Sole Witness

by Jenn Black

  Forensics accepted the new material with good humor, considering how busy and behind their department stayed. For once, they even had something to report.

  “Got your results for Tommy Turner’s studio and Lori Summer’s house,” said Miller, a skinny twenty-something with freckles.

  “Yeah?” Carver elbowed her way in front of him. “Whatcha got?”

  “Not her hair at the studio crime scene. She’s a natural blonde. That one’s definitely from a bottle. Prints at the Summers house were wiped clear in high-traffic areas and we’re still processing all the miscellany from the motel. So far, the hairs are hers and the debris is native.”

  “Thanks, Miller.” Davis poked at Carver’s shoulder. “Told you she was telling the truth.”

  “I know that now.” Carver sniffed. “With the stuff we collected today, we should be able to tie Tompkins to the scene and nail her good.”

  He paused, as if in great thought. “First, we have to find her.”

  “You know what, Hamilton? You’re starting to annoy me. You don’t want to mess with a pregnant woman, so I’ll tell you what. I’ll cruise around looking for the Tompkins character, and you go do whatever it is that you go do, when you’re not hanging around making me crazy.”

  Davis grinned. “Fair enough. Call me if you catch her.”

  Although an APB had been put out on Amber Tompkins from the moment they had a name, Carver would feel most useful on the road. He, on the other hand, hated loose ends and this case had plenty.

  With all the extraneous drive-by adventures, he hadn’t had a chance to interview all the individuals on his list. He’d been behind since Kimberley Jackson’s death. Better start with her family.

  He pulled up at the Jackson residence and took notes in his book. Decent neighborhood, beige ranch, two cars in the drive. Most likely, two grieving parents inside. Davis took a deep breath and stepped up to the porch.

  Mr. Jackson answered the door. Tall, wan, jittery. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Davis Hamilton with the Isla Concha Police Department. I’m very sorry to bother you at home, sir, but I hoped to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”

  A short, pale woman peered over Mr. Jackson’s shoulder. “Did you find her killer?”

  Davis hedged, hating to see the disappointment in their faces but knowing at this point there was little he could disclose publicly. “Not yet.”

  Mrs. Jackson’s eyes dulled with defeat. Her husband opened the door and motioned Davis inside and to a couch. They took the two overstuffed chairs opposite him, neither of them looking at the other or touching.

  Intruding on grief always made Davis feel like a jerk.

  “What do you need to know?” asked Mr. Jackson dully.

  “Can you tell me a little about your daughter’s activities? We’re trying to piece together where she might have come across the killer.”

  “Activities?” Mr. Jackson stared over Davis’s shoulder. “She worked. That was her main activity. Kindergarten teacher. This was supposed to be her vacation. Spring Break.”

  Probably not too many unsavory characters in kindergarten. Davis jotted a note anyway. “And friends? Husband, boyfriend? Social life?”

  “She’d been dating Marco for a while now. What was it honey, five years?”

  “Six.”

  “That just ended last weekend.” Mr. Jackson gasped. “You don’t think he–”

  “No! No,” Davis assured him. “We don’t. Did she date anyone after Marco?”

  Mrs. Jackson crossed her arms. “Three days, Detective. Our daughter was not easy.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to imply that. I just have to ask questions. I’m trying to determine who she came in contact with.”

  She squinted at him before responding. “Lori Summers, of course. They’ve been friends since high school. Lori’s the one who encouraged Kimber to follow her dream. Kimber always tried to get her to do the same, but that girl’s a stubborn one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mrs. Jackson relaxed her crossed arms. “Kimber said it was a cop out, is what it was. Lori thought she wasn’t smart enough for college, thought modeling was something a girl did when she couldn’t get by on much more than her looks.”

  “Modeling wasn’t her dream?” Davis asked and flinched. He’d allowed himself to get completely off-topic from Kimberley’s death.

  “Hardly. Wanted to open some sort of school or club thing. Help encourage young girls to develop self-esteem. Never did anything but talk, Kimber said. Might be some kind of supermodel, but that girl could use some self esteem of her own. Kimber tried to help.”

  Davis nodded and forced down the barrage of questions bubbling in his throat. Right now, Lori was not his concern. He needed to find and trap a killer.

  “Did your daughter ever mention a friend by the name of Amber Tompkins?”

  Mrs. Jackson blinked. “No. Never heard of her. Did you, dear?”

  Her husband shook his head. “That one of the teachers from her school, maybe?”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Jackson mused. “They do seem to come and go. Hard to say.”

  Davis stood. “Thank you so much for your patience. I’ll show myself out.”

  He was wasting their time. Lori was right—she was the common thread. He should be at her parent’s house, not Kimberley’s.

  Within half an hour, he pulled in front of the Summers residence. Small bungalow. Ratty grass. Crooked shutters. Empty trashcan lying on its side by the curb. He rang the doorbell.

  The woman who answered was an older, greyer version of Lori. A little shorter, a pound or two heavier, maybe, and a few frown lines, but otherwise the resemblance couldn’t be missed.

  “Detective Davis Hamilton, ma’am. May I ask a few questions about your daughter?”

  To his surprise, Mrs. Summers burst out laughing.

  “Davis Hamilton? Well, ain’t you all growed up. What a joke. I told her back then you’d never want one such as her, and I was right. Took nothing less than a death to get you to come around last time, and another one to get you here today.”

  He shifted on his feet, at a complete loss as to how to respond without coming across as an even bigger jerk. He also couldn’t miss the pungent stench of alcohol soaking every word.

  She coughed without covering her mouth. “Well, there’s nothing I can say about Lori that’ll help. There was nothing I could say to her to help, either. Probably can’t be helped. Good-bye.”

  Davis braced his arm against the slamming door, wincing at the impact.

  “What?” she snapped, one hand on her hip.

  All of Davis’s professionalism vanished in a burst of fury. Her daughter was in danger and she was more concerned with drinking herself into an early grave?

  “Someone’s trying to kill her,” he bit out. “You’re her mother. Don’t you care?”

  She laughed again, cold, bitter.

  “Why should I? Someone killed my other daughter. Lori herself, with her reckless ways. I always told her she should be more like Sara. I got no idea why Sara’d need to do anything that dangerous to impress her stupid sister.”

  “Lori didn’t make Sara do anything,” Davis blurted, unable to believe he was arguing like a teenager instead of interviewing like a cop. “She looked wrecked at the funeral. I’m sure she felt terrible. Sara was her sister.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. And she never modeled again, blah, blah, blah. Threw herself a pity party is what she did. It was my daughter, my baby who died. And I’m not going through it again. Get out, and don’t come back.”

  This time, Davis allowed the door to slam in his face.

  Cheery little thing, wasn’t she?

  Man. He couldn’t imagine Lori growing up with a mother like that.

  Then again, his own parents at least meant well, but they too had managed to ruin his life for a while with their insistence that he marry someone like Juliana. It took a disastrous
divorce for him to realize that pleasing his parents only went so far.

  And that being a big shot attorney like his father with a society princess wife like his mother were the last two things on earth he desired for himself.

  Davis climbed into his car and started the engine.

  So, what was he doing for his future now? Did he really know what he wanted? Was he ruining his life again? Was he ruining Lori’s by dragging her down with him?

  A flash of curtain at one window let him know Mrs. Summers kept her eye on him. No doubt through the distorted lens of a bottle. Man.

  He eased his car onto the road.

  Lori’d been hurt enough. Her mother was no Mrs. Brady. Hell, in the past, he’d hurt her, too. She needed to be loved. Cherished. But by who? Him? A cop with an attitude?

  She was already in his house. Of course he’d love to keep her there. But could he? Was it fair to her? Starting any kind of relationship right now would be taking huge advantage of her heightened state of stress, to say the least.

  Already he felt like a jerk for making love to her last night. He wouldn’t erase it if he could, of course, but he shouldn’t have indulged his desire. