(Moon 1) - Killing Moon

by Rebecca York

  Marshall cut a piece of rare, marinated beef in half and forked up a piece.

  Jack tucked into his own meal.

  After finishing several pieces of meat, Marshall reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a folded piece of paper, and pushed it across the table.

  When Jack unfolded it, he found a man's name at the top.

  Donald Arnott, 5962 Newcut Road. Security guard, Montgomery Mall. White male. Thirty-five. Brown and brown. Five eleven. One hundred seventy-five pounds. Owns several guns, including a hunting rifle and a compact machine gun.

  Underneath Arnott's description were the names of five women. Two, Penny Delano and Charlotte Lawrence, he recognized as missing persons cases. One recent, another from about five months back. The three others were unfamiliar. Lisa Patterson. Cindy Hamilton. Mary Beth Nixon.

  "Arnott moved here about eight months ago," Marshall said. "Before that, he was living in Paoli, Pennsylvania. You'll find missing persons reports on three of the victims up there. There are probably others."

  "You're telling me Arnott is responsible for Delano and Lawrence?"

  "Yeah."

  "But you can't prove it?"

  "I was on his property a few nights ago. There were shallow graves. They're probably gone by now."

  "He spotted you prowling around?" Jack asked, his cop's mind making rapid connections. Marshall was limping. He said he'd caught something on an investigation. The implication was that he'd caught a cold or the flu. But what if he'd caught a bullet and managed to patch himself up without medical attention? Was that what had happened? A bullet in the leg? A shot low on the body. Maybe Arnott had come upon him down on the ground, digging for evidence. And somehow he'd gotten away. As he debated proffering the hypothesis, Marshall started speaking again, his voice hard.

  "He knows somebody's on to him. Which is why you have to act quickly, before he decides to pull up stakes and try his luck somewhere else."

  "You've got a personal interest in this?"

  "I was hired to find one of the women, Penny Delano. When the police drew a blank."

  "She disappeared after work at Montgomery Mall one evening. Nobody saw her leave. There was no evidence to go on. She'd broken up with her boyfriend a few weeks earlier, but he had a rock solid alibi for that night. And we don't have any other leads."

  "Arnott is a security guard at Montgomery Mall. I know she was in his vehicle."

  "How?"

  "I have my methods."

  "Which you aren't going to share."

  "I don't have the same constraints that you do. He's got a Land Rover with a ring bolted to the back of a fold-down rear seat. My guess is that he uses it to restrain his victims when he carts them home. He's probably got handcuffs to go with it."

  Jack winced. "We can't search without probable cause."

  "I know. I'm hoping that if you tail him, you'll come up with something. I'm also hoping you can stop him before he does it again."

  "Not like Edward Crawford." Until the moment he mentioned the man's name, he hadn't been sure he was going to bring up the unsolved murder.

  Marshall didn't move, but the blood drained from his face. "What about Edward Crawford?"

  "You were investigating him five years ago."

  "What about him?" Marshall repeated.

  "His body turned up at Sugar Loaf Mountain."

  The PI shifted his legs under the table. "I always wondered what happened to that bastard. What was the cause of death?"

  "Undetermined."

  Marshall nodded.

  "You gave Ken Winston some information—but he didn't use it. Then another woman was killed. That must have been frustrating."

  "Winston made it clear he didn't want any help from me."

  "So what would you do if I didn't act on this tip you're giving me now?"

  "I'd be disappointed, because I think we have a good working relationship. And I'd be angry when Arnott took another victim."

  "Will he?"

  "You know he will."

  "You told me you're not bound by the same rules I am. Would you try to stop him if I can't?"

  "If you mean, would I try to get evidence that you can use, the answer is yes. If you mean, would I kill him to stop him, the answer is no, because that would put me on his level," Marshall said, his voice low and firm. His eyes bored into Jack's as he sat there on the other side of the table, waiting for the next question.

  Jack elected not to ask it, and Marshall picked up his knife and fork and cut another piece of marinated lamb.

  After he'd chewed and swallowed, he came back with a question of his own. "So what kind of condition was the body in?"

  "Skeletal remains. Apparently mauled by some large animal."

  "How long has he been dead?"

  "The ME thinks about five years."

  "So he died right after he disappeared."

  "Yeah."

  Marshall leaned back in his chair. "Interesting," he said, both his tone and his hand steady as he took a drink of water.

  MEGAN'S hand shook slightly as she washed the slide of Ross's tissue with a salt-detergent solution.

  Get a grip, she ordered herself. You've done this a hundred times. But she hadn't done this analysis on genetic material from someone she'd gotten to know personally, someone whose deep, sexy voice had aroused her over the phone the night before.

  Someone she would be speaking to again after she finished this analysis—unless she chickened out and gave the job to Hank.

  Lips pressed together, she added a series of dyes designed to make the details of each chromosome stand out. There were two basic classes of chromosome aberrations, numerical and structural, one or the other found in association with many abnormalities of development: Turner's syndrome, Klinefelter's syndrome, fragile X syndrome, complex malformation syndromes.

