The Death of Life (The Little Things That Kill Series, #2)

by Pamela Crane

  “I wasn’t expecting company.” Tina lifted her shoulders and stacked some dishes, then carried the filthy heap to the kitchen, where she’d managed to fit a small table and two chairs into one corner. It was the only open space to eat at, now that her dining room table was covered in shopping bags, furniture store advertisements, and more dirty dishes. I wondered why a single woman needed twenty place settings when she clearly wasn’t hosting dinner parties.

  After dumping the dishes on the marbled gray countertop, she returned and sat next to me. “Better?”

  I eyed the dirty laundry strewn across the carpet, the mail littering the floor, the food stains on the sofa, the trash scattered throughout the room. How could she live like this? Worse yet, how did she expect to raise a child in this? But that wasn’t my call to make, was it?

  “Sure, I guess.” I handed her the crumpled bag of chips, which she tossed on the coffee table, spilling the remainder of its contents. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “What’s up?”

  Sitting cross-legged on the sofa next to me, she stretched; I caught the sparkle of the purple navel ring peeking out from under her shirt. The bauble was a tacky vestige of Tina’s sexual exploitation; I marveled that she hadn’t had it removed, but then, in many ways, she was a coarse girl, guarded and even a little strange. Who wouldn’t be, after all the shit she’d been through? The needle-phobic in me wondered how much it hurt and why anyone would consent to having a needle jabbed through their flesh in a vain attempt to look “sexy.” A senseless trauma, if you asked me, but then again, I’d rather suffer three weeks with the flu than get a one-second prick of a flu shot.

  “I have a bone to pick with you. You told the press about George Battan’s connection to Marla’s murder. And now my dad was brought in for questioning.”

  “So? What’s the big deal?”

  “Are you seriously asking me that right now? You know my father is probably connected, and if he talks he’s as good as dead. If he doesn’t talk, the police will keep coming at him.”

  “Maybe he’s getting what he deserves. Have you ever considered that? Besides, if he’s innocent, you don’t need to worry.”

  She had me there. But no matter what sense of justice Tina tied to her actions, it still stung like a betrayal.

  “It doesn’t always work that way. What really upsets me is that instead of talking to me first, you go behind my back—while I’m trying to help you find Giana, by the way—and you basically incriminate my father. Why would you do that while I’m trying to help you?”

  “Ari, you couldn’t possibly understand.”

  She was right. I would never understand, because she lost both of her parents in a matter of weeks and didn’t flinch, didn’t mourn the loss, handled it with an emotional buoyancy that would make Hannibal Lecter proud. While I clung to whatever hope remained that I’d be reunited with my family, she dismissed hers with a shrug. Even though we shared the trauma of being castaways, the impact that heartbreak made on each of us couldn’t be more different. I grew more desperate to fix my family while Tina reupholstered her heart with leather.

  “I already knew George wasn’t going to talk,” she continued in a defensive bluster. “I was raised by him. Don’t you think I know him by now? Your dad was already screwed. George would’ve brought him down without my help. I’m trying to get answers, and the only way to do that is to light a fire under both their asses.”

  “You don’t know that Battan won’t talk. I saw him—and he’s nervous. He knows he’s caught.”

  “Okay, miss know-it-all. Tell me, what information did you get about Giana?”

  Damn. I couldn’t deny the truth that I walked out as empty-handed as when I had arrived. “Nothing yet, but I will.”

  “Whatever. You don’t know him like I do. He’ll never give me what I need to know because that’s what he does: holds out a carrot while beating you with a stick. Only so you can discover there was no carrot after all. He’s an illusionist, Ari. Always a trick. I had to do what I had to do to motivate him. Now he knows I’m serious.”

  “Yeah, well, you should have talked to me first. I’m doing all of this for you, and now he’ll know I was bluffing because the police have nothing on him but your word against his. And I hate to remind you, but George has a way of disposing of people who speak up against him. I don’t want to be reading about your ‘deadly accident’ in the news next week.”

