by Mary Burton
“Did it?”
“No.” The clipped word hinted to her disappointment.
“So you just lost track of your roommate?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “I had a lot of hopes pinned on this trip and was distracted. I wasn’t going to deal with Sierra until I got back.”
“Can we see her room?” Malcolm asked.
“Be my guest.”
She crossed the living room and opened the door to a guest room. The contrast between the living room and Sierra’s room was stark. Clothes covered Sierra’s floor either in discarded piles or in stacks piled in green plastic garbage bags. There was a pizza box on the middle of an unmade bed. Cups lined the floor by a dresser piled high with all kinds of makeup. Layers of jewelry hung from the mirror.
“As you can see, it’s hard to tell when she comes or goes. The room’s been like this since the first night she arrived.” Zoe shook her head. “She was an irritating woman, but I am sorry.”
“What else can you tell me about her?” Malcolm asked. He moved to the dresser and picked up a lipstick. He opened it and studied the bright, bright red.
“Nothing anyone else wouldn’t tell you. Ambitious. Driven. She’d have done anything to be a success.”
“Anything?”
“Just about.”
Malcolm stared at the makeup, wondering how she even picked out what she needed on any given day. Mixed among the makeup were a box of diet pills, a sleeve of condoms, and a wad of black panty hose. He glanced at a pair of high heels, black with red soles, on the floor. He picked them up and studied them. Expensive.
As he turned back toward Zoe, his gaze caught sight of a business card tucked in the bottom corner of the mirror. Dr. James Dixon.
“I guess you all know Dixon’s past,” Zoe said, catching his line of sight. “I told Sierra to stay clear of him. I read about what he did to that prostitute.”
“Do you know how the two met?”
“Through me, as a matter of fact. I invited her to a ballet fundraiser over the summer. He was there. And they hit it off.” She shook her head. “The guy always gave me the creeps, and I told her so a few times, but she didn’t seem to care.”
“Did he ever give Sierra reason to worry?” Malcolm asked.
“No. In fact, she said he was the gentlest of souls. That he made her feel completely comfortable.”
Lulu Sweet had testified that he’d been gracious and polite, and it was only when they were alone in the motel room that his mood turned violent.
On the bed among the rumpled bed covers was a script, The Taming of the Shrew. The spine had been creased, pages dog-eared, lines highlighted and annotated. “Looks like she was studying hard.”
“Sierra was totally dedicated to whatever play she was in. She never missed a mark and always showed up knowing her lines. That’s one of the reasons she got so much work in the area. Pretty helps, but it’s only a foot in the door. If you don’t deliver in this area, word gets around fast, and you don’t work.”
“You ever help her with her lines?” The script smelled faintly of perfume.
“Sure, a few times. And it was kind of amazing to see her transform from a woman I didn’t really like into a character that totally captivated me. She was a gifted actress.”
Garrison walked to the lone window in the room and stared out. “Where does the alley below lead?”
“To a small parking lot. Tenants of the building have access to it.”
“Marty Gold said Sierra received notes.”
“She mentioned that. She thought they were from her ex.”
“Which ex?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do you know where the notes are?”
“Likely buried in here somewhere.”
He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Zoe. “Will you call me if you hear of anything?”
She glanced at the card. “Sure. Should I clean out her room, or do you want me to wait?”
“I’d like to send my forensics guy here and have him go over the room.”
Zoe stared at the mess as if it made her skin crawl. Zoe Morgan was a woman who liked control. The disarray in this room, as well as her leg injury, had to be eating at her.
“Did it bother you to see her succeeding?”
Zoe’s lips flattened. “She broke all the rules. I followed all the rules. In the end her star rose and mine didn’t.”
“Until she was murdered.”
She shook her head. “I’ll never dance again. Period. Sierra’s death does not change that.”
“Might make it a little more palatable.”
Annoyance snapped in her eyes. “So is this what you cops do?You drop ridiculous statements like that hoping you catch a big fish?”
Malcolm leaned forward a fraction so that he breached some of her personal space. “Never know when I’ll catch a whopper.”
Chapter 8
Wednesday, October 5, 6:30 P.M.
Iris appeared in Angie’s doorway. She wore her overcoat and held her neat square pillbox purse. “We have a last-minute visitor.”
A dull headache pounded behind Angie’s left eye. “Who?”
The fine lines around Iris’s mouth deepened. “Dr. James Dixon.”
Angie set her pen down carefully on a brief she was proofing. “Say that again?”
“He’s out front, and he wants to see you.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. The last time he’d visited her it had been after his trial, and he’d suggested they go on a date. “I don’t have time for him. I’ll be here until midnight as it is.”
“He’s not going to leave without seeing you.” She tugged at the sleeve of her jacket. “My first inclination was to call the cops and have him dragged out of here. But sometimes I overreact so I thought I’d check first.”
Iris had never liked Dixon or even tried to hide her feelings toward the man.
