Chapter Eleven
Raine was exhausted by the time they pulled off at a hotel outside New York City rather than fight the weekend traffic. She’d done little more than sit in rental cars-they’d switched from the sedan to a pickup truck near D.C.-for the past few days, but her bones ached and her joints pinged a protest when she dropped down from the vehicle.
She must have groaned, because Max chuckled softly. “Come on. You hit the shower and I’ll order food.”
Max rented two rooms and they met in his for dinner without even discussing it. Still bone-tired, though less achy after her shower, Raine headed back to her room after nearly falling asleep in her rubbery room service pasta.
This time, though, there was no good-night kiss.
As Raine lay in bed, rapidly fading toward sleep, she realized it was because they had reached a plateau of sorts, or maybe a pinnacle. One more kiss, one more touch might unbalance their equilibrium and send them hurtling down one side of the mountain or the other.
She snorted into the darkness, which smelled of cheap hotel. “And the award for the worst metaphor of the night goes to…Raine Montgomery!”
But thinking of her and Max was better than thinking of a warrant with her name on it. Easier than thinking of Baby Summerton, or a girl named Minni whose “kin” hadn’t mourned her death.
Simpler than thinking about what came next.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, they set off just after eight. Max had pushed the schedule back because he was familiar with the city, and figured traffic shouldn’t be too awful on a Saturday morning.
A rolled cement truck on the bridge meant they didn’t get to the stately old brick home until near 10:00 a.m. There, they found a computer-generated flier pinned to the door.
“Memorial services start at ten,” Raine read, then frowned. “The examiners released Denise Allen’s body awfully quick, didn’t they?” Then she winced. “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I meant it to.”
“Valid point, though.” Max frowned at the flier, which offered directions to a nearby church. “Either they’re holding a memorial now and planning the burial for later, or someone leaned on the morgue to expedite processing.” He glanced over at her. “I’m betting on the latter.”
Her eyes had gone hollow in her face. “We should go to the service.”
Though he’d been thinking the same thing, Max wished there were another way. Raine was doing her best, but the interviews were taking a toll. She’d become more and more withdrawn as the days had passed.
Regardless of whether it was toxicity or murder, four innocent women had died because of her drug.
Before he could say anything, she shot him a look. “Don’t coddle me, Vasek. I’m fine.”
He nodded shortly. “Let’s head over to the memorial, then.”
Despite what most television cop dramas suggested, Max had no hope that the killer would be sitting in a back pew. But the gathering might give them access to friends and family members who might have additional information on Denise’s lifestyle.
There had to be a pattern somewhere. A risk factor. A reason the women had died.
Or been killed.
The church was a few blocks from the Allens’ stately home. It, too, spoke with the quiet under-tones of old money, which was evident in the profusions of fresh off-season flowers and the plush cloth of the bolsters and curtains. Vivid stained glass windows showed scenes of sin and redemption and God’s forgiveness, and the air carried the scents of incense and lilies.
Max drew a deep breath and felt something loosen in his chest. Though he had attended church less and less frequently over the past few years, the sounds and sights and smells reminded him of childhood services. Most of the neighborhood congregation had been related to him in one way or another, and the services had been simple and easy for his younger self to understand.
Honor thy family and neighbors. Protect those weaker than yourself. Do no harm.
It was the last two he kept getting stuck on when it came to Raine, he thought as they took a pew six rows from the back so as not to disturb the seated mourners or the memorial, which was already in progress.
A closed casket of polished wood sat at the front of the room, draped with flowers. An enlarged photograph of a woman in her mid-thirties sat atop the flowers, propped up so the mourners could see Denise Allen as she’d been in life.
A podium stood to the left of the casket; a man in cleric’s robes stepped away from the microphone and gestured a tall, gray-suited man forward.
Gray Suit leaned too close to the microphone, eliciting a hum of feedback when he started to speak. He eased away and tried again. “I know it might seem strange for me to eulogize my ex-wife, but just because we were divorced doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other anymore. Let me give you an example.” He launched into a rambling story about the gym workouts he and Denise had apparently shared until her death. The longer he spoke, the more he used the word I and the less he actually said about his ex-wife.
“Nice guy,” Max muttered. He glanced over at Raine, saw her fidget uncomfortably in her seat. Leaning close, he asked, “Are you okay?”
“Sorry. Churches give me the creeps.”
Before Max could ask why, a tall, willowy woman with ash-blond hair and a feminine black suit leaned into their pew. “Is there room for one more?”
“Yes. Please join us.” Raine scooted over until the edge of her tailored business pants brushed up against Max’s jeans.
The woman glanced at their casual clothing, but didn’t comment. She faced forward for a minute before she grimaced and whispered, “He’s so full of it.” She turned to Raine and mouthed, “Don’t you think so?”
Raine made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know him well.”
“You must know Denise from the shelter, then?”
“Something like that.”
Max gave Raine points for playing it off so casually, though he did get a kink of amusement that the woman had apparently placed them in the soup kitchen Ike had noted as one of Denise Allen’s regular haunts. Then again, he supposed three days of doing laundry in hotel sinks hadn’t done his and Raine’s wardrobes any favors.
