Flames flickered on half a dozen candles standing in pools of melted wax as the furnace kicked on. It’s a wonder she hadn’t burned the damn building down. Next time, she’d try to remember to blow out her candles before she passed out from exhaustion. She inhaled the aroma of gardenia blossoms—fake, but close enough to remind her of the giant bush that bloomed every summer in her momma’s backyard.
Could Potter be the killer?
Finding a bracelet and a handkerchief with his name on them at the crime scene didn’t change her gut feeling. Given the lack of evidence from the other victims, she thought it odd to have found so much at the last scene. Lucky? She didn’t think so—especially without fingerprints or other evidence linking Potter to the scene.
She sipped her wine and let her mind wander. What about Lanny Summers’s lighter? How had it ended up in a seldom-used drawer in Potter’s kitchen? She smelled a rat that even the fake gardenia couldn’t mask.
Vincent’s file—or alleged file, she should say—made a compelling case for a setup. If the file hadn’t been fabricated by Potter and his attorney—she highly doubted it was—why would Clarkson visit Potter’s neighborhood in the middle of the night and stay for only forty minutes?
Why Potter? And if the incident at the Lincoln Memorial was the reason, how had Clarkson found out who he was and where he lived? Nothing made sense.
Had Clarkson figured out that Vincent was working for Potter’s attorney? She dismissed the idea, and was willing to bet Clarkson had no idea there was a connection between Potter and Vincent that a good defense attorney could use to explain away the presence of the bracelet and handkerchief.
Why was Vincent naked? Was it more than the killer’s need for his clothes? Aside from traces of bright red lipstick on the victim’s penis, the coroner had found no evidence of sexual contact.
Only one motive made sense. Clarkson came to Potter’s neighborhood to break into his apartment to frame him for two murders—including one that, at the time, hadn’t been committed yet.
But that still didn’t explain how Clarkson had found Potter and where he lived.
The phone ringing interrupted her thoughts. “Shit!” She rose from the tub and traded the empty wine bottle for a towel as she trotted to the phone. “White here.”
“This is George Walker. I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but you may be after the wrong guy. Philip and I don’t believe Clarkson is our man.”
“What?” She wanted to say she was after Potter, but decided instead to listen.
“You’re right. Clarkson finding out Philip’s name and where he lived is unlikely if not impossible.”
The towel dropped to the hallway floor. She put her hand on her hip and scowled at the wall-mounted phone. “If it’s not Potter or Clarkson, who’s the killer?”
“Beau Carter, a high school English teacher.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“I TOLD you something like this would happen.” Beau sneered. “I’m surprised they haven’t arrested you yet.”
Agitated, Philip stood with his hands on his hips. He hadn’t planned on seeing Beau again and had been surprised when he’d shown up and pushed his way into Philip’s apartment. Now he was flabbergasted by what Beau had said. Words escaped him. Nice words, anyway. “Are you saying I brought this on myself?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” Beau pointed a finger at him. “I tried to get you to walk away from that crazy man, but you wouldn’t listen. Nobody made you go by that shelter on Christmas Eve either. Did you ever stop to think that if you hadn’t, James would still be alive, and none of this would be happening now?”
Philip couldn’t believe the nerve of the man who he suspected had killed James, six young hustlers, and Anthony Vincent. Rather than fear for his life, rage washed over him—an emotion he’d been experiencing a lot since Christmas. His fingernails dug into his palms and his jaw clenched. He imagined putting his fist through Beau’s face, and the image startled him. He took deep, calming breaths and counted to ten.
Counting to ten, a hundred, or even a thousand merely postponed the inevitable. He was done with Beau, and though he hadn’t planned on it, he was glad to have this opportunity to sever all ties with this horrid man who he never wanted to see again. “Leave my apartment, at once.”
Beau’s jaw dropped. “You’re kicking me out? But I’m only watching out for your best interest.”
Philip stepped toward the door, thinking that booting Beau out right now was definitely in his best interest. “Yes, I’m kicking you out, and I don’t need you or anyone else to watch out for me. Leave. Now.”
Beau flashed his million-dollar smile and winked, giving Philip’s shoulder a light punch. “Come on, Philip. You can’t be serious!”
“Don’t touch me.” He took a step back. “And I’ve never been more serious in my life.” He opened the door and glared at Beau. “Beat it.” Philip couldn’t believe how calm he sounded. He kept an eye on Beau’s hands in case he went for the gun he’d used to kill his other victims. Philip feared his heart was about to explode in his chest.
Beau’s smile faded as his anger bloomed. “You’ve got some nerve! After all I’ve done for you, you treat me like this?”
Philip thought about offering a rebuttal, telling Beau everything he knew about him. But he’d promised George he wouldn’t. Besides, telling him off would prolong the agony of being in the same room with him and might even cost him his life. “Go. Now.”
“Can’t we talk this out?”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Philip pointed to the open door. “Leave my apartment. Before I throw you out.” He couldn’t believe the words had come from his mouth.
Beau cringed, a hurt expression on his face, and backed up a few steps. When Philip moved toward him, he ran out the door.
