by Alex Kava
“At night?”
Sam shrugged. She was already going to hell. Then she said, “I have an infrared filter.”
The woman came around to face her, shining her flashlight into Sam’s eyes. She could still see the outline of the gun aimed directly at her face. Suddenly she realized this wasn’t a suburban housewife with a neighborhood watch group.
“Since when does a cable news station sponsor wildlife photography?”
Now Sam recognized the woman’s voice. The target of Jeffery’s documentary had just made Sam a target.
CHAPTER 33
Back in the warm, dry kitchen Patrick suggested coffee to distract Maggie from still wanting to shoot the woman with the camera. He’d never seen Maggie so angry and wondered if she’d rather have found a serial killer stalking her than this photojournalist.
He insisted that Maggie prepare the coffee, pretending he didn’t know where she kept the filters. Fact was, he’d made coffee in her kitchen more in the last month than she probably had in the last several years. Since they’d come in out of the rain Maggie hadn’t put down her gun. She did so now, stuffing it into the back of her jeans’ waistband so she could make the coffee.
Patrick grabbed a stack of towels from a linen closet in the hall and offered one to the woman who had introduced herself as Samantha Ramirez. As she thanked him, her eyes—a gorgeous mocha brown—held his for a second too long before she probably realized he wasn’t on her side. He still wasn’t clear how this woman and Maggie had met. Maggie kept mentioning a hit piece on CNN. Ramirez didn’t offer any explanation. She seemed to recognize the situation was volatile enough and that it was best to say as little as possible.
“I don’t get it,” Maggie said as she smacked the coffeepot into its slot. “What’s so fascinating about me?”
She pushed the START button, then realized she didn’t have the machine plugged in. She yanked the cord free and shoved it into the nearby electrical outlet.
Before Ramirez could respond, Maggie continued, “I’ve gone through so much trouble to protect myself from killers—the fence, the security system, the stream at the back of the property—and you and your partner rip open my life for everyone in a matter of … what? Twenty-four, thirty-six hours?”
She pounded the coffeemaker’s START button again, and this time the machine sputtered and began to hiss.
“Why?” Maggie asked, and came to a standstill in front of Ramirez, who sat at the kitchen’s island across from her. “Why me?”
“Believe it or not, it’s not personal.”
Ramirez looked from Maggie to Patrick. It seemed as though she was imploring him to understand. Maybe she thought he would be more reasonable. Maybe she realized he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She toweled off her shoulder-length hair and sent the dark curls and waves into a wild cascade around her face. She reminded Patrick of some beautiful creature from Greek mythology.
“No, I don’t believe it’s not personal,” Maggie told her. She stared at Ramirez and crossed her arms over her chest. Then in almost a whisper she said, “Do you have any idea how close I came to shooting you?”
Ramirez’s head jerked up. Her hand with the towel froze in midair.
No, Patrick thought. She didn’t have any idea how close; neither did he.
Patrick continued to stay back like a spectator, watching the two women, close enough to intervene but far enough away that Maggie could ignore him.
Was she bluffing? Had she almost fired at the camerawoman?
In the fog and the mist it had been difficult to differentiate whether or not the camera was a gun. And Maggie had been upset, wound tight. He’d watched her once before confront a gunman. He’d seen her in action. He had watched Maggie shift into survival mode. It was like she had this on switch that when activated, she jumped into motion, single-minded and determined to do the right thing, whatever it took, no matter the consequences, no matter the risk to her own well-being.
It was one of the things he admired about his sister. She was a hero, just like their father had been. She was so much braver than Patrick. Yet at the same time, he understood how easy it was to let your emotions, your fears, your imagination get the best of you and drive you to panic. A panic that could prompt reckless assumptions and misperceptions. But despite this wave of uncharacteristic anger, he knew Maggie O’Dell would never have fired without being sure.
Samantha Ramirez, however, was not sure at all. “Look,” Ramirez began, and Patrick thought he saw her hand shake. “Jeffery’s an asshole sometimes. I honestly have no idea why he does half the things he does.”
“You just go along?”
“Basically, yes.”
“You have no journalistic integrity?”
Patrick could see Ramirez’s back go straight and her nostrils flare. “You know what I have?” she said, fear quickly firing over into anger. “I have a six-year-old son and I want him to grow up without having to clean toilets or wait on some asshole like Jeffery Cole. I have a Mexican mother who watches Jeopardy! as faithfully as she prays to the Virgin Mary so she can learn English well enough to pass her citizenship test. I have a shitload of bills and a mortgage twice the amount my tiny little two-bedroom home will ever be worth. So excuse me if I can’t afford your precious integrity just yet.”
The two women stared each other down. Rain began to pelt the windows again, only now it sounded more like sleet. The coffeemaker sputtered to an end, filling the kitchen with its fresh-brewed aroma.
Just when Patrick wondered if Maggie would throw Ramirez out into the storm, Maggie said, “Do you use cream or sugar?”
CHAPTER 34
Maggie tried not to give in to the hammering inside her head. She had thought once she was back inside, out of the rain and the cold, that the thrum-thump would subside. She was wrong.
She had not shot at Ramirez, but how close had she come?