  Rising from the sofa, Tina walked to the kitchen, grabbed a soda from the fridge, and returned to stand at the edge of the living room.

  “I wish you’d be honest with yourself, Ari. This isn’t about me or Giana; it’s about you. About restoring your family. I get it. I do. That’s why I want my daughter back. But don’t pretend this is some chess match with George when it’s really about protecting your dad ... who probably isn’t worth protecting anyway.” This last phrase she muttered under her breath.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s a criminal, Ari. He helped steal children and sell them as sex slaves. Face the reality. You think you had it hard in the foster system? Imagine what it was like to be raped day after day, hundreds of times a month ... as a child. You can’t imagine it, because it’s unthinkably, unspeakably repulsive. Your father participated in that, profited from that. Why do you want to save someone so evil anyway?”

  It was a good question. One I couldn’t answer.

  “I better let you get to work,” I finally said, grabbing my purse to make a pit stop at the bathroom. Maybe I was pissier than usual because I was PMS-ing. Or maybe I was just pissed because my best friend acted so nonchalantly about my father’s fate.

  “Not necessary. I’m not going to work today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighed, and I knew it was bad. “I got fired last week.”

  “Fired? How the hell did you get fired?”

  “I dunno. They’re sticklers about being there on time, and I was late getting to work too many times. It doesn’t matter. It didn’t pay well anyway and it was boring. I’ll find something else.”

  “Y’know, eventually there will be no something else. You need to grow up and stop being so selfish if you want to be a parent.”

  The scowl burning through my skin showed me out the door. But I was right, wasn’t I?

  If Tina couldn’t hold down a job for more than a couple months, how was she going to handle raising a child? You couldn’t just decide not to feed your kid simply because you didn’t feel like it. There was a real chance that finding Giana wouldn’t be the best thing for either of them ... but convincing Tina of that wouldn’t be easy.

  Chapter 9 Ari

  My gray-walled cubicle felt stuffy and cramped as I itched to get up and walk around. Even the kitschy black velvet and neon unicorn poster I’d picked up at a yard sale and tacked to my wall couldn’t cheer me up. I’d been in a funk ever since the schism between Tina and me widened.

  Life was lonely without my best friend. No number of boyfriend kisses or breakfasts in bed or Tristan’s handpicked bouquets of wildflowers could mend the ache I felt after my fight with Tina. The best way to make up would be to bring back her daughter ... but I was nowhere close to finding her yet.

  I’d spent the afternoon doing busywork, and my legs were growing restless. Even my brain refused to cooperate as it wandered off into worrisome thoughts about Giana, George Battan, my dad. Maybe a coffee would help, since caffeine had an uncanny calming effect on me. Heading to the coffee station—which was essentially a Mr. Coffee coffee pot half filled with day-old brew next to a carton of powdered creamer—I passed Tristan’s desk, where he was on the phone. I decided to pop by for a quick hi. Yes, I was that bored that I resorted to pestering my boyfriend at work, despite the warnings about “office romance.”

  One thing I appreciated most about Tristan was that he didn’t act the part. No tucked-in collared shirt or red power tie. No coffee stains or donut crumbs. He was tat
toos and eccentricities, cast from an original mold, with rock star hair and chains clasped to his belt loops. Brooding but funny. Unselfconsciously cool. Even in my worst moods he could draw a laugh out of me. Invigorating like spring water. Just what a thirsty, restless girl like me needed.

  Waiting for him to hang up, my eyes wandered over the paperwork scattered across the faux wooden surface of his desk. Notes about the serial killer he was tracking were scrawled on a yellow notepad, gory pictures of crime scenes and evidence fanned out in a collage of torn flesh and tools of death, and I couldn’t pull my stare away.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  I jumped at the question, not realizing Tristan had been watching me. The graphic photos showcased the depths of depravity that lurked in the hidden places and loitered in front of our very homes. Nowhere was safe anymore. Not the workplaces or the schools or the stores or even my own support group. Evil lived everywhere. Even in my own family. I shivered at the thought of a father whose arms held me in a comforting hug then strangled a child to death hours later. Sickening, that’s what it was.

