Jimmy considered his recent theory that Mason was dead. Odd, but no matter the suspicious prostitute murder, it still felt right. Jimmy trusted his gut; it was right more often than not. If Mason were dead, then why would someone do a copycat killing? Mason had been blamed for several women’s deaths. But he wasn’t famous outside of the Cincinnati area. As far as serial killers went, he wasn’t in the upper echelon. So if a copycat killer existed, he would have to be local talent.
Another thought struck Jimmy. What if Mason hadn’t been the killer? What if it had been someone else altogether; that he’d been framed? But that couldn’t be. Det. Lewinski had found the man’s souvenirs hidden in his bedroom. They were evidence now, locked up in the file with all the information that forensics and a team of detectives had collected. Jimmy forced these suspicions from his mind. Or tried to. Some ideas don’t want to leave once they’ve wormed their way in.
***
Daisy lay sprawled on the couch waiting for Roland to get home. He’d moved in two months earlier, over her father’s objections. Mitch didn’t like the fact that he’d gone to college with Roland, same class actually, and that the man was a diehard playboy. But Daisy didn’t care. She liked Roland. He made her feel safe. They got along without all the childish spats and jealousies that had hindered all her other relationships. If someone had told her she’d just found herself another father, she would have thought him or her crazy. She loved her father; he was one of the good ones. She wasn’t looking for a replacement. Just the same security.
She was watching the news when a young woman reporter came on to do a spot about a dead prostitute in Indianapolis. Among her first words were that the police thought the dead woman had been posed. Daisy sat up, blood draining from her face. This was too much like the others to be a simple coincidence, especially when the reporter went on to say the killer had been tall, dark haired, and drove a dark-colored sedan. Daisy was smart. She didn’t believe in coincidences. Her heart fluttered wildly knowing that dreadful man was still out there.
She clawed at his hands, arms and head, raking an ear, drawing blood. He pushed against her toppling her onto the bed, his hard hands holding her down, breathing becoming impossible. The expression in his eyes was vicious and horrible and locked onto hers. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to her. She knew without a doubt that if she didn’t get away soon, death would find her in that drab, dingy motel room.
Daisy struggled to pull herself from the flashback. That time had been an agonizingly traumatic period in her life. She closed her eyes, shuddering, her skin suddenly clammy. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. But, now, there was no way to do anything but.
He was still out there. The man that had tried to murder her. She knew it.
***
Abby looked at Izzy from her position on the couch where she sat watching the news. Paul was due home in an hour and when he arrived Izzy would be gone. Until then, they were enjoying some time together. Paul didn’t know Izzy existed. It hadn’t been a hard secret to keep. They’d been doing it all their lives.
“Did you hear that?” Abby asked, referring to the featured news piece.
“What do you think? I’m sitting right here with you.”
Abby ignored her sister’s wisecrack. She was used to her. “I mean, do you think that was Paul?”
“Sounds like him. He has this weird thing about posing his girls.”
Abby shuddered. She didn’t know how Izzy could talk about it so nonchalantly. To her, it was horrible. She watched intently as the newsperson finished. Once again, the young woman stressed the posing of the deceased woman. This idiosyncrasy on the part of the killer seemed to have strongly captured her attention.
“What am I going to do?”
“About what, kiddo?”
Izzy was beginning to irritate Abby, something that was never difficult for her to do. She could accomplish that at the drop of a hat.
“What am I going to do if Paul attacks me?”
“I don’t think he will. Unless, of course, he can’t control himself. Murder is great entertainment. He gets his jollies out of it. It’s got to be hard for him to resist; you having such a pretty little neck.”
Abby looked at Izzy aghast. “That’s horrible.” She couldn’t help thinking about the nights she’d lain in Paul’s arms, enjoying the sweetest, gentlest lovemaking of her life. How could he be so sweet one minute and yet be such a ruthless killer? There had to be some mistake. It couldn’t be him. But she knew it was.
“Don’t let good sex muddle your head,” Izzy said. She always knew what Abby was thinking. That was irritating, too.
Abby absently ran her fingers along her neck. It had hurt for months after Grant tried to strangle her. That was Paul’s favored method of murder, too. If she thought about it, there were a lot of similarities between the two men. But she wouldn’t allow herself to do that. Paul was good and Grant was bad. That’s the way she wanted to think about it. Even with the proof right before her, it was difficult to change her mind, or heart. She cared about Paul. More than she ever had Grant, even when they were first married and she had been a lonely, impressionable girl. She had been infatuated, but she hadn’t been in love. The infatuation had faded within the first couple of years and hadn’t been replaced with anything other than a lukewarm sort of non-caring. Just an empty blankness that didn’t satisfy her, or him. She wasn’t sure what she felt for Paul, but what she did feel was at least a more mature emotion. That had been good enough until lately.
“We might have to get rid of him,” Izzy said matter-of-factly.
“No, I don’t want to do that again,” Abby said. One body under the rose bushes was enough. They’d buried Grant late that night, after his unsuccessful attempt to murder her. After the nightshade she’d added to his food had done its job. She remembered the fear she’d carried for months, afraid that someone would find out.
“We will if we have to,” Izzy said.