Philip enjoyed slamming the door behind Beau perhaps a bit too much. The unwanted twinge of guilt that had popped into his head at the sight of him bolting down the steps didn’t keep him from feeling a huge weight lifting from his shoulders.
Free at last.
The previous evening with George and surviving what he hoped would be his last encounter with a probable serial killer had rejuvenated Philip. He leaned back against the door and surveyed the living room, taking in the multicolored, mismatched furniture and the juvenile art projects Beau had created for the walls. He couldn’t live with the crazy color scheme for another minute. The bizarre wall hangings were the first to land in the trash bin.
He thought about George as he sprayed black paint on his multicolored dinette set. Philip had rejected the idea of marrying to conceal his sexual preference because of the underlying adultery. Now he was contemplating… no, relishing the idea of an adulterous relationship with a married man. And not just any married man either. He was head over heels in love with his deceased lover’s uncle and ecstatic to find George felt the same way about him.
The fumes made him a little lightheaded. He opened the windows and switched on the bathroom fan and the exhaust fan over the stove. The reek of spray paint reminded him of the graffiti on his living room wall.
He loved James. But once the parent/child dynamic had been pointed out, Philip saw their relationship in a new light. He’d been right about the predictable outcome, even if he hadn’t fully understood his role.
The situation with George was different. George didn’t need Philip to take care of him. He knew who he was, what he wanted, and where he wanted to go. Right now, Philip needed George, and he would until the killer was caught and Philip’s name was cleared. But that was different—professional services in exchange for cash, even if he’d yet to receive a bill.
Was it too soon? Philip shrugged. He was ready for a mature relationship with someone his own age. Besides, he and George were not having an affair. Not yet, anyway.
He’d rejected the notion that George was lying about the conversation with his wife. Honesty and integrity had driven George to talk with her. Doing so with
out consulting with Philip first spoke well of him too. George didn’t want to say anything until he knew what Maxine thought about the situation.
Philip didn’t know if he was ready for an affair. The idea of being with George, however, very much appealed to him. He was precisely the kind of man Philip had hoped James would become.
He stood up too fast and, for a moment, saw stars. Or maybe the fumes were responsible for his vertigo. Or perhaps it was the realization that he’d loved George years before he’d even met him.
The James he had loved during their time together never existed. Philip had imagined him being a man like George. Honest, upstanding, and of fine moral character. But that wasn’t who James was at all. The real James, Philip now knew, was a liar, a thief, and a con artist.
Before he moved forward with George, Philip wanted to be sure he wasn’t also making George out to be something he wasn’t. He sat on the kitchen counter, admiring the still-wet table and chairs perched atop the black-mottled newspaper that covered the floor. He wanted a real flesh and blood man, not a fantasy.
Making the apartment his again would take some work. He didn’t care. The work would be good for him. At least for now, time was on his side. Nobody was moving in with anyone, and life went on. He could finish repainting over the next two weekends—three at the most.
Unless he got arrested first.
Or killed.
About an hour after he’d booted Beau from his apartment, the telephone rang. Philip thought about not answering, but he worried George might be trying to reach him. He picked up after the third ring. “Hello.”
“It’s Beau. Please don’t hang up.”
The pitiful-sounding plea kept Philip from disconnecting the call. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling and rubbed his temples. “I can’t understand why you’re making this so hard, Beau. What do you want?”
A long sigh came through the line. “To apologize, for one. I’m sorry.” He paused.
Philip thought he heard a sob. Was he crying?
“What I said was out of line.”
Another long pause. Philip tapped his foot, growing more impatient with each passing moment.
“I know it’s too late. The damage has been done,” Beau whined. “But I want you to know I’m sorry.”
Philip sank into a chair and palmed his forehead. Knowing Beau would seize upon any opening, he thought about how to respond, but could find no words.
Beau continued. “I like talking to you and being around you.”
Another long pause. This time Philip was sure he heard a sob.
“I know it’s over between us, and I’m okay with that… really, I am.”
Philip drew in a breath. Okay. Here comes the but….
“But I don’t know anyone else around here. Last term I was too busy to notice. But after spending so much time with you over the break, well….”
Philip waited for him to continue. As the pause lengthened, he lost patience. “Well, what?”
“I was hoping we could be friends.”
Exasperated, Philip pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s not going to be possible.”
“Why not?”
Telling him would mean defying George’s directive to keep quiet. He thought about hanging up, but decided instead to go with a partial truth. “I can’t stand the thought of spending another evening with you, in my apartment or yours, parked in front of the television.”
“But I thought you understood… my situation.”
Here we go again. “Yes, I do.” Philip couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice. “And your situation is no different than that of every other homosexual in America.” He stood to pace the kitchen, but the telephone cord restricted his mobility. “This isn’t tiny little Watkinsville, Georgia, where everybody knows everybody else, what they had for dinner, and everything there is to know about one another.”
“I can’t help where I grew up, Philip.”
