Eyes

by Joanne Fluke

  She looked very different tonight. Her hair was tucked up under a brunette wig, and she was wearing tortoise-shell glasses. Her clothing was casual, a pair of jeans and a dark sweater, which she planned to throw out the moment she returned to her apartment. She was carrying a canvas tote bag with several items inside. A change of clothes, a towel in a garbage bag, and Willy Rossini’s Swiss Army Knife.

  The front door was locked, and Connie didn’t ring the bell. She walked around the house, stepping over the patches of deep snow, then tried the back door. It was locked, but there was enough room between the door and the jamb to slip in one of the sturdier blades and pop the latch open. Willy had been right. His Swiss Army Knife came in handy for a lot of different things.

  The kitchen was empty. There was an open bag of chips on the counter, but no other food. Mark had told her about these parties; it was clear no one came to eat. Liquor bottles were lined up on the counter, though, and a bag of ice from the supermarket was in the sink. Connie considered having a shot of vodka for courage, but she decided against it. She wanted a clear head for the task she’d promised to perform for Alan.

  The acrid scent of burning pot hung in the air. That was good. If they were drugged out, they wouldn’t even notice her. She stepped into the main part of the house, moving slowly and carefully as she approached the living room.

  A ring of candles flickered on the coffee table, but there was no other light. In the semidarkness Connie could make out a man and two women on the floor. She didn’t recognize the man. They were all so stoned, they didn’t even notice she’d come into the room.

  Connie ducked back into the hallway. She had to locate Mark. She made her way to the dining room, but he wasn’t there, either. Two naked women were sitting at the table, snorting lines of coke. They were so intent on what they were doing, they didn’t notice her, either.

  A stairway let to the upstairs, and Connie climbed it, into the darkness. She stepped around the couple on the landing and opened the door to the first bedroom.

  A large-screen television set up in the corner was showing a porno flick. The couple on the bed wasn’t watching. They were too busy indulging in the kind of action on the screen. Connie glanced at the faces of the other men in the room. There were two of them. Neither man was Mark as she backed out of the room and shut the door behind her.

  The scene in the second bedroom made Connie flinch. A woman was tied to the bed, and another woman was whipping her. Two men were watching, but neither man was Mark. Connie’s hands were shaking as she shut the door and went on to the third bedroom.

  The man’s face was turned away from her, but Connie recognized him. It was Mark, and he was spread-eagled on the bed. His partner, a blonde with breasts too huge and firm to be natural, was on her hands and knees, straddling him. Mark gave a groan and let his head fall back against the pillows.

  They were silent for a moment, then Mark laughed. “Hey, babe. How about untying me now?”

  “Not quite yet.” The blonde gave him an impish grin. “I think I’ll let you think about me for a while and see what comes up.”

  Mark laughed again, and that was when Connie noticed that he was tied to the bed. It was a reversal of what he’d always done to her, and that made Connie feel glad. She stepped out of the room quickly, before Mark could turn her way, and watched through the partially opened door. After a few moments the woman got up and started to leave.

  “Hey, babe. Where are you going?” Marks’ words were slurred, and Connie knew he was stoned.

  “I need another line. You wore me out, big boy.”

  “Bring me a hit. Hell . . . bring me two!” Mark started to laugh. “I know a couple of new places we can put it.”

  “Okey dokey.”

  The blonde was weaving a bit as she headed for the door. Connie stepped back, into the shadows. The blonde didn’t glance her way as she started down the stairs, and Connie slipped into the bedroom unnoticed, locking the door behind her.

  Mark was on his back, and his eyes were closed. Connie’s knife was out as she approached the bed; her hand was steady. She had a mission. She was here to take away the gift of life that Alan had given him. She’d right the wrong the doctors had done when they’d given Alan’s kidney to Mark.

  He seemed to sense her presence, and he opened his eyes.

  He didn’t recognize her in her disguise. A puzzled look appeared on his face. “Hey, babe. Did she send you up to untie me?”

