Evil Never Dies (The Lizzy Gardner Series Book 6)

by T. R. Ragan

  “Definitely,” Brittany answered. “There’s nothing like the emotion I feel when I look at paintings I love.”

  Jake Polly beamed at her, then turned to Lizzy. “She’s very bright,” he said. “It’s all about what you feel inside here.” He put a hand over his heart. “The beauty of artwork is that it can challenge preconceived ideas.”

  “I didn’t realize looking at a painting could be so thought-provoking.”

  “Well, maybe not a still life. A bowl of lemons might not have a deeper meaning.” He winked at Brittany. “But who am I to say?”

  “You do amazing work,” Brittany told him, blushing.

  “Nice of you to say.” He looked at his watch. “Time has gotten the best of me. I need to meet up with friends. But first I must thank you, Lizzy Gardner, for letting me put the flyer in your window.”

  She nodded, but she couldn’t help it—she didn’t like the man and didn’t appreciate the way he ogled Brittany.

  “See you in class,” he told Brittany before sauntering away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Olimpia Padula turned on the bathwater and then went to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed and removed her heels and stockings. She had worked a ten-hour shift today, and her feet were throbbing. She massaged the arches of both feet and then removed the rest of her clothes before heading back into the bathroom.

  She adjusted the temperature of the water as the tub filled, then readied her towel and made sure she had everything she needed for a long, hot bath. Soaking in the tub was better than enjoying a glass of wine while watching the sunset. It was her favorite thing to do.

  She rushed back into the bedroom when she realized she’d forgotten her mask that she liked to put over her eyes. She turned the radio on, something soothing, a little classic soul. Last, she added some lavender oil to the water. She shut the faucet off and then dipped her toes in first. Perfect.

  After settling fully into the tub, she slid her mask over her eyes and laid her head back on the bath pillow. Her only thought was how lucky she was to have found a full-time job. In three months’ time she would have full benefits. Life was turning around for her. She was going to be all right.

  A noise in the other room lifted her out of her thoughts. She slid her mask up to her forehead. “Is anyone there?”

  Wayne Bennett stepped into view. He stood within the door frame, his expression grim. “I told you not to talk to anyone. Did you think I was kidding?”

  How the hell did he get inside her apartment? Nobody had a key but her. “I think you should leave,” she told him, unwilling to stand up while she was unclothed. He’d seen it all, but he wasn’t going to get another free show. When he failed to listen to her demands, panic set in. “Get out of here right now, or I will scream.”

  “I don’t think you should do that,” he said as he stepped closer. “Do you know what I think you should do?”

  Bewildered, she shook her head.

  “I think you should die.” He knelt swiftly beside the tub and, his big hands covering her face, shoved her under the water and held her down. She thought she could fight him, but he was too strong, and he was right . . . she was gonna die.

  After dropping Brittany off, Lizzy made a call to Jessica.

  “Hey,” Jessica said when she answered, “what’s going on?”

  “Are you in the middle of something?”

  “Just packing and getting ready to fly back to California.”

  “I wanted to call and see if you found anything on Zachary Tucker, the name I gave you after talking to Kathryn Church.”

  “If you have time,” Jessica told her, “I’ll grab my notes and tell you what I’ve found.”

  “I’ve got time. I’m driving home, and you’re on speaker.”

  When Jessica came back on the line, she said, “This is what I know so far. Zachary H. Tucker was born to Phil and Patty Tucker on September 20, 1977, and his little sister drowned in July of 1985. There is nothing that even hints at the possibility that Zachary was responsible for his sister’s death. Besides, he was eight years old at the time.”

  “You said yourself that there are serial killers as young as ten years old.”

  “I did, didn’t I? Anyhow,” Jessica went on, “as you mentioned last time we talked, if Kathryn Church saw Zachary kill his sister, it seems farfetched. She was in another house altogether. Her view could have very easily been distorted, and she was very young at the time.”

  “Maybe I can visit the house where they used to live and see what Kathryn’s view would have looked like. Where were the Tuckers living at the time? Do you know?”

  “It’s right here. They were living at 3500 Canyon Road in Sacramento at the time of the incident, but after Zachary turned eighteen, they moved to Florida. After that, it gets fuzzy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On paper, it looks as if he disappeared off the face of the earth. I cannot find a Social Security number for this particular Zachary Tucker. That’d tell me a lot. As you know, a person is required to apply for an SSN when they start their first job. But it doesn’t appear as if his parents ever applied for Social Security numbers for their children. Before 1986, many people didn’t bother obtaining an SSN until somewhere between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Perhaps Zachary Tucker never worked a day in his life. If that were the case, he could have stayed under the radar if he changed his name and got a driver’s license using his new name.”

  “How about a picture of a young Zachary Tucker?”

