Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  Andi’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here? Do you have news? Did you catch him?”

  The hope in her voice tore at Korine. She wanted to tell her that her rapist was locked up so Andi could feel safe again, but she couldn’t. “I’m afraid not.”

  Hatcher cleared his throat. “Have you seen the morning news?”

  The parents exchanged questioning looks, and Andi shook her head.

  “There are too many gruesome stories,” Mr. Rosten said. “It upsets her.”

  Korine’s throat thickened. “Judge Wadsworth was murdered Monday night.”

  Andi’s eyes darted sideways, then back to Korine. “What happened?”

  “We believe he was bludgeoned to death,” Hatcher said, intentionally omitting the details.

  Mr. Rosten laid a protective hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, although his voice lacked sincerity. “But what does it have to do with us?”

  “We’re investigating his murder,” Hatcher said. “His ruling on the River Street Rapist case garnered media attention and controversy. We’re talking to everyone who knew the judge or had connections to his cases.”

  Korine slipped into the chair beside Andi. “I understand this is difficult. You were brave to testify against your attacker.”

  “Yes, she was,” Mr. Rosten said. “So were those other women. That damned prosecutor promised it would be worth it, but my daughter suffered through all that for nothing.”

  “It wasn’t for nothing,” Mrs. Rosten cut in. “The counselor insisted that standing up to her attacker was cathartic.”

  “If you want me to say I’m sorry the judge is dead, I can’t,” Andi said. “Because of him, that sadistic monster who raped me is free to do it to someone else.”

  Korine gave her a concerned look. “Has Milburn contacted you?”

  Andi shook her head. “Not yet, but he will.” She shivered. “He always keeps his promises. I learned that the hard way.”

  “I understand your bitterness toward the judge,” Hatcher said. “Last year my wife was murdered by a suspect I was hunting down. I wanted that bastard to pay with his life. I’m sure you felt that way about Milburn. And maybe even Judge Wadsworth.”

  Andi’s eyes flickered with emotions. Then anger and hurt at the implication of Hatcher’s statement registered. “My God, you think I had something to do with his death?”

  “I can’t believe you’re treating my daughter like a criminal,” Mr. Rosten snapped.

  Andi started to speak, but her father squeezed her shoulder to quiet her. “We’d like to see Milburn dead,” Mr. Rosten said. “But we didn’t murder the judge or anyone else.”

  “You said it happened Monday night,” Mrs. Rosten cut in. “We were all here. I made lasagna, and we watched a movie together.”

  Mr. Rosten’s face hardened. “I think you should leave now. My daughter has suffered enough.”

  “I’m sorry, Andi,” Korine said. “We didn’t mean to imply that you did this. But we have to talk to everyone associated with the judge.”

  Mrs. Rosten stood, hands clasped. “Well, you have. Now leave us alone.”

  Korine gave Andi a compassionate look, but Andi averted her gaze as if Korine had crossed a line and she’d lost the woman’s trust.

  Korine couldn’t leave things like that. She pressed her hand over her heart. “I wasn’t judging you. I told you about my father being murdered when I was a little girl. Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought about finding his killer and making him pay.” Her pulse hammered. “If you had wanted revenge, I’d understand.”

  “I told you that we were all here together Monday night,” Mrs. Rosten said sharply. “In fact, Andi hasn’t been outside this house by herself since the trial. So take your suspicions somewhere else.”

  Korine bit back a response. She couldn’t blame the woman for being upset. Watching her daughter suffer must be excruciating.

  “One more question,” Hatcher asked. “Do you know Tinsley Jensen?”

  A puzzled expression stretched across the parents’ faces.

  “No,” Andi said quickly.

  “She was a victim—abducted by the Skull. You may have seen the story on the news,” Hatcher said.

  “I told you we don’t let her watch the news,” Mr. Rosten said.

  Korine ignored him. “Tinsley started a blog—Heart & Soul—where she talks about how she felt during her abduction. She encourages other victims of violence to share their stories. It’s as much a support group as anything.”

  Andi knotted her hands.

  A tense second passed.

  Korine gave her an imploring look. “You might benefit from reading Ms. Jensen’s posts and communicating with some of the other victims.”

  Mrs. Rosten glared at Korine. “The last thing my daughter needs is to hear more gory stories about women who’ve been violated. Now please leave. Our family needs time alone.”

  Korine bit the inside of her cheek as Mr. Rosten escorted them to the door and yelled at them not to come back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hatcher struggled to keep his anger at bay as they left Andi Rosten’s house. He understood the Rostens’ protective instincts toward their daughter. He’d felt that way toward his wife.

  But he’d failed her.

  He didn’t want to fail Andi. Although his job at the moment wasn’t to find her rapist.

  His job was to find Judge Wadsworth’s killer.

  The next stop was to see another rape victim. “Tell me about Renee Wiggins.”

  “Let me pull up the files to refresh my memory. Cat said she updated them with current information.” Korine accessed the information on her iPad. “Renee Wiggins is twenty-three, was studying nursing at College of Coastal Georgia.”

  “Did she finish?”

  Korine scrunched her nose as she skimmed for information. “Not yet. She took a couple of semesters off for counseling. But she’s back at school now.”