She unleashed her anger on the woman, but, quite honestly, she was angrier with herself and a bit unnerved that the pain at her temple could blur her vision and challenge her judgment.
The rain had turned to sleet. When Maggie offered Ramirez the sofa for what little of the night was left, the woman stared at her as if looking for a trap. Finally she relented, calling her mother to explain while Patrick, almost too enthusiastically, went to fetch blankets and a pillow.
Ramirez was on the phone in the living room and Patrick in the upstairs linen closet when Maggie heard a thump and a scrape against the back door. She grabbed for the gun tucked against the small of her back. Still, she jumped when she saw the face at the back-door window.
Benjamin Platt’s hair was soaked, his smile anxious. Immediately Maggie realized she had forgotten to call him back. But how crazy to come all this way just to check on her. It wasn’t until she opened the door that she saw he had Jake with him.
“Oh, my God! Where did you find him?”
She pulled them both in and saw that Ben had his own dog, Digger, tucked under his arm. Harvey came running into the kitchen, whining and nosing and butt-welcoming the huge black shepherd and the small white Westie.
Maggie threw a towel around Jake along with her arms, hugging and wiping at the sleet that stuck to his fur, for as long as Jake would allow. Ben wiped down Digger before he started on his own head.
“How in the world did you find him?”
“You forget that Digger earned his name. I figured he’d know where to look.”
The dogs started tussling with one another, and Maggie stood back and watched Ben.
“The first time Digger got out and didn’t come back, Ali was crushed. She took it so personally.”
“It’s hard not to.”
“I know. I could hear it in your voice.”
Rain dripped from his chin and he wiped it with the sleeve of his jacket, which was equally drenched. Ice crystals stuck to his hair and eyelashes. Maggie pulled a fresh towel from the pile that Patrick had brought earlier. Instead of handing it to Ben she came to hi
m, held his eyes, and gently began wiping his hair, his face, his neck.
She felt him shiver under her touch when she unzipped his jacket. Her hands hesitated on his chest before she pushed the jacket off his broad shoulders, easing it down his arms and enjoying the feel of his muscles going tense beneath her fingertips.
His button-down shirt was soaking, too. She started unbuttoning it with no resistance from Ben. The look in his eyes made her fingers eager. Of course, she had forgotten about Ramirez until the woman cleared her throat behind them.
“Sorry.” Ramirez looked genuinely apologetic. Then with a forced smile she added, “I hope you’re not going to wish you’d shot me.”
Maggie stepped back and introduced the two by first names only, not wanting to share any more information than necessary for the photojournalist to take back to Jeffery Cole.
Ramirez pointed to the wet dogs. “So you must be the guy in the ball cap I saw out back. I thought you might be looking for a dog.”
“Out back?” Maggie asked.
“I saw him just ahead of me. Right before you busted me. For a minute I thought you were casing the property.”
Maggie glanced at Ben, who had already spun around and was looking out the back window.
“I wasn’t at the back of the property,” he said as he ran a hand up over his soaked head. “And I didn’t have a ball cap on.”
CHAPTER 35
The TV profile had finally put a name to the woman cop. Margaret “Maggie” O’Dell. Actually, he wasn’t surprised to find out she was an FBI agent. That only contributed to the intrigue.
A couple of hours earlier he had tracked her all the way home after their encounter underground. Though brief, he got to watch her in action and it only fueled his desire to see more. So he followed her. His vehicle was one that she’d never suspect. No one did. It made him almost invisible, and he was able to drive practically to her front door.
He had stayed for a while, parked in an area where he could continue to watch until the guy with the dog came up the front lawn. He thought he was her husband. Decided to leave. He thought he’d scout the neighborhood, maybe go pick up some fast food. That’s when he found the motel. It was just off the interstate, not far from her house, and he had an intense urge to stay close to her for the night.
He was settled in bed, almost dozing, when he saw her face on TV. He was sorry the television didn’t have a larger screen so he could get a really good look at her. It was an old TV, not the sleek flat-screen he was used to. Everything about the motel was old, but he learned when he was on the road that sometimes he couldn’t be choosy. Besides, the room was clean and he liked that it had a front and back door.
The show had made him antsy. He’d never sleep now that her image had been inside this motel room. Almost without realizing it, he had dressed and was back in his vehicle, back on the road, driving through the fog and the rain. Heading back to her neighborhood.
It was impossible to see inside her house, even from the back. He might have ventured closer if that damned dog hadn’t been crouched in the tall grass, growling like some rabid animal ready to pounce. A black creature with snarling white teeth, standing guard.
His mother used to talk about black creatures of the night that warded off evil. That Margaret O’Dell should have one of these guarding her made her a worthy adversary indeed.
His outing stirred him up more than ever. Driving away from Margaret O’Dell was like pulling away from a magnetic field.
He passed by the exit for the motel and kept on driving, despite the sleet. He knew the only thing that would help calm him.
CHAPTER 36
Maggie thought the dead body looked almost artificial, splayed out on the stainless-steel table, gray and waxy under the fluorescent lights. A brutally murdered body could sometimes bear little resemblance to anything human. This was one of those times.