  Connie shook her head, and then she leaned closer so that he could look directly into her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

  “No, but I’d like to.” Mark’s grin came out slightly lopsided. “What’s your name, babe?”

  “I’m your angel.”

  “Angel, huh? That’s a nice name. Why don’t you take off your clothes and climb on.”

  Connie shook her head. “Not this time. Why don’t you ask what kind of angel I am.”

  “Okay.” Mark grinned again. “What kind of angel are you, babe?”

  “I’m your angel of death.” Connie pulled off her wig and removed her glasses. “I’m sure you recognize me now.”

  Mark blinked, then looked bewildered. “Hey, babe . . . What are you talking about? And why did you wear that wig?”

  Connie didn’t say anything. She just held up the knife and watched the puzzled look on his face turn to fear.

  “Hey, babe. What the hell—”

  He didn’t have time to say any more. Connie’s knife slashed down and took his words away. The rest of his question turned into a gurgle. Then he was silent.

  “Good-bye, Mark.” Connie’s voice was cold and emotionless as she slashed him again and again. “You never deserved to have a part of Alan. He was a good man.”

  When she was through, she looked at him for a long moment. His gift of life was gone. She’d taken Alan’s revenge. She unfolded the blanket from the foot of the bed and tossed it up to cover his body. Then she went into the connecting bathroom to take off her bloody clothes.

  It didn’t take long to shower and then dress in the extra slacks and sweater she’d brought. Connie checked the mirror to make sure she’d washed off all the blood before she stepped out into the bedroom again. The body under the blanket wasn’t moving. Mark Turner was stone dead.

  The lock on the door was the push-button type. Connie released it and left the room, closing the door and automatically locking it behind her. They wouldn’t find him until morning. The blonde might came back, but she’d assume he was with someone else and go on to her next encounter. No one would guess there was a body behind the locked door until the party was over and they got ready to leave.

  The couple on the landing had moved, so no one saw Connie go down the stairs. She peeked into the dining room and smiled when she saw the blonde at the table, her head bent low over the line of coke she was snorting. There was no one in the kitchen when Connie slipped out the back door.

  Thirty minutes later, she was unlocking the door to her own apartment. Tomorrow was garbage day and she’d thrown the bag containing the bloody clothes and the wig in a nearby Dumpster. It would be emptied in the morning and its contents on the way to the dump before Mark’s body was discovered. Since no one at the apartment building had known she was sleeping with Mark Turner, there was nothing to tie her to his murder.

  But Alan’s picture was frowning again. Connie picked it up and held it close to her ear. “What’s wrong? Did I forget something you told me to do?”

  She listened and then she nodded. Alan was right. The police would be sure to search Mark’s apartment and they’d find her fingerprints. There was also the possibility she’d left some personal item there that would link her with him.

  “What should I do, Alan?” Panic rushed over Connie in waves. No one had seen her at the party, but the police might still suspect her. If they put her under surveillance, they would interfere with her plans to contact the next candidate on the transplant list.

  But Alan had the s
olution. He was so wise. Connie pressed her lips to the glass that covered his picture and thanked God he was still with her. “You’re absolutely right, Alan. I’ll go through his apartment and wipe everything clean. Wait right here. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”

  It was past midnight, and no one was in the halls. Connie took the stairs. Several moments later, she was unlocking the door to Mark’s apartment. It was strange to step inside without Mark there to greet her. She’d never gone to his place when he wasn’t there. But knowing she’d never have to endure his strange and painful sexual practices again made Connie smile with relief.

  She didn’t bother going to the kitchen. She’d never been in there. But she did wipe off all the doorknobs and every flat surface in the bedroom. The dresser was safe. She hadn’t pulled out any drawers. But the bathroom was another matter.

  Connie wiped the knobs on the shower and the handles on the glass doors. She even wiped down the medicine cabinet because she’d once looked inside for an aspirin. She was about to leave the apartment when she remembered wearing one of Mark’s robes. The police probably wouldn’t check it for hair or fibers, but it would be smart to find it and take it back to her own apartment.