  “Just browsing.”

  It was an unspoken rule that I wasn’t supposed to nose my way into his cases. Then again, I’d always been a rule-breaker. After I had told him about my little visit to see Battan, I only reinforced this side of me. Luckily Tristan’s understanding ran deep, though I wondered how much he’d put up with from me before that well ran dry.

  “Browsing crime scene photos? That’s not weird at all,” Tristan added with a chuckle.

  “Shut up.”

  “How’s it going over yonder?”

  “Boring. My brain is going numb from all the filing. I figured you could entertain me. Dance for me.” I stuck my tongue out.

  “You’re so mature.”

  “I know. So, what’cha doing?”

  “Wondering what you need.”

  I winked. “Take one guess. It has to do with you and that apron you look so damn hot in.”

  He laughed and shook his head. I wanted to kiss the splotches spreading across his neck like raspberry jelly on toast. “You’re such a tease.”

  I lifted one shoulder in a girly pout. “I know. But seriously, I need to pick your brain for a minute.”

  “Ah, are we gonna exchange the latest serial-killer gossip?”

  He knew me so well. “Not this time. It’s about Tina—and my dad.” I figured maybe he had some advice on how to deal with Tina’s little one-woman act, considering he was a cop and all. “I’m sure you saw her media stunt trying to draw attention to the connection between George and Marla ... and then throwing my dad in for good measure.”

  “I sure did. I thought she didn’t want to come forward. Not until she got info on Giana.”

  “I thought so too. Apparently she changed her mind without telling anyone. I don’t know what to do. George won’t give me any leads on finding Giana, and the only thing I know is that my father was there—maybe. Can I really trust Tina’s memory?”

  “She seems pretty certain it was him.”

  “But a vague memory from three years ago is not enough proof. And I guarantee Dad’ll play ignorant if I ask him about it. What other options do I have to find Giana, oh wise one?”

  Tristan’s lips tightened in a line as he shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. If we knew the date of birth, we could search public records, but God knows what information was fudged during the paperwork, if there is any. Based on Tina’s recounting of her labor, I doubt they ever officially filed for a certificate of live birth with the county. They most likely didn’t keep the name Giana, possibly changed the birth date, maybe even crossed international borders. It’s been three years—a lot can happen in that amount of time.”

  “What about Battan? Can you intimidate him into giving details on what he did with Giana?”

  “I wish I could, but all we have on Battan is child trafficking charges, which he’s trying to get out of. He’s got a damn good attorney, and God only knows who he’s paid off. Right now I have nothing new to threaten him with. Linking him to Marla’s murder was our best bet, but right now it’s only hearsay. No evidence, just one girl’s word against his.”

  “So you can’t go all Jack Bauer on him and cut off a couple of his fingers or stick a plastic bag over his head to scare the truth out of him?”

  “Whoa, I’m a badass, but not nearly as badass as Jack Bauer.” He chuckled. “I would love nothing more than to torture him, Ari, but you know I can’t. Have you even tried to talk to you father? If you put the heat on your dad, maybe he’ll talk. Tell him you know about Marla—see if that gets his lips moving.”

  I hadn’t considered using Marla to get to Giana before. It could actually work if I played it right.

  “I guess anything is worth a shot.”

  I was running out of options fast, but if my dad cared at all about staying out of jail and keeping George as far away as possible, he’d have to start talking. If only I hadn’t inherited my stubborn gene from Burt Wilburn, because my dad made a mule look cooperative. But there were ways to get the most mulish of men to talk.

  Chapter 10

  From the Trumpian red tie to the glistening black polish of his dress shoes, Burt Wilburn looked every inch the respectable banker. But I knew Burt’s secrets. I knew a demon hid beneath the Ralph Lauren suit, an evil capable of just about anything.