Maggie and Racine stood side by side, gowned up and waiting now for Stan. One of his dieners had already photographed, washed, and X-rayed the dead woman. Stan had been interrupted shortly after he started, called away to take an important phone call. He’d already cut and spread opened the victim’s chest. The woman’s heart lay on a tray, her lungs on another, and the stomach on a third—all in a row on the counter like some freakish display.
Since she hadn’t been at the scene, Maggie flipped through photos that had been taken of the body back in the alley beside the Dumpster. Some of the woman’s clothes had been singed and covered with cinders, but Maggie didn’t see any burn marks on her flesh.
“Had to be someone who knew her, right?” Racine said. “Strangers don’t usually bash in the face like that.”
“Unless he wanted to destroy her identity. It’s possible he knew her. That she wasn’t a random victim.”
“The cardboard box definitely wasn’t hers.”
“She wasn’t homeless,” Maggie said. “Her legs are shaved.”
“Doesn’t cross off prostitute,” Racine said. She pointed to the purple bruising that colored the woman’s entire left side, from arm to hip to leg. “Livor mortis—she had to be on her side for several hours after she died. Wherever she died, it wasn’t in that alley.”
Racine was right. Livor mortis, called the bruising of death, was often a telltale sign of the victim’s last position. After the heart stops circulating blood, gravity pulls the blood down to settle at the lowest spot where the body meets a surface.
“Even left an imprint,” Racine added. “Looks like she was on some kind of a grate.”
Maggie took a closer look. The skin on the woman’s hip was embossed with a meshlike pattern.
“Anything found in the alley that would match that?”
“Not unless they pulled it out of the Dumpster. I’ll check later.”
They were quiet again. Maggie looked through more of the photos. Racine glanced over her shoulder for Stan. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her foot tapped out her growing impatience.
“So what are you getting Ben for Valentine’s Day?”
“Excuse me?”
It wasn’t the strangest question ever asked over a dead body. Maggie had learned long ago that law enforcement officers talked or joked about some of the oddest stuff. Their way of releasing the tension of the moment.
“Valentine’s Day,” Racine repeated. “It’s next week. This is the first time I’ve ever been with someone long enough to give a Valentine’s Day gift. I’m like Houdini when it comes to relationships—constantly looking for the trapdoor or an escape as soon as the ‘L’ word is exchanged.”
“Really? What about Jill?”
“I forgot you met her. Nope. Four months.”
“She seemed nice.”
“She was psycho.”
“I thought she was an MP in the army?”
“Yeah, I should have taken that as a warning. So what are you getting Ben?”
“Ben and I aren’t there yet.”
“Right.”
“We’re friends.”
“For real? I thought for sure you two were doing it.”
The automatic door buzzed open and Maggie tried not to look relieved as Stan returned.
“Ladies, my apologies for the delay. Where were we?”
“Weapons,” Racine said, going from Valentine’s Day to murder without missing a beat. “What does that to a face? Baseball bat?”
“No, not a bat. It had to be something with a sharp end. Maybe a claw of some sort. It gouged her flesh. Didn’t just create flyers but pulled out chunks of tissue, some of which we found in her hair and on her clothes. We didn’t find it all, though, which makes me certain she wasn’t killed in the alley.”
“Anything under her fingernails?” Maggie asked.
“No. Actually there are no defensive wounds. Something like this would have left her arms and hands with tremendous bruises, not to mention possible broken bones. Teeth and jaw are pretty much shattered. They won’t be much help with ID. I do think she was spared a
nd wasn’t conscious for long.”
“You think the first blow incapacitated her?”
“That’s my initial thought. I won’t be able to confirm that until I finish.”
“So what the hell did he use?” Racine asked.
“A crowbar or a claw hammer?” Maggie offered.
“Either’s a possibility. It didn’t splinter. Something metal makes sense. There’s a bit of residue inside the nasal cavity, or what’s left of it. Something oily. Hard to tell with all the caked blood. I’ve sent a swab to the lab.”
“If her fingerprints aren’t on file and we don’t have teeth, you’re not giving me much to work with, Stan,” Racine told the medical examiner. “No one’s going to be able to make a visual ID.”
Stan shrugged. That wasn’t his problem. He was finished with the outside for now. He walked over to the counter, where he had left the extracted organs. He was methodical in processing the body. It was up to Maggie and Racine to take those facts and piece them together as evidence of what happened.
Maggie watched him take what looked like a bread knife and slice open the stomach, tugging back the lining.
“Full house here,” he said.
Racine covered her nose while both she and Maggie stepped closer.
“So she’d just eaten,” Maggie said.
“Within two hours of dying.” Stan poked at the contents, slipping a glob of it onto the tray. “Actually I’d say within an hour. Kind of an odd combination here. Looks like maybe doughnuts. I’m guessing until we can test it. Maybe potato chips.” He pushed a red piece around the tray. “Licorice.”
“Licorice?”
“Sounds like road food,” Racine said.
Stan and Maggie both stopped to stare at Racine.
“I eat crap like that when I drive up to see my dad,” she explained. “Stop for gas, pick up something to munch.”
The automatic door wheezed open and Stan’s diener hurried in with the X-rays.