Abby closed her eyes for a few seconds, the pain and overwhelming fear she’d felt when Grant attacked her, and then the guilt she’d carried since playing in her mind, over and over, trying to drive her crazy. It had been almost unbearable, but she had survived. She was alive. She nodded her head and murmured softly, “Yes. We will if we have to.”
Chapter 19
Jimmy looked at the clock. Ten minutes to ten, Monday morning. Apparently Paul wasn’t going to return his call any time soon. Jimmy knew from his own experience that most cops went over their messages first thing upon sitting at their desk. He expected Paul had arrived at eight, so he’d had plenty of time to get around to his message, which must have been put on the back burner. He didn’t blame Paul. The detective would have several cases he was currently working on, and the first forty-eight hours in any case are always the most productive. Paul would get around to the Hilton’s cold case later, when, and if, he had time.
After sitting a few more minutes, resigned to what had to be done but not looking forward to it, Jimmy looked up the ad for the attorney that Bryan Ervine’s mother had used in her ill fated bid to grab something for her son from the Wurtsmith estate.
There it was. Just a small, black and white, no-nonsense advertisement that didn’t take up more than an inch of space on the page. It had a black border, but that was about all the extras the no-frill ad contained. The woman had gotten what she could afford. And that wasn’t much. Jimmy felt a pang of sympathy, even though he knew it might not be warranted. He didn’t know this woman or her boy. For all he knew they were gold-diggers, just looking for an easy buck. That was most likely the way it was. But for some odd reason, he didn’t feel that was the case.
***
“Mr. Warren? How can I help you?” the attorney said. He was a small man with suspiciously black, obviously thinning hair. Jimmy wondered why he bothered dying it. There weren’t enough strands le
ft on top to worry about. The jarring shade only made the wrinkles in his face more pronounced, adding to the man’s aged appearance. He looked sixty, but Jimmy thought he was closer to fifty, judging by the quick, bird-like way the man nearly jumped over his desk to shake hands. His agility, unlike his looks, didn’t seem to be compromised by the stress of his career choice.
“Mr. Clough?”
“Call me Avis.”
“Avis,” Jimmy said, smiling. Why would someone stick a baby with a name like Avis Clough? He hoped the middle name was something simple like John or George, but probably not. Some parents made a real mess out of their kids’ names.
“I’m sorry. I’ve only got a few minutes before my next appointment, so this will have to be fast. You said you have some information for me on the Bryan Ervine case? You realize that case went through court and is closed?” He was in a hurry to put this disheveled appearing man with the remnants of a black eye out the door. He didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t a paying customer.
Jimmy pushed the envelope across the desk, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. It was good to get rid of it. What the lawyer did after he left was his problem. Jimmy hoped to be out of, what had the possibility of being, a messy business.
The attorney looked at him questioningly before he pulled the sheets out and began reading. His mouth dropped open and then his gaze jerked up to fasten suspiciously upon Jimmy. With narrowed eyes, he asked, “Where did you get this?”
“I found it in my desk, actually under my desk. It was taped to the bottom of the desktop, over the central drawer.”
He noted the quizzical, unbelieving expression on the other man’s face and shrugged as he continued explaining, “I don’t know how it got there. And I wouldn’t even venture a guess as to how long it’s been there, hidden.”
“Why would I believe it just materialized under your desk?”
Jimmy knew how ridiculous it sounded, finding an important document like this in such a spot. He pushed himself out of his chair, ready to leave. He’d wasted enough time. Thankfully, it wasn’t his problem anymore. “Look. I thought you might want it. I think it’s genuine, looks like it, anyway. You’re the expert. I’m not after a finder’s fee, or anything. It’s all up to you. Do with it what you want. But I think Ms. Ervine should be made aware of it. She and her son.”
“Sit down,” Avis said, then added, “Please.”
After a brief uncomfortable moment where they sized each other up, Jimmy finally shrugged again and sat back down. He didn’t have anyplace he needed to be. Might as well kill a little more time before going home. At least the attorney’s chairs were comfortable.
“If this is genuine, it’s going to upset a lot of people,” Avis said, understating the obvious. “Go over it again, slowly. Where’d you find it?”
“Under my office desk. I have a small office downtown. I’m a private investigator,” Jimmy said, wondering why his new title was giving him pride instead of the embarrassment it originally had. He guessed he was adapting. And, he was enjoying the freedom to work cases the way he wanted, instead of having to follow the strict protocol the police force required. He was enjoying sleeping all night, instead of being rousted by those middle of the night calls to come look at the next dead body. Weekday, weekend, it was all the same when you were a detective. If anything, there were more murders on the weekend. Saturday nights were always bad in a big city.
Avis appeared confused. “Have you any ideas as to why it would be there?”
“None. I thought maybe you could find out if someone had gotten rid of Wurtsmith’s desk just before, or after, his death. If it’s genuine, that’s about the only explanation I can come up with. Why they would do that? I haven’t a clue. It’s really a nice old desk, could use some refinishing, but it’s solid mahogany.”
Avis nodded. He scanned the document more closely and then said, “I know the two witnesses who signed here. I wonder why they didn’t come forward? And this is dated two years after the date of the will that was entered in court. If it’s a fake, it’s a good one. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get the names and dates right.