Beau’s whiney tone went all through him. It was like he was trying to make Philip angry. He eyed the ceiling again. “You’re missing the point.”
“I didn’t call to fight with you.”
“Well, then, Beau, why did you call? Fighting with you isn’t how I’d planned to spend my day either.”
“Would you meet me for lunch?”
Philip didn’t know how to respond. Beau offering to meet him in public was a curve ball he hadn’t anticipated. The silence grew uncomfortable.
“It would really mean a lot if you would. Your friendship is important to me.”
If Philip wasn’t being lured into a trap, perhaps he’d find out something that would prove Beau was the killer. Meeting in public should be safe enough. “Go on.”
“Say one o’clock, at that new Italian place on Seventeenth Street?” A loud banging in the background came through the line. “Hang on. There’s someone at the door. I’ll be right back.”
Peeved and beyond ready to hang up, Philip listened for Beau to return. He heard a male voice boom, “Beauregard Carter?”
Though he listened as hard as he could, Philip couldn’t hear what else was being said until Beau yelled, “No! I haven’t done anything wrong. Stop! You’re hurting me.” Loud voices continued for a couple of minutes, then nothing but silence.
Philip waited, but as the minutes passed and the phone remained silent, he knew Beau wasn’t going to pick up. Mr. Carter was on his way downtown to meet Sergeant White.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
TRIPP’S MIND was made up. He’d prayed about it, then prayed about it a while longer, and God had answered. The way was clear. He knew what he must do.
Ivy dropped his fork onto his plate and pushed his chair back. “May I be excused?”
Harriet started to answer, but Tripp cut her off. “Not yet.” He gazed around the table at his family. “I have some good news.”
His wife regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. Harold focused on using his spoon to scrape the last of the filling from a piece of chocolate meringue pie, leaving the empty crust on his plate. Ivy sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching Tripp with a blank expression, waiting for him to speak.
Tripp cleared his throat and launched into the speech he’d written down, committed to memory, and rehearsed at least half a dozen times. “God brought us to the capital of this great nation eleven years ago. We’ve worked hard, accomplished a lot, and have much to be grateful for.” He paused, glancing around the table, waiting.
“Amen,” Harriet said, bowing her head with a content smile.
“Amen,” the boys chimed in unison.
So far so good, Tripp thought. Now he really needed to sell it. “Our work here in Chevy Chase is done.” He nodded at them in turn, a silent thanks for their role in the family’s success. “I prayed for guidance and the Lord answered my prayers with a new calling.”
Harriet considered him, her expression blank, guarded… suspicious. Ivy folded his muscular arms across his powerful chest and stared at the ceiling. Apprehension tinged with fear filled Harold’s face. Not the joyful, expectant faces he’d imagined when he practiced. He pushed back his anger and cleared his throat. “God wants us—”
The doorbell rang. Panic launched Tripp from his chair. He saw through the living room window that the street outside was empty. No flashing blue lights. No sirens.
The bell rang again. Tripp opened the door to find a young man, no more than a boy, with masses of blond curls on his head.
“Is that your Continental?”
“Yes,” Tripp answered. “Who—”
“Are you Tripp Clarkson?”
“I’m not answering—” Searing pain hit his groin as the young man’s hand shot out and grabbed his crotch. Before he could react, the boy’s other hand gripped his throat.
“I asked you a question.” Inches away, angry hazel eyes glared at him.
“Yes,” he whispered through clenched teeth. The talons gripping his throat and test
icles relaxed enough for him to breathe, but didn’t let go.
“Why did you kill Anthony?”
Tripp’s blood went cold. “I don’t know what you’re—” The talons squeezed his testicles and he cried out in pain.
“You know what I’m talking about.” The boy leaned in close enough for Tripp to feel his breath on his cheek. “Anthony told me all about you—what you did to my friends and those other boys, and your work with the police and the newspapers.” The feminine young man tightened his grip on his balls. Pain and awareness that the boy could hurt him kept Tripp from pushing him away. The rage he saw frightened him. “What’s your deal, anyway?” The angry young man tightened his grip on Tripp’s throat. “I asked you a question!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tripp stammered, hoping the fear that had chilled his blood to ice wasn’t evident in his voice.
“Tripp?” Harriet called from the kitchen. “Is everything okay?”
The boy gave him a menacing glare. “Tell her everything is fine.”
“It’s okay, dear. Someone needs directions back to the main road.” He turned his gaze back to his tormentor.
“You’re a very good liar,” the boy said, relaxing his grip on Tripp’s throat. “But I know you killed him.”
Tripp worried Harriet or the boys would hear him. He hissed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The young man smirked, and something in his eyes scared Tripp.
“You don’t know much of anything, do you?” With Tripp’s balls still firmly gripped in the steely claws of one hand, the boy removed the other from Tripp’s neck and pointed at him. “He told me where you live and he was watching your house. You killed him, the same way you killed those others.” The boy released his grip and backed down the front porch steps. “You’re not going to get away with it either. I promise.”
Before Tripp could react, the young man ran down the driveway and disappeared into the darkness.
No Good Deed Page 16