As much as Angie didn’t care for Dixon she tried to see the situation with greater perspective. “The last thing I need is for it to get around that Angie Carlson, The Barracuda, had to call the cops to contain James Dixon.” News of a police intervention would spread throughout the department like wildfire. She’d be a laughing stock.
“You wouldn’t be calling. I would be.”
She rose. “Better not.”
Displeasure darkened her gaze. “You’ll see him then?”
“Give me a minute and then send him back.”
Iris shook her head. “I’ll stay until he leaves.”
“That won’t be necessary. If anything, Dixon is dedicated to good manners and public perception. He doesn’t want trouble any more than I do. Besides, Charlotte is here, and you have your ballet class tonight.”
Iris pulled her cell from her coat pocket. “I’ll keep my cell phone turned up.”
Angie smiled. “Won’t be necessary, but thanks.”
She smoothed her hand over her hair to flatten any strands that might have escaped her twist. She shrugged on her jacket and fastened the middle button just as Dixon appeared.
He looked so mild mannered—a proper, staid man who appeared more suited for books and libraries than plastic surgery. He nodded to older people when he passed them in the street; he opened doors for women; and he always rose when a lady stood. And according to the drug-addicted Lulu Sweet, he had nearly choked her to death as he’d rammed his body inside her and called her a whore.
“Dr. Dixon.” She remained behind her desk, not feeling the need to venture around and offer a handshake.
He grinned and seemed genuinely glad to see her. “Ms. Carlson. It’s been far too long. How long has it been?”
“Over a year.”
“Far too long.” He approached the desk and extended his hand to her.
She took his hand, allowing his smooth, long fingers to wrap around her hand and squeeze gently. In a flash, she pictured those hands wrapped around Lulu’s neck.
She tugged her hand
away. “What can I do for you, Dr. Dixon?”
Dark eyes flickered to her hands and then back to her face. “I’d like to retain your services. The police came by my office this afternoon to ask me about the death of one of my patients. Sierra Day. She was an actress, and apparently they found her body this morning.”
“As I said when we saw each other last, I will not represent you again. Our business is concluded.”
“I was hoping you might have changed your mind.” He adjusted his tie. Hearing no had never suited him.
“I have not.”
He pressed the tips of his fingers onto her desk, like a spider searching for an anchor from which to spin his web. “I never understood why you dropped me. I was proven innocent. I paid on time. I was a good client.”
And you gave me nightmares for months. “All you need to know is that I won’t represent you again.”
He leaned forward a fraction, and the soft scent of his aftershave drifted toward her. “Do you believe I’m guilty?”
A shiver tingled up her spine. “You told me several times that you were not guilty, and I have to take you at your word.”
“But you don’t believe me.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. Your actions speak volumes.”
He liked games. And the longer he kept her talking the longer she played whatever sick game he had planned. “Doctor …”
“Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“Ask me if I killed the prostitutes that vanished. They tried to use that poor delusional Lulu Sweet against me. They thought if I was convicted of her assault I’d somehow crack and confess to the other killings.”
Dixon hadn’t forgotten about Lulu.
Cold fear hardened in the pit of Angie’s stomach. She remembered the police photos of Lulu. Dark bruises and cuts covered her face and body. “We’ve already had this discussion, Doctor.”
“I haven’t killed anyone.”
Having him this near sent a chill down her spine. He may not have been guilty of murder, but the things he’d done to Lulu … just remembering them made her ill. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“I make you nervous.”
“Not at all.”
He grinned. “I do.”
Suddenly, her mindset about the cops changed. She’d call them to get this man out of her office, even if it meant dealing with their snickers and jokes for the rest of her life. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“We’re not finished.”
“Leave or I call the cops.”
A hint of bravado vanished. “You wouldn’t.”
She reached for her telephone. “If you learned anything about me during that trial, I never make a threat I won’t carry out.” She dialed a nine and a one. “Leave or I finish dialing.”
He raised his fingertips from the desk and straightened. “I don’t understand you.”
She didn’t ask for clarification. He was stringing the conversation along as he searched for something else to prolong this visit. She dialed the final one, listened as the phone rang, and held out the phone so they both could hear. “911, state your emergency.”
Angie’s gaze remained locked on Dixon. As much as he liked playing games with her, he didn’t want or need trouble with the cops. He backed out of the office, saluting her as he did.
She watched the door carefully in case he doubled back.
“911. State your emergency.”
“I’m sorry. I dialed the wrong number.”
“And whom am I speaking with?” the operator said.
“This is Angie Carlson. I just made a mistake.”
“Everything is all right?”
She heard the front door close. “Yes. It’s fine. I’m sorry.”
Angie hung up the phone and walked out into the lobby. From the front window she could see Dixon striding toward his dark sedan. Her hands shook as she smoothed a hand over her hair.
She moved back to her office and wrestled off her jacket. She’d just sat down and tried to refocus her thoughts when Charlotte appeared in her doorway with a printout in her hands. Angie pulled her spine a little straighter as she always did when Charlotte approached. Her boss was only a couple of years older, but Charlotte radiated a stern energy that aged her beyond her thirty-four years. Angie considered herself disciplined and hardworking, but when she compared herself to Charlotte she felt like a slacker.