  “Good for her. Where does she live?”

  Korine recited the street address for a small house in Brunswick.

  “She was engaged, but she broke it off,” Korine said, a note of sadness to her voice.

  Hatcher clamped his mouth shut. The attack had probably wrecked her relationship with the fiancé. Not uncommon in rape cases. The female was traumatized. Her partner suffered from guilt over not keeping her safe. He didn’t know how to help her.

  She didn’t want him touching her.

  Five minutes later, he parked in front of a small white clapboard house in a neighborhood that catered to rentals for students. Flags in the Mariners’ colors of royal blue and gray swayed in the breeze from several of the homes. He and Korine climbed out and walked up to the door; then he knocked.

  Seconds later, a sandy-haired woman in pale-blue scrubs dotted with cartoon characters answered the door.

  “Renee Wiggins?” Hatcher asked.

  “Who wants to know?” A wariness darkened her eyes.

  Korine spoke softly and introduced them. “We need a few minutes of your time.”

  She crossed her arms. “I know what this is about. Andi called.”

  Damn, he hadn’t realized the women were in contact. “So you heard about Judge Wadsworth’s murder?”

  “How could I not? It’s been all over the news.” She opened the screen and shoved a piece of paper in his hand. “I was at the hospital Monday night, working. That’s my supervisor’s name and phone number so you can verify my story. For the record, I didn’t like the judge, and naturally, I was upset that he let that son-of-a-bitch rapist out of jail. But I sure as shit didn’t kill him.”

  Her challenging look suggested they were dismissed. “Excuse me. I have to get to the hospital, or I’ll be late for my shift.”

  “You’re finishing your degree?” Korine said. “Good for you.”

  Renee lifted her chin. “That lowlife jerk took my peace of mind, but I’m a survivor. I don’t intend to let him rui
n the rest of my life.”

  Whereas Andi Rosten had seemed broken and afraid of her own shadow, this woman was using her anger to push forward.

  Natalie Cox, the rapist’s third victim, had been strong and had held up well during police interviews and the trial.

  Korine skimmed the information Cat had sent for updates, but according to the file, Natalie and her sister still co-owned the gym they’d bought together a few months after the attack. A photo of Natalie and her sister at the grand opening of the gym after they’d renovated it was in the file. The sisters looked proud of their new venture. “Natalie should be at the gym. She opens at five a.m. and leaves round five p.m. The sister works the evening shift.”

  “A gym? Her way of fighting back?”

  “Probably. The center’s emphasis is on the whole woman. They teach self-defense classes, yoga, weight training, aerobics, spinning, and Zumba. They also have a running-and-swimming club and a CrossFit boot camp. In addition, they offer seminars to encourage women’s empowerment, mental health, and financial planning.”

  She gave Hatcher the address, and they found the center in a refurbished warehouse near SCAD.

  Midday, and the parking lot was full. “What did you think about Renee Wiggins?” she asked as they walked to the door of the center.

  “She seems nervous but smart. You?”

  “My gut instinct says we can cross her off the suspect list.”

  Hatcher opened the door, and they entered to the sound of voices and country music. A glass partition designated an area for childcare, another one showcased the lap pool, and other rooms housed various classes.

  A slender woman with coffee-colored skin and long, dark braids greeted them. “Welcome to Fab Female. What can we do for you today?”

  Korine recognized Natalie from the press coverage of the trial. She flashed her badge and introduced the two of them. “We need to talk to you about Judge Wadsworth.”

  Natalie’s smile faded. “I saw the story about his murder on the news. But what does that have to do with me?”

  Hatcher cleared his throat. “We’re speaking to everyone connected to trials he presided over.”

  Natalie narrowed her eyes. “Because you think one of us killed him?” Disbelief edged her voice; then she waved over a shorter version of herself. Her sister. “Tori, tell these federal agents where you and I were Monday night.”

  Tori adjusted her ponytail. “We spoke at a women’s seminar at Georgia Tech University in Atlanta. It was a packed crowd.”

  Easy enough to check.

  “Now we have that out of the way, are you going to retry Milt Milburn?” She leaned over the counter, brows raised. “If you have time to question the women he victimized, surely you have time to get more evidence on that asshole.”

  Korine didn’t blame the woman for being bitter. Milburn’s rape victims had suffered emotionally and physically at his hands. Making matters worse, they’d relived their ordeal in court, and the defense attorney had ripped them apart.

  Then Judge Wadsworth had let him go on a damned technicality.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” Korine said. “And sorry that Milburn was released.”

  The muscles in Natalie’s arms bunched as she crossed her arms. “Then do something about it.” She gestured around the center, at a group of young women gathered in the corner near the water fountains. “We deserve to be safe. And none of us are until he’s locked up for life.”

  Korine couldn’t argue with her on that. She was a trained agent, but she still looked over her shoulder, kept alert for strangers watching her, and slept with her weapon by her side.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rachel Willis was sick to death of the liars she dealt with every day.

  She slammed the door to her office, frustrated that justice didn’t always prevail.