The blonde leaned closer and confided, “Doug is a real piece of work. As you can see, he likes to be the center of attention.” She gestured to the front of the room, where the speaker appeared to be suppressing tears as he talked about how much the divorce had affected him. “I’m surprised he’s up there, though. I would’ve thought he’d be hiding out.”
That got Max’s attention. “Why is that?”
The blonde’s eyes flicked to him. “Because Denise wasn’t using the jazz juice with him, that’s why. She was at a party with me.”
“Jazz juice?” Max prompted, aware that Raine had gone still.
The woman’s lips curved. “That’s what we call it, anyway. It was Denise’s idea-Thriller dissolved in champagne. Double the bubbles.”
Oh, hell, Max thought. What if the other dead women had mixed the drug with alcohol and there had been an adverse interaction of the molecule?
Could it be that simple?
Beside him, Raine relaxed and shook her head almost imperceptibly. He took that to mean her people had already tested the Thriller-alcohol interaction for toxicity and found nothing.
“You were both drinking jazz juice that night? Did you get the samples from the same place?” Max kept his voice low, but he was aware that their conversation was starting to attract annoyed looks from the other mourners scattered in the back of the church.
“Sure. Our plastic surgeon, Dr. Moyer.” She paused and confided, “Well, he was my plastic surgeon, though I’m not telling what he did. Denise was scheduled for breast implants in the spring. I think she canceled a couple of weeks ago, though, thanks to the jazz juice.”
Max stiffened as the connection hit him. He and Raine traded a look. Plastic surgery.
Was it a coincidence?
Or was it a risk facto
r?
“Why did she cancel the appointment?” Raine asked, voice casual, fingers knotted together in her lap.
The blonde shrugged and whispered, “She was kind of insecure about her body, you know? Especially after the way that one-” she indicated Doug-the-ex with a jerk of her thumb “-treated her. She thought bigger breasts would make her feel sexier. Then we got those Thriller samples and she decided she didn’t need the boobs anymore.” The blonde’s eyes darkened. “We never thought it’d kill her. There weren’t any warnings or anything. If we’d known…”
She trailed off as a sober-faced man in white robes leaned into their pew. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to either be quiet or take this conversation outside. This is a memorial service.”
“Of course. Our apologies.” Max rose and gestured for Raine to precede him. He nodded at the few people who turned and glared, and felt a beat of remorse for having brought the investigation into the church.
But he couldn’t regret the decision. They had their break.
Once they were outside, Raine grabbed his sleeve. “Cari had a tummy tuck after her C-section and wanted breast implants. Jenni had a nose job. Denise also wanted breast implants.” Then she frowned. “But unless they were all on some sort of pre-or post-op drug regimen, I can’t see how being scheduled for plastic surgery could explain why they died from taking Thriller.”
He led the way back to their rented truck, brain humming. “There’s one way to test our theory.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the disposable phone and Ike’s computer printout, and dialed a number off the paper. He paused on the sidewalk when the connection went through. “Hello? Mrs. Pawcheck? My name is Maximilian Vasek, and I’m with a pharmaceutical investigation firm on the east coast. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to ask you a quick question about your daughter, Melissa.”
There was a moment of silence before the response came. “Melissa is dead.” The woman’s voice broke on the words.
“I know and I’m very sorry, Mrs. Pawcheck. I’m one of the people involved in figuring out what happened and making sure the guilty parties are punished.”
He heard a sniffle and a gulp, then, “Ask your question.”
“Did Melissa ever have cosmetic surgery, or was she planning on having cosmetic surgery in the near future?” Max nearly crossed his fingers, waiting for the answer.
“Yes.” The woman’s voice was puzzled. “She had an endoscopic brow lift and liposuction last year. Why? Did that have something to do with her death?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Max said, sending Raine a nod. When Mrs. Pawcheck pressed for an elaboration, he ended the call, saying, “We’ll let you know as soon as we do, ma’am. Thank you so much for your help.”
He snapped the phone shut and gestured for Raine to keep walking. “Brow lift and liposuction last year.”
She pressed her lips together. “I guess that means we’re onto something.”
They just didn’t know what yet.
RAINE DROVE THE LAST LEG of their journey so Max could use his phone to touch base with Ike. The unspoken hope was that she’d already found the missing link between plastic surgery and the Thriller deaths.
As she sent the truck along I-95 into Connecticut, Raine thought how strange it felt to be in her home state again. Had it really only been two days since they’d driven to Philadelphia and seen James Summerton? It felt like so much longer.
Max cursed as he dialed Ike’s number on the disposable phone for the third time.
“Still nothing?” Raine guessed.
He shook his head. “Maybe her phone crapped out. They’re not the sturdiest things on the planet.”
But he drummed his fingers on the armrest for a moment, then dialed another number. After punch ing in a code, he sat back and made a satisfied noise. “She left a message on my home machine.”