  His wife Winnie clung to his arm as they walked to their BMW parked in the driveway. Winnie was clearly the neck in the relationship, turning Burt’s head at her every whim. With her upthrust chin she exuded an overweening conceit at having successfully housetrained her pet husband via stingily doling out sex in a reward system, and letting him think he had ideas that were actually his own. Burt wouldn’t dare balk at her $200 dye job (that had turned her hair a ghastly shade of red not found in nature) or $80 weekly pedicure, even though he ate brown bag lunches in his office most days. I knew this because I’d been watching.

  Perhaps Winnie’s love of money was the root of Burt’s evil. He’d do anything to please his noose of a wife. But really, in the end she would be the death of him. If not from overworking himself to pay for that dye job and BMW, then from his extracurricular activities with George Battan.

  Oddly enough, their home was neither extravagant nor modest—a typical two-story suburban dwelling with modern appeal. Nice yard, cute front porch, a familial hominess yet impressive enough to entertain guests in. With the aid of binoculars, from my angle I could see the gray roots peeking out from Winnie Wilburn’s scalp, a stark reminder that a visit to her hairdresser for a touch-up was due any day now. As the hairdresser washed away remnants of her fading youth, did that symbolize the cleansing of sins for dear old Winnie? Was her new look an attempt at hiding who she truly was? Was outward beauty a means to masking her inward ugliness? Perhaps her deception worked on others, but it didn’t work on me.

  It would take plenty of watching, waiting, lurking in the shadows before I could execute the plan. I was like a soldier reconnoitering an area before a battle—one I was determined to win, if not for me, then for them, the victims.

  Burt held Winnie’s hand as she settled into the passenger seat, then gallantly kissed her wrinkled cheek—that was a nice touch, Burtie-boy. When it closed, the door made the cottony whoomp characteristic of luxury cars; I detested that sound. Then he poured himself into the supple black leather of the driver’s seat. The BMW purred to life; Burtie-boy expertly backed it into the street and sped away. I imagined them talking about dinner plans, their favorite dishes, and whether Winnie would have room for her meal if they got an appetizer.

  I wouldn’t be following them tonight. There was plenty of time for that. Tonight I had other plans. Pulling a black hoodie up to shadow my face and slipping gloves on my hands, I counted the minutes away until I felt confident that the coast was clear. As I was ready to step out of my hiding place, a pair of headlights played across the yard, illuminating the space mere feet from where
I hunched down in the shadows. The car slowed in front of the house and rolled to a stop. A woman got out, bounding up to the front door as a drizzle began to fall. Her knock echoed in the evening silence, then again, louder. I watched her scramble through the bushes, then cup her face with both hands as she peered in through a window. The snapping of twigs melted into the soft patter of rain as she crouched her way around the side of the house, toward the backyard, where she disappeared from my view.

  Several minutes passed as I watched a light flicker against a window on the upstairs floor. Then a flashlight beam danced across the glass. Who else was intent on unearthing Burt’s secrets? I had just enough time to investigate.

  Sprinting to her car, I opened the passenger-side door and found the glove compartment where her car registration was tucked into a neat stack of papers.

  Ari Wilburn.

  Gotcha. And your address too. I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to pay her a visit.

  Already things weren’t going according to plan, which would require some adjustment. I needed to deliver the letter, preferably in his house so that he knew I was all-powerful, able to easily access any part of his life that I saw fit. But the message couldn’t wait. It had to be today, but his unexpected visitor was screwing up everything.

  Or perhaps not. Maybe it was better this way. Instead, I headed to the front porch and dropped the envelope on the mat. It’d have to do for now. It didn’t matter who found it first—Burt, Winnie, Little Miss Snoopy. In fact, I wanted them all to see it, to know what was coming. Because unlike Scott and Jackson, Burt showed no remorse. I wanted him afraid. I wanted all those who loved him afraid for him. One should know why he’s dying, what he’s dying for when it happens.

  And if Burt thought he could run? Well, I’d be watching and waiting.

  As I slipped back into my car, warily looking up and down the street to ensure no neighbors had spotted me, I wondered just what exactly Ari Wilburn was up to, and how it would impact my own scheme. For her sake, hopefully our paths wouldn’t cross again.