  News of Judge Wadsworth’s death had hit the media first thing that morning. The creep had used his authority to browbeat women into doing what he wanted and talked down to females on the job. He tended to be lenient in cases of violence against women—one of those archaic men who held the belief that the woman had incited the man’s rage by the way she dressed or talked or by her makeup.

  She wouldn’t be surprised if his wife had killed him. Maybe if she did, a good lawyer could get her off.

  The picture of her own family, her mother and father, mocked her from the credenza.

  At twenty-one, she’d been idealistic and certain that she could make a difference in the world. She knew firsthand that the system didn’t always work. Her father had spent ten years in jail for a crime he hadn’t committed. Ten years of his life lost because a witness had mistaken him for another man.

  Ten years that he’d never been able to recover from. He’d gotten hooked on drugs in the dark corners of Hays State Prison, a maximum-security hellhole where he’d been abused and raped and beaten until he had no fight left.

  Her mother had passed away during that time, her heart broken and defeated from trying to convince someone to push through an appeal.

  No one had been there to help him when her father was finally freed. By then, the damage was done. He had no work experience, no recommendations from coworkers or employers. No money or savings. No education.

  Even though he had been cleared of the charges, people still looked at him as if he were a murderer.

  Depressed and defeated, he’d died with a needle in his arm in a dirty alley in some backwoods town where drug dealers were a dime a dozen.

  She’d thought by working as a parole officer, she could save others like her father who’d been crapped on by the system. She could help them turn their lives around. Help them find jobs. Places to live. Keep them on the right path.

  She was a fool.

  She shoved the mountain of paperwork on her desk to the side, then retrieved the list of people she needed to phone. A knock sounded at the door, and she checked her schedule. Her next appointment wasn’t due for three hours—Rodney Hornsby, a dog beater who’d tortured his pit bull under the guise of training him to fight.

  The man made her want to puke. Anyone who abused or mistreated animals, women, or children should be punished.

  The knock sounded again.

  She checked to make sure her weapon was in place beneath her desk. The panic button she’d installed went straight to the police to alert them if she was in trouble.

  Before she reached the door, it opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with a ratty beard and shaggy hair drawn up in a man bun stepped inside. Tattoos snaked up and down his arms and neck, and a jagged scar rippled down his right cheek. She returned behind her desk.

  Rachel searched her memory to place him. He looked familiar, but she hadn’t met him before. Had she received his file?

  It could be in the pile she hadn’t yet had time to review. There were dozens to be handled. The work never ended.

  Were there any good people left in the world?

  “Can I help you?” she asked, careful to remain behind her desk. Keeping distance between herself and the ex-cons was imperative for her own safety, a lesson she’d learned her first day on the job when a supposedly innocent man had jumped her with a knife and nearly slit her throat.

  A lecherous grin slid onto her visitor’s face, making her skin crawl.

  “You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” he asked in a cocky voice.

  The exhilaration in his tone fueled her rage. She’d been taught not to show fear. Predators fed on it.

  Slowly and calmly she removed her pistol from beneath the desk, raised it, and aimed it at his chest. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  His eyes landed on the gun, and he held up a scarred hand. “Hey, sweetie, don’t shoot.”

  If he called her “sweetie” again, she might not be able to stop herself. “Answer the question. Who are you?” she asked.

  “My lawyer said I was supposed to check in with you.”

  So he was on her case list. God,
she wished the county would hire some help. Her caseload was insane. “Your name?” she asked again, her voice cold.

  He shifted and inched toward her, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Sutton Frasier, but you can call me Sly. That’s the name my buddies gave me in prison.”

  She didn’t intend to ask how he got the name. “You have paperwork for me?”

  He shook his head. “That shithead they assigned me as a lawyer was supposed to contact you.”

  He’d been assigned a court-appointed attorney. He probably had no money, no friends, no family. If he did, they’d given up on him.

  The first year on the job she would have sympathized.

  Now she was hardened. Maybe she was burned-out and needed to rethink her career.

  She glanced at the files piled on her desk and wanted to review this man’s before they went any further. “What is your attorney’s name? I’ll give him a call, then we’ll set up a schedule.”

  “The lawyer is a her. Gina Weatherby,” the man said with another lecherous grin. “Pretty as a peach, but a big-assed dyke.”

  His comment stirred her anger, but she didn’t react. Her parolees were seldom politically correct. Arguing with them, especially correcting them, was futile.

  She scribbled the lawyer’s name on her notepad. Her cell phone buzzed, and she contemplated answering and asking for help. But she didn’t have time.

  He moved so quickly and quietly that she didn’t see him coming. Then he was beside her, his hand over her gun hand as he pushed down the nose, aiming the .22 at the floor.

  The scent of cigarette smoke and sweat wafted around her. No, it was weed. The idiot had probably just smoked a joint before he’d come in.

  She mentally reviewed her self-defense training. Go for his eyes. A knee in the groin . . .

  “Don’t point a gun at a man unless you plan to use it.” His gruff voice held laughter. “And, honey, we both know you wouldn’t do that.”

  Her blood turned cold.

  “You’re wrong,” she said with a defiant lift to her chin. “I’m just smart enough to choose when to shoot.” As far as she could tell, he was unarmed. Timing was important.