  She opened the closet and flicked on the light. The robe she’d worn was hanging in the back. She shoved some of Mark’s clothes out of the way so that she could reach it. That was when she noticed a video camera on a shelf attached to the inside wall of the closet. The shelf was high, almost to the ceiling of the closet. Connie began to frown. There was a similar shelf in her own closet, much too high for her to use. Mark must have built it when he’d lived there, but why did he store his video camera in such a strange place?

  There was a three-step kitchen stool in the corner of the closet, and Connie unfolded it and climbed up to look at the camera. When she leaned close and looked through the viewfinder, what she saw made her gasp. Mark had drilled a hole through the wall, and the video camera was aimed directly at his bed!

  The implication was so clear Connie shuddered as she climbed down. Her hands were trembling, and she felt ill; but she managed to wipe off the step stool and put it back where it had been. Mark had videotaped someone in his bed, and that someone could very well be her.

  Connie searched the bedroom, but the tapes were nowhere to be found. Where would he keep them? She remembered seeing a collection of videotapes at his entertainment center in the living room, and she rushed out to look.

  The tapes were all commercially labeled. There were quite a few action-adventure movies, but some of the other titles didn’t make sense. They weren’t the kinds of movies Mark would have watched. One title in particular caught Connie’s eye, Disney’s Cinderella. Why would Mark buy a Disney film when he didn’t have any children?

  Connie took down the tape and pulled it out of its sleeve. The tape wasn’t a Disney movie. It had a hand-printed label. On it were a date, a time, and two initials—A.J.

  There was a frown on Connie’s face as she examined several other tapes. Some were real movies, but there was another A.J. label inside the jacket for Laura, and she found a T.M. label in the sleeve that should have contained Anne of Green Gables.

  Mark had been clever, hiding his tapes in plain sight, but Connie now knew his filing system. Cinderella, Laura, and Anne of Green Gables were all women’s names. She pulled out all the other movies with women’s names, and every one had a hand-printed label inside. E.V. was in the sleeve for Tess, L.R. was hidden in Sabrina, and Anastasia contained a D.P. label. Connie’s initials, which had remained the same even though she’d used the name Cheryl, were inside three jackets. One was Scarlett, the second was Forever Amber, and the third was Catherine the Great.

  Just to make sure she was right, Connie checked every tape. Seeing that there were no more hand-printed labels, she gave a sigh of relief. She knew what to do with the tapes of her. She’d take them back to her own apartment and destroy them. But how about the tapes Mark had made of other women?

  Put them back on the shelf. The faint, beloved voice spoke directly into her ear. No one saw you with Mark and you’re safe. Keep the police busy, questioning all those other women. It’ll take so much time, they won’t even look for other suspects.

  “You’re right, Alan.” Connie smiled as she wiped off the tapes and replaced them. It was the first time Alan had ever spoken to her outside the privacy of their apartment, and she was delighted. Then Alan’s voice came to her again.

  Hurry home, Connie, and don’t forget to wipe the outside of the door when you leave. I want to watch the tapes that bastard made of you.

  “But why?” Connie frowned slightly. She was embarrassed about showing the tapes to Alan. “You shouldn’t watch them, honey. They’re so . . . so awful!”

  You don’t have to be embarrassed about anything, darling. I know you did it for me.

  “That’s true.” Connie nodded. “But why do you want to watch them?”

  I need to know exactly what he did to you, so we can celebrate the fact that he’s dead.

  CHAPTER 24

  Jill was in her office, sipping her first cup of decaffeinated coffee of the day. She’d bought the morning paper with her since she hadn’t had time to read it at home, and she’d just learned about the gruesome murder that had occurred last night.

  There was a knock on her door, and she looked up to see Doug standing there. “Hey, there. What are you doing here?”

