and rushed to focus on her surroundings. Whiskey glass mostly full. Surrounded by couch cushions. Lights dimmed. Slowly, she reached the conclusion she’d dozed off and now someone was at her door, rapid-fire knocking to get her attention. Three more knocks in quick succession made it clear they were not going away. “I’m coming. I’m coming,” she said.
She reached the door and peered out the viewer to see Claire with her hand raised, looking harried. For a second, Riley wondered if she was dreaming since she’d been thinking about Claire as she’d fallen asleep.
“Riley, let me in.”
Nope, not dreaming. She turned the locks and opened the door partway, cautious, but curious about whatever it was that seemed so urgent. “What’s going on?” she asked. “What time is it?”
“It’s late. Can I come in?”
Riley didn’t have to think about it. She wanted to know what was going on, but even more, she felt oddly glad Claire was here—a sensation she filed away to process later. “Yes.” She swung the door open wide, closing and locking it again after Claire walked through. She motioned to the couch. “Have a seat. Would you like some tea?”
“Coffee?”
“Sorry, tea is all I have, but if you’re looking for caffeine, I have a great British blend that’s even better than coffee for a boost.”
Claire bit her bottom lip which Riley recognized as her I’m thinking about it look. It was endearing, and Riley wondered when she’d made the shift from finding Claire abrasive to feeling affection for her.
“I’ll take some tea. Although I must say it’s a travesty that you don’t have coffee.”
“Noted.” Riley walked over to the kitchen and filled the electric kettle and set it to boil. She set up another cup with a bag of her favorite blend and turned back to Claire. “I have a feeling you didn’t drop by just to get a hot drink.”
“No.” Claire ran a hand through her hair, clearly stressed. “Another body turned
up tonight.”
Riley sagged against the kitchen counter. “Oh no. That’s horrible.” She studied Claire’s distraught expression. “Are you okay?”
“What?” Claire shook her head. “Yes. I mean, no, not really.”
“Was she…like the others?” Riley hoped Claire would know what she was asking without making her say the words.
“Early twenties. We have a tentative ID based on a report filed by her roommate with campus security at Richards. If we’re right, she was a first year law student.”
“What a waste.” Riley started to reach for Claire’s hand to offer reassurance, but she stopped midway, unsure how the gesture would be received. “I can tell you’re taking this hard.”
“Three murders in less than three weeks. Not a great track record.”
Riley responded to the despair in Claire’s voice. “It’s not like you’re responsible.”
“It’s my job to stop this from happening.”
The kettle whistled to signal the water was ready, and Riley poured it into Claire’s cup. She brought it to Claire. “Let this steep for a bit. Cream or sugar?”
“This is good. Thanks.”
Claire fiddled with the tag on the tea bag, and Riley’s heart melted a little at her obvious vulnerability. “I’m happy to be a beverage stop for your evening, but is there some other reason you came by?”
“Yes,” Claire said. She set the tea cup down, reached into her bag, and pulled out her phone. “I need to show you something.”
Riley watched with a sense of dread and excitement as Claire tapped on her phone. A moment later, Claire thrust the phone toward her. It took Riley a moment to focus on the three-way split screen. She reached for the phone and used her thumb and forefinger to enlarge the familiar images, sucking in a breath when she recognized what she was seeing. “Where did you get these?”
“Are they yours?”
Riley stared at the images. The mural in Deep Ellum, the Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge, the Old Red Courthouse. Rough sketches, the beginnings of work that would be featured in her upcoming show. These were the drawings she’d been looking for, the ones Lacy had requested, in the sketchbook she couldn’t find. How had they wound up on Claire’s phone? She asked again. “Where did you get these?”