  “That’s where it gets even weirder. Five years ago, Patty and Phil Tucker were killed during a robbery. According to the reports, jewelry was taken, but the only person they could rely on for that information was Gillian Winslow. It looks like Zachary’s parents hired Winslow to take care of everything. Their will even stipulates that she’s to be Zachary’s trustee until the day he dies. She’s a psychologist. It seems strange that these people would hire a psychologist for their son and then put her in charge of everything. I don’t get it. I called Gillian Winslow’s office. Her secretary said she should be back to work next week.”

  “Are you saying there is absolutely no paper trail or anything else for this man?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We need to talk to Gillian Winslow. And that’s not all—it gets even more bizarre.”

  “How so?”

  “It was easy enough to find out what elementary school Zachary Tucker attended. Every classroom in every school I’ve ever heard of takes a class picture, and the school he attended was no exception.”

  “But?”

  “But somehow Zachary managed to miss picture day every single year from kindergarten through the eighth grade.”

  “That is curious.”

  “Unquestionably.”

  “It sounds like our only hope is the psychologist.”

  “That’s right.” There was a shuffling of papers on the other end before Jessica said, “Anything else on your mind?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Brittany and I just returned from a Second Saturday Art Walk near Midtown.”

  “I’m glad you had a chance to spend time together.”

  “So am I. She’s definitely passionate about art. But the reason I’m bringing this up is because I learned a lot about symbolism used in artwork, and I think you’re going to find it all very interesting.”

  “Go on.”

  “This might sound like a crapshoot, but the objects in those pictures Kenneth Mitchell showed me might actually mean something when it comes to symbolism and art. According to Brittany, books, mirrors, you name it—even the fasces—all have special meaning.”

  “Are you suggesting the killer we’re looking for could be an artist?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking . . . maybe a painter. It might be wise to zero in on the a
rt world in general. He might be a curator or an art dealer.”

  “This is good, Lizzy. I’ll talk to Mitchell.”

  “Get your things packed and get back here so we can find this guy.”

  “Will do,” Jessica said, “but there’s one more thing.”

  Lizzy waited.

  “Did you hear about the missing girl?”

  “I believe so. Claire Kerley?”

  “That’s right. Seventeen-year-old girl missing for quite a while now.”

  “You’re thinking there’s some connection to the Strangler?”

  “I think it’s a possibility, though Mitchell has his doubts. As far as we know, the Strangler’s never hid his victims before, and there’s no trace of this girl. Just based on the last three homicides, it’s clear the killer is acting randomly, but what if that’s his plan? To make it look random and throw everyone off the track with all the recent killings so he can grab a girl and keep her for a while before he kills her? He’s escalating all along, and that could be the next level.”

  “He must know with all the budget cuts there aren’t enough investigators to go around.”

  “Exactly. He’s spreading us thin investigating the rash of killings, which is why they called me in to help in the first place.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Just be careful, OK? If Jared was close to naming this guy, you could already be in his line of fire.”

  “I haven’t noticed anyone watching me,” Lizzy said. “No hang-up phone calls.”

  “If the Sacramento Strangler is the same guy who took the girl, then he’s not going to be hiding behind trees watching you.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “No,” Jessica said. “It’s not. This killer is getting increasingly brazen. He wouldn’t be hiding at all. He would be watching you up close and personal. Just be careful. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I always am,” Lizzy said, although she didn’t like what she was hearing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Lizzy disconnected the call as she pulled into the driveway of Kitally’s house.

  Hayley was sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette.

  Lizzy got out of the car and headed that way. “I thought you were quitting.”

  “I am.” She took another drag off the cigarette and then stamped it out in the gutter.

  Lizzy took a seat next to her, and they both stared out into the woods across the street.

  “Life is so fucked up.”

  “It’s hell,” Lizzy agreed.

  “People are stupid and selfish.”

  “I hate people.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother getting out of bed.”

  “Wasted energy, for sure.”

  Hayley sighed. “Salma is back.”

  “I heard.”

  “What are we going to do with her?”

  “It’s Kitally’s house. I guess it’s her problem.”

  “Good point.”

  “Has she named the baby yet?”

  “No. I don’t think she’s going to, either. Is it a law?” Hayley asked. “Does everyone have to have a given name?”

  “No idea.”

  “I can’t imagine they would lock her up for not naming her kid.”

  Lizzy shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Hayley snorted. “You are so right. They would lock Salma up, but not one of the many rapists running around town.”

  Kitally drove up and pulled her car into the driveway next to Lizzy’s. She exited the car, hit the lock, and then joined them on the curb.

  Kitally didn’t say a word, which was unusual. She looked worn-out.

  Through an open window, they heard the sound of a baby’s cry.

  It was going to be another long night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Donna Smith, it turned out, was the name of the young woman they had seen on the video being sexually assaulted by Wayne Bennett. She lived with her family in a tiny apartment in West Sacramento. The apartment building was dingy. Garbage and cigarette butts littered the ground. The elderly woman who opened the apartment door and peeked out was a tiny thing. She had a deeply wrinkled face and dark eyes that peered just above the chain. Lizzy assumed she was Donna’s mother.