  “You beeped me, didn’t you?”

  Jill nodded. “Yes, but I expected you to call, not come to my office.”

  “It’s okay. I was talking to the chief, right across the street. What’s up?”

  “I just read about last night’s homicide.” Jill handed him the paper. “This article doesn’t say much, but I figured you might have the inside scoop.”

  Doug nodded and sat down on the chair in front of Jill’s desk. “It’s not my case. They called me in, unofficially, and I was at the scene for a couple of hours. It was bad.”

  “How bad?” She was concerned. “This isn’t just idle curiosity, Doug. Norma Jenkins, one of Neil’s colleagues, just made an offer on a house right around the corner from the crime scene. I think I should warn her if the neighborhood’s going downhill.”

  Doug nodded. “That’s a good idea. Call her. I checked the stats, and we’ve had trouble in that neighborhood before.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Loud parties, a couple of drug busts, and three muggings. Two cars were stolen in the past six months, and there were five B. and E.s.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.” Jill began to frown.

  “It’s predictable. Most of the houses are rentals, and groups of singles move in. They’re usually young. They pool their resources because they can’t afford to rent apartments on their own.”

  Jill sighed. “The real-estate agent told Norma it was a family neighborhood.”

  “They’ll say anything to get their commission. Last night was the first homicide on record, but I’d tell your friend the area’s definitely borderline.”

  “Thanks, Doug.” Jill picked up the phone. “I’ll leave a message for Norma asking her to call me.”

  Doug waited while Jill placed her call. When she’d finished, he gave her an approving smile. “You’re a good friend.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled back. “Now tell me about the victim. Who was he?”

  “Mark Raymond Turner. He was a bartender at the Odyssey. Twenty-eight years old, athletic, lots of girlfriends, a good-looking guy.”

  “Do you have any leads?” Jill picked up her pen and began to jot down notes on a yellow legal pad.

  “Not yet, but I’ve got a theory. There were multiple stab wounds.”

  “And they were the cause of death?” She began to frown.

  “No. The victim’s throat was slit, severing his carotid arteries. The other wounds were inflicted after death.”

  “Was the victim . . . uh . . . gutted?” Jill swallowed hard when Doug
nodded. “Then you think there’s a connection to the Rossini case?”

  He nodded again. “It’s the same MO with one exception. But don’t mention that to anyone else. It’s just my theory, and we don’t want any publicity about a serial killer.”

  “Of course I’ll keep it quiet,” Jill reassured him. “You said there was an exception. What is it?”

  “There were no defense wounds.”

  Jill was surprised. “The victim didn’t try to defend himself?”

  “He didn’t have the opportunity. His hands and legs were tied to the bed.”

  “But why did he let someone . . . ?” Jill stopped in mid-sentence as the obvious answer occurred to her. “It was some kind of sexual thing?”

  Doug nodded. “Sex, booze, and drugs. The victim was attending a party. There’s a group—about a dozen people—that gets together every month. We questioned the woman who admitted she tied him up. She’s got a couple of priors for prostitution, but she came clean with us. She left him in the room and went downstairs. When she came back, the door was locked. That’s a signal they have when they want privacy, but she was curious and peeked through the keyhole.”

  “That must have been a shock.” Jill’s stomach lurched. Hearing about the murder made her feel queasy, but she wanted to know exactly what had happened. “Were they good friends?”

  “No. She met him that night. It was the first time she’d gone to one of those parties.”

  “And it’ll probably be the last.” Jill shivered. “Did you find any evidence?”

  “Hair and fiber. The hair’s acrylic.”

  “From a wig?” Jill raised her eyebrows when Doug nodded. “Was it long, or short?”

  “Long.”

  “Then it was probably a woman.” Jill jotted down that bit of information. “Did you find anything else?”

  “No. We tossed the house, but we didn’t come up with a thing except a couple of interesting footprints on the walkway. Female, size six.”

  Jill nodded. “And no female at the party wore a size six?”