  With the advent of chromosome banding techniques in the 1970s, it was possible to identify with certainty all chromosome pairs and to characterize more accurately abnormalities of number and structure. She was looking for either or both, although Ross had told her she wasn't going to find anything that had already been described. But she'd check that out for herself.

  While the traditional method of analysis was very labor intensive, she had access to an automated system that used an interferometer similar to ones employed by astronomers for measuring light spectra emitted by stars, with the results analyzed by a computer program and displayed on a monitor.

  Afraid of what she was going to find, she waited for the computer to complete the analysis, then looked at the screen, prepared to settle down to the process of checking for any of the known abnormalities. What she saw made her jaw drop open.

  After glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody was standing behind her, she looked at the screen again, touching each set of chromosomes with her finger, counting carefully to verify what she thought she was viewing. The correct number of human chromosome pairs was twenty-three. Ross Marshall had an extra twenty-fourth chromosome. Impossible.

  Yet there it was on the monitor. Once more, she made sure that her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. But the results were the same. No mistake in her counting.

  Had the computer program made some kind of error? Carefully she went through the steps of the procedure again, waiting with her pulse pounding in her temples for the analysis to finish. The picture on the screen was the same one she'd viewed a few minutes earlier.

  She knew of abnormalities caused by an extra chromosome, but the anomaly was always an extra one of the known chromosomes, like the extra Y chromosome responsible for a documented type of violent-aggressive male personality. She had never heard of a case of a totally undocumented twenty-fourth chromosome.

  After saving the analysis onto a disk, she exited the program, went back to her desk, and sat down. Glancing at Hank, she saw he was bent over his computer. Ordinarily she wouldn't hesitate to confide in her colleague when she found something as startling as what she'd just seen. But
this was different. Walter had given her reason to worry about Hank's research skills. And even if he hadn't, what she'd found out about Ross was something she didn't want to advertise.

  Still, she needed confirmation that her results weren't out of whack. "Can I ask you a question?"

  Hank looked up, blinked as though coming out of a fog.

  "Sorry to interrupt you."

  "It's okay. What do you need?"

  "The cytogenetic analysis equipment—have you used it this morning?"

  "Yeah. I did a couple of workups."

  "And you didn't have any difficulties with the computer system?"

  "Uh-uh. You got problems?"

  "Not really. I was just checking," she said lamely.

  He gave her a considering look, and she thought he was going back to his work. Instead he said, "Are you mad at me or something?"

  "What?"

  "You've kind of been avoiding me since yesterday."

  "Have I?"

  "We usually joke around about stuff. You've been…" He shrugged. "I don't know. It's like you've withdrawn or something."

  He was right, of course. But she didn't know what to say—couldn't tell him that Walter's accusation had tainted her image of him.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I guess I'm kind of preoccupied with some personal stuff."

  He nodded, stared at her for a few more seconds, then went back to his computer. She looked at the phone, thinking that her next step was to call Ross. But not in front of Hank. She'd wait until he left for lunch.

  ROSS slid behind the wheel of his Grand Cherokee, turned the key in the ignition, and looked behind him before easing out of his parking space. His movements were slow and careful, as if he were afraid that he would make a mistake and Jack Thornton would come running out of the restaurant to give him a traffic ticket.

  Thornton was still inside. In the men's room. And Ross was making his escape.

  There hadn't been a great deal of conversation after the detective had asked how far Ross might go in his quest to stop a man like Arnott—or Crawford. Somehow Ross had forced himself to keep sitting in his chair and calmly finish his lunch—while he felt the walls of the restaurant close in on him.

  Now that he was outside, he was feeling a bit less claustrophobic, but the lunch he'd eaten was as heavy as a bag of sand in his stomach. He'd told Thornton in no uncertain terms that he wasn't going to kill Arnott to put a stop to his activities. But he'd come within a hairbreadth of doing just that last night.

  And if he'd come that close, well…

  Ignoring the pain in his gut, he deliberately went back to the conversation with Thornton—the other part, about Crawford.

  With as much objectivity as he could manage, he analyzed the exchange of information and the probable consequences. The detective had let him know that Crawford had died five years ago, that his body had been found, that the cause of death was unknown—and then watched him for reactions.

  After that, the police detective had answered questions about the body and the crime scene. The killer's flesh had decomposed, so there was no evidence that his throat had been ripped out. No fiber or trace evidence on the body, if there ever had been any. That is, if Thornton was telling the truth. Which he might not be. Because when a cop was interrogating a suspect, he was likely to lie like hell.

  But what would knowing the cause of death prove? Only that a large animal with sharp teeth had killed Crawford. Not a man.

  And not a man who could change himself into a wolf. Because any police detective who tried to pin the crime on a werewolf was in for a long session with the department shrink.

  The chain of logic made Ross relax a little. Finally able to think of something else besides the meeting with Thornton, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, took out the phone that he'd turned off before going into the restaurant, and checked for messages.

  There was one. From Arthur Delano, Penny Delano's father—the man who'd hired him to find his daughter. What timing!