“I have the billable hours breakdown for the month of September,” Charlotte said. She rarely wasted time with simple day-to-day pleasantries. In fact, they never spoke of private matters. Angie knew as much about Charlotte Wellington today as she did the first day they met.
Angie often wondered if a time clock, not a heart, fueled Charlotte’s body. “I had a strong month.”
“It was good. Not great.”
Angie set her pen down carefully and arched a brow. “I disagree. By my own calculations I was up ten percent last month alone.”
“I’d like to see that kind of growth again this month if not more.”
Angie shook her head. “There are only so many hours in a day, Charlotte. There’s not much more time I can squeeze.”
“Then perhaps you should consider cutting back on the pro bono work.You’ve been doing more and more of that lately.”
“That was the deal we struck when you hired me. You know that’s something that’s important to me.”
“It’s noble. And I appreciate your efforts, but pro bono doesn’t pay the light bill. I saw that young woman today. Lulu Sweet is her name? I don’t imagine she will be paying you.”
Anger had Angie’s jaw tightening. “No, she will not.”
Charlotte smiled. She was good at using the carrot-and-stick approach when managing people. “I know you work hard, and I remember and will honor our deal. But there are times when you’ve got to fully focus your attentions on the paying clients. It’s the only way we will grow, and let’s face it, in this economy no one can turn down paying clients.”
“I’ve not turned away one paying client.”
“Dixon just left here, and he looked angry.”
“He’s not the kind of client we want.”
Charlotte folded the billing statement and creased the edge sharply with her manicured fingers. “Why?”
Angie rose. “I’m not representing Dixon, Charlotte, and if you have an issue with my decision I will pack my briefcase now, and we can part ways.”
Her brows rose. “Angie, why are you so touchy about this?”
“I’m not touchy, Charlotte. But I know what I know. If Dixon needs an attorney he’ll have to shop elsewhere. Now if that is an issue for you, then you’d best say it now.”
Charlotte studied her for a long moment. Angie had never driven such a solid line in the sand before, and Charlotte understood if she crossed it, she’d lose a very talented attorney. “All right. I will respect your wishes on that. But I do need you to limit the Lulu Sweets of the world for the time being.”
“What’s going on, Charlotte? Are we in financial trouble?”
Charlotte kept her expression neutral. “You know as well as I do that cash is always up and down with small businesses. Accounts receivable is lagging this month, and the bank is not extending the bridge loans like it once did. The more we can bill for the short term the better off we will be.”
“Duly noted.”
“And on that note, I do have a paying client that could bring a great deal of money into this firm. We had lunch yesterday.” Charlotte had a talent for drumming up the business. She could move in any circle and find something to talk to anyone about.
“Great. Who is it?”
“Micah Cross.”
“Micah? You know my sister’s history with his family.”
“It’s been my understanding that Micah Cross had nothing to do with the misdeeds of his mother and late brother, Josiah.”
“Misdeeds are a nice way of putting it. As you may remem
ber his brother raped my sister.”
“But Micah did not rape your sister. And there was never a link discovered between him and the Sorority House Murders. From all that I’ve been able to learn he is a good man with an unfortunate pedigree. In fact, he wants to hire us because he’s interested in setting up a charitable foundation. I thought you’d be all over the charitable angle.” Charlotte enunciated the last few words to add challenge to the statement.
“I just can’t help worry about the potential for conflicts of interest.”
“What conflicts? The man is a pillar of the community. And we would be representing him on a civil matter, not a criminal matter. And if we do a good job, this work could lead to more. I’d like nothing better than to be the go-to firm for Cross Industries.” She sighed. “If we represented only the people we liked we’d go out of business in a month.”
Angie nodded. “You’re right.” Micah had done nothing wrong. “Seems odd he’d choose us knowing my sister’s connection to his family.”
“Maybe he wants to make amends. Maybe this is a peace offering.”
“Maybe.”
“We’ve scheduled a morning meeting here.”
“Will do.”
Only after Charlotte left did Angie release her breath. She rubbed the back of her neck. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
He sat in the straight-back wooden chair and clicked the power button on the television. It was just after six-thirty, and he did not want to miss the local evening news. Elation gripped him the more he thought about the cops carrying away his discarded trophy and the media swarming around the park, now designated a crime scene.
The newscaster opened with a house fire in Fairfax. Discussed a car accident involving a local businessman. A story on traffic improvements followed. And still no mention of his bones by the commercial break.
The Other rose and paced the room, realizing his annoyance was growing. His work deserved attention. “How often is a pile of bones found in a park for Christ’s sake?”
He moved to a display case and clicked on the interior light that illuminated the specimens inside. The bones of the women had been cleaned, bleached to perfection, and carved into dozens of chess pieces. He had all the pawns he needed to complete his set. Now it was time to turn his attention to creating the more powerful pieces: the bishops, the knights, and, of course, the queen.