  “Who is it?” the woman asked.

  “Lizzy Gardner and Hayley Hansen. We’re investigating the Wayne Bennett case, and it’s very important that we talk to your daughter.”

  The woman unlatched the chain and opened the door. “Get in here before anyone sees you.”

  They both stepped inside and then watched as the woman locked the door and hooked the chain back in place. The place was dark. It smelled like old socks and rotted food. It was times like this that Lizzy was glad she carried a gun.

  The woman pointed a crooked finger at Lizzy. “I’m going to get Donna. When she appears, you will have five minutes to talk.” She put out a hand, palm up. “It’ll cost you one hundred dollars.”

  “To talk to your daughter?” Hayley asked, confused.

  This wasn’t the first time Lizzy had been asked to pay to get answers. She reached into her purse. “I have sixty-two dollars.”

  The woman snatched the money out of her hand and then looked at Hayley. “We have to eat, and you want information. Pay or get out.”

  “I never keep more than a twenty on me, but you can have it.” Hayley reached into her back pocket and handed the woman a folded twenty-dollar bill.

  The woman took it and then disappeared.

  Lizzy and Hayley stepped from the entryway and found a small, well-populated living room. A young girl, about thirteen, stood off to the side, leaning against the wall and watching them warily. She looked just like her eighteen-year-old sister, Donna, who Lizzy had seen on the video with Bennett. Three kids Lizzy guessed to be between the ages of ten and sixteen, all boys, sat packed together on a couch in front of a television turned to a sports channel. From his chair next to the couch, an older man with black hair, tipped with gray, watched Lizzy and Hayley closely. No one said a word. A minute passed before Donna’s mother entered the room with her older daughter in tow.

  “Here she is. Your time starts now.”

  The girl didn’t look anything like the young woman they had seen on the video. She was badly bruised. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut, and her lip was purple and yellow.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you,” Lizzy said. “It’s terrible.”

  “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do it.”

  “Because he’s not in prison where he belongs.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Will you testify against Wayne Bennett?”

  The girl shook her head, but she didn’t deny that was the man who did this to her. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Kobi Millard is a good friend of mine. In case you haven’t heard, shortly after you talked to her in the parking lot, Kobi came home to find her ten-year-old daughter missing. Guess where her daughter was?”

  Lizzy exchanged looks with Hayley and said nothing. Waited.

  “At the neighborhood park with Mr. Bennett. Apparently they’d had a nice couple of hours eating ice cream and playing on the jungle gym. The little girl enjoyed herself so much that she asked her mom if she could do it again. Wayne Bennett just smiled at Kobi and told her how goddamn beautiful her ten-year-old daughter was.”

  Donna paused for a breath. “It was a warning. Not just for Kobi, but for all of us. Which one of us here do you think is going to pay for this little visit of yours?” She gestured toward her little sister and then to her brothers on the couch. “Because one of us will pay—I guarantee it. Maybe we’ll all pay.”

  Hayley stepped in front of Lizzy. “Before you continue on with that holier-than-thou tone
, maybe you should stop and think about what you’re saying and who you’re saying it to. Lizzy isn’t getting paid to spend her days on the street, doing everything she can to see that fucker Bennett locked up behind bars. She spends her time working cases like this for one reason only. To help people like you. She doesn’t want your little sister over there to get assaulted by some asshole entrepreneur who thinks he owns the world. He’s already got you because you’re choosing to live in fear for the rest of your life. So fuck you.” Hayley looked around the room. “Fuck all of you. And, yes,” Hayley said, looking at Donna’s mother, “I’m pretty sure I just took an extra minute of your time, and I’m not paying you shit.”

  Five minutes later, Lizzy and Hayley were in the car heading home.

  “That went well,” Hayley said.

  Lizzy’s hands were clenched tightly around the steering wheel. “Wayne Bennett is never going to stop, and there might not be anything we can do about it.”

  “There’s only one way to stop him for good.”

  Deep down, Lizzy had a horrible inkling that Hayley was right.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Five o’clock the next day, Hayley heard a knock on the door. Since she was on her way to the kitchen for chips for her bean dip, she stepped to the door and looked out the peephole. “Who is it?”

  “Joey Rich.”

  “That’s the father of Salma’s baby,” Lizzy said from the kitchen table, where she was sitting with her laptop.

  Hayley opened the door. “What do you want?”

  “Is Salma here?”

  “Maybe. What’s your business with her?”

  The guy looked as if he’d come straight out of business school or maybe accounting. Total geek. His hair was gelled and combed a little too neatly to one side. He wore the standard long-sleeved button-up white shirt, khaki pants, and a belt that looked cinched one notch too tight.

  “A girl named Kitally sought me out and told me where Salma was living. I need to talk to her. I would like to meet my daughter.”

  Hayley looked over her shoulder.

  “Let him in,” Kitally said.