He cranked the volume on the cell phone and held the unit out so they could both hear Ike’s voice say, “I couldn’t get through on the disposable and I’m headed off to the Cape, so here goes. The second man in the video is Dr. Frederic Forsythe, a very high-end cosmetic surgeon from-get this- Beverly Hills.” Max and Raine shared a look as the message continued. “Forsythe has a place north of Boston where he keeps a string of polo ponies and does the foxhunting thing. That might explain what he’s doing in a Boston law firm. We’ll see. My buddy’s buddy managed to unscramble some of the audio-he’s couriering it to our usual spot. I’m sending a care package as well, though there’s nothing in it that you don’t already know. I’m off for the weekend, but I’ll be on the cell if you need me. Ciao.”
The message ended with a click, leaving Max frowning through the windshield. Ahead of them, the sky was an ugly purple-gray, signaling that they were driving into the snow squalls promised by the radio news.
“A Beverly Hills plastic surgeon might fit with our hypothesis,” Raine said. “Rich. Powerful. Do you think he could be one of The Nine?”
“Maybe.” Max nodded. “Possibly.” Then he cursed. “But it’s still not enough. We need solid evidence, damn it. Without something tangible, we can’t go to the authorities.”
“There’s still the tape from the law office. Maybe the audio will give us something to go on. What did Ike mean by your ‘usual place’?”
He shot her an unreadable look. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to tell her. Then he shrugged. “Logan Airport. The bartenders at Thursday’s Restaurant know Ike, and they don’t mind stashing stuff for her to pass off to clients now and then. You sit down, order a gin and tonic with an olive, then complain when it doesn’t come with an umbrella.” He muttered under his breath, “Makes me think Ike and Charlie went to the same spy school.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
They drove in silence a while longer, the miles unrolling beneath the wheels of the rented truck. When a green-and-white sign warned that the exit for New Bridge was a few miles up the road, Raine said, “Are we stopping here or heading to Boston?”
If anyone had told her a week earlier that she’d be spending Saturday night in Boston with Max Vasek, she would’ve thought they were crazy.
He glanced at her, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful half smile. “Ironic how things have come almost full circle, huh?”
“Boston it is, then.” She didn’t stop to analyze the emotions that crowded her head and her heart. She just cut the wheel, hit the gas and shot out into the passing lane.
A silver sedan did the same three cars back.
Come to think of it, she could swear she’d seen the same car in her rearview mirror several times since they’d passed the Connecticut border.
Raine’s gut clenched. “Max. Check out the light gray car behind us.”
He twisted around in his seat, reaching for his parka and the weapon he’d reloaded with his last clip of ammo. “We got ourselves a tail?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.” Going on instinct, she cut across two lanes of traffic, aiming for the nearest off-ramp, but not taking it. The low-slung silver car copied the maneuver.
They were being followed.
She gripped the steering wheel with suddenly clammy palms. “How did they find us? We’re not even driving the same car we were when we left!” Her voice edged upward in growing panic. “And damn it, I’m driving!”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” Max’s tone was even. Soothing. “You stand up in your seat, but keep your foot on the gas and your hands on the wheel. I’m going to slide underneath you so we can switch without stopping.”
“That only works on TV!”
“Well, it’ll work for us, too.”
Raine bit her lip and stood up until the top of her head neared the roof of the truck. The speedometer edged toward eighty as they flew toward where the road disappeared beneath the ominous line of storm clouds.
The silver car loomed larger in the side mirror. “They’re getting closer! And it lo
oks like it’s snowing up ahead. That could be a problem.”
“There’s enough traffic around, we should be safe for right now. They proved earlier that they still want to keep this fairly low profile.” He unbuckled his belt and slid across the bench seat, easing an arm beneath and around her. “As for the snow, look at it this way. We’ve got four-wheel drive. They don’t.”
“Then-”
A shot exploded through the plastic slider at the rear of the truck cab.
Raine screamed, but kept her foot on the gas. Max ducked, slid back to the passenger side and drew his weapon. “Guess you’re driving,” he shouted over the sudden rush of wind through the broken slider. “Get us into that storm!”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t make a scene in public!”
“I was wrong.” His face could have been carved from granite as he steadied the muzzle of his handgun, aiming through the broken window. “They’re getting desperate.”
“Maybe they found out that we know about Forsythe and the plastic surgery connection.” Raine swerved around a slow-moving station wagon. “But how?”
The sedan drew closer. A bullet pinged off the roof of the truck, its momentum spent.
The highway took a long, slow curve that nearly sent them in the opposite direction, then made a sharper bend back toward the storm. Raine gunned the truck through that second turn, took one look at the mess in front of her and stifled a scream.
Ahead of them by no more than a half mile, the sky was an ugly dark gray and the pavement went from tar to slush. Brake lights flared where traffic was stalled by a spin out two-car accident.
“There’s no way through!” she said, easing up on the gas pedal.
Max snapped off a shot that had the silver car dropping back a few lengths. “You’ll have to find a way. We’re low on options.”
Her heart jammed into her throat. “I can’t.”
He leaned back against the dashboard so she could see his face, so she could see he was serious when he said, “You can do it, Raine. I know you can. You’re tough and resourceful, and I’m proud to call you my partner.”
Under the Microscope Page 13