“Thank you for bringing this in. I’ve got work to do now, but if it pans out like I expect it to, there will be a finder’s fee. Alicia Ervine will insist.” He paused before adding, “I may need to hire a PI to do a little poking around. Are you interested? The guy I generally use is out of town and I don’t think sitting on this is a good idea. I’d like to move on it as quickly as possible, before word gets out and anyone from the other side hears about it.”
Jimmy thought about the single case he was working on and came to a rapid decision. The Hilton case wasn’t going anywhere at the moment and he could use something to keep him busy and plump out his wallet.
“What would it entail?”
“Some prodding of those witnesses. Finding out why they didn’t come forward. Legally, of course.”
“Of course,” Jimmy agreed with a smile. “Sure. I can always use the business.” He pulled one of his cards out of his wallet and pushed it across the desk.
“Good. I’ll call you this afternoon, and let you know where I want you to start.”
Avis stuck his hand out and Jimmy shook it willingly. A new case had just fallen into his lap; things were looking up. Maybe his dry spell was over. And about the finder’s fee, he wasn’t going to argue. If there was one, there was one. He could always use the money. He still needed to support Ada in the style to which she wanted to become accustomed. Lord, he hoped the new boyfriend had a lot of money. And he hoped he married her quickly.
Chapter 20
Roland looked as nervous as a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Whatever his problem was Daisy thought he looked sweet and cute. She’d never seen him this way before. Her ‘George Clooney’, that’s the way she thought of him – since he was a handsome, confirmed bachelor (if you didn’t count his three failed marriages) was never at a loss for words and never as awkward as he appeared at this moment.
“What is it, Ro?” she asked, willing to indulge him anything.
“I.. Uh, I want to ask you something,” the silver-haired man said, his face turning a pleasant shade of pink.
“Anything, dear. You know that.” Now she was really curious and becoming somewhat alarmed.
Roland E. Trimble III lowered himself to one knee. They didn’t snap or creak, but the way he was shaking Daisy half expected them to. She stared into his face anxiously. What was the matter with him?
He pulled a small, dark blue box out of his slack’s pocket. “Daisy, I love you.” He swallowed loudly. “Will you marry me?” Roland opened the box revealing a large, sparkling ring that had to be at least five carats.
Daisy was flabbergasted. She wouldn’t have expected this in a thousand years. She’d thought her older, experienced-in-the-ways-of-the-world boyfriend was too submerged, too comfortable in bachelorhood to ever be a problem in this way. She didn’t want to be married. She was too young. She had too much life to live.
“Yes.”
She heard the word and looked around to see who had said it. There was only the two of them; it had to have been her. How extraordinary! Had she actually agreed to marry him?
Of course. She loved him. He made her feel treasured and safe. He made her complete. She couldn’t picture life without him.
But there was one thing holding her back and it wasn’t a fear of marriage. She had a horrible secret and she had to tell the man that would be her husband. He was going to be so disappointed in her. It would kill her if he couldn’t accept what she’d done. If he left her.
But she had to tell him.
Roland let out a sigh of relief and reached out his arms. He was confused when she fended off his embrace.
“I’ve got to tell you something first. Then if you still want to marry me, we will, because I love yo
u, too.”
Roland got to his feet, and then settled into position on the sofa beside her.
“This is very difficult. Melinda and my therapist are the only ones that know. I want you to promise not to tell my family. It would destroy them.”
Roland nodded. This day wasn’t going as planned. As serious as Daisy was, he knew to keep his mouth shut. But he also expected to forgive her anything.
“Two years ago I played a stupid, stupid game. It started as an experiment. But I let it get out of hand… I stood on a street corner with the other girls and prostituted myself. I took money for sex.”
Roland stared at her aghast. How could she do such a thing? Didn’t she know how dangerous that was?
She looked away, but continued quickly, afraid she was losing her nerve. “It was only a few times. It started as sort of kinky fun, but it didn’t end that way.”
Now concern filled Roland’s eyes. “What happened?” It had to be something terrible and he didn’t want to think about what she’d gone through.
“One of the johns tried to strangle me. It was around the same time as those Bathtub Girls’ murders and I think it was the same man.”
Roland drew in a sharp breath, knowing she could have been killed. He asked, “Did you go to the police?”
“I tried. But I couldn’t go through with it. I actually went to the Cincinnati post trying to put some distance between, you know? But when the officer mentioned a sketch artist, I ran. I couldn’t do that to my family. I couldn’t drag them through the mud, even if that was what I deserved.”
“Were you hurt bad?” Roland took her hand in his; caring, gentle, the man she was in love with.
“I was terrified. Physically I healed in a few weeks, but mentally I’m afraid I’ll always carry the scars.”
“That’s terrible, honey. I don’t know what to say, except that I love you.”
Daisy let out a long rattling sigh and burst into tears.
Roland wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up close, doing his best to comfort. No matter how old he got, when a woman cried he still didn’t know how to respond. He expected to go to his grave not knowing what he was supposed to do.
A Cincinnati Cold Case Page 12