  "I don't want to keep pestering you," the man had told the answering machine. "But I haven't heard from you in a couple of weeks, and my wife and I were wondering if you've found out anything new about our daughter. So if you could give me a call, I'd appreciate it. Our phone number is 301-555-4976."

  He stabbed the brake pedal, pulling up short at a red light. He was sure Penny was dead. But there was no proof yet, and he didn't want to give the parents that kind of news without being positive. Confirmation would have to come from Thornton—if he trusted the information Ross had given him.

  He scrubbed his hand over his face, then punched in the numbers.

  Arthur Delano answered immediately. "Hello?"

  "This is Ross Marshall. I have a message to call you."

  "Thank you for getting back to me. At least you return phone calls."

  Hating to leave the man twisting in the wind, he said, "I'm sorry that I don't have any definite information for you, sir."

  "Definite information?"

  Ross sighed. "I'm hoping to have something for you in the next few weeks."

  "We've already been waiting weeks."

  "I know. And I wish I could alleviate your anxiety." The words sounded hollow in own ears. He wanted to do something more for this man, but his hands were tied.

  "We were assured that if anyone could find our daughter, you were the one. I guess we were being optimistic when we hired you."

  A horn honked behind him, and he jerked across the intersection. "I've been working on the case. I've given information to the police that I hope will have some positive results. If you'd like, I can return the retainer you've given me."

  Delano thought it over for several seconds. "No. You might as well keep the money. You might as well keep working for us."

  "I'm sorry, sir. I wish I had more I could give you at this time."

  There was another hesitation on the other end of the line. "Will you just tell me one thing? Please? Do you think there's any chance that Penny will be found alive?"

  Ross debated for a moment, then answered, "Honestly, no."

  "I won't tell that to my wife. But I appreciate your being straight with me."

  "I wish I could give you better news."

  "Please tell us the moment you know anything definite."

  "I will, sir."

  He hung up, driving automatically. When he almost smashed into the back of the Honda in front of him, he decided it was time to get off the road. Pulling into one of the shopping centers that lined the pike, he found a parking space and sat with his eyes fixed on a furniture display window.

  Christ, there were things about this job that he utterly detested. It was gratifying when you could come back to a family with the good news that you'd located their missing relative. It was hell when the only thing you could give them was confirmation of a death. Which was what he was going to have to give the Delanos eventually—but not until Jack came through for him.

  While he was still sitting in the parking lot, the phone rang again. Pushing the Receive button, he found himself talking to Megan.

  All she had to do was say his name in a slightly breathy voice and he felt his heart speed up as he remembered the previous night's conversation.

  "What can I do for you?" he managed.

  "I need to talk to you about the chromosome analysis."

  Of course. There'd been so much else on his mind that he hadn't been thinking about that at all.

  "You've got some information for me?" he asked, striving to mask his sudden tension.

  "I'd rather not go into it over the phone. Uh… could we talk in person? Can you meet me at the lab?"

  He felt a fine sheen of perspiration bloom on his skin. "You remember I didn't want to come to the lab in the first place?"

  "Right." She was silent for several seconds. "Uh… my house?"

  That wasn't a great alternative. But where? Not a public place like the restaurant where he'd just talked to Thornton. Not when she had some ver
y personal information.

  "The lab's better," he answered grudgingly. "But could we make it after hours?"

  "All right. What about six o'clock?"

  "Okay."

  They hung up, and he sat there, feeling a pulse pounding in his temple. She'd found something. Something abnormal.

  But why was he surprised? He'd known that all along, hadn't he?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  « ^ »

  NERVOUSLY MEGAN CHECKED her hair in the ladies' room mirror, then applied a touch of lipstick, powder, and blusher.

  Peering at her reflection, she saw the brightness of her eyes, the slight flush of her skin.

  Despite what she might have told herself in the morning, she was excited about seeing Ross Marshall again. And worried. Partly because their relationship was strangely tangled on a personal and professional level, and partly because she wondered how he would react to the news she had to give him. Would he tell her any more about the effect of the syndrome or the men in his family? Or was he going to clam up?

  And why should she care so much?

  Opening the door to the ladies' room, she stepped into the hall and started decisively toward her office. Before she'd taken half a dozen steps, she heard the drumming of rain on the roof of the building. And suddenly she remembered stopping to fill the car with gas on the way to work, spilling some on the pavement, and tracking it into the car. She'd rolled the window on the passenger side partway down to get rid of the smell. And she was pretty sure she hadn't remembered to roll it back up again.

  Damn.

  It wasn't supposed to rain today. Just her luck.

  She took a quick look at her watch. Ross wasn't due for another ten minutes. She probably had time to dash outside and close the window before he came.

  The rain was coming down pretty fast, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Stepping into the lounge, she snatched up the umbrella that she'd forgotten to take home the week before.

  The front door was still unlocked, and as she turned the knob, the wind snatched the door away from her and flung it wide.

  The lights in the parking lot must be out, she thought, fumbling with the umbrella as she stood in the doorway, the rain coming down in sheets so thick that she couldn't see more than a couple of feet in front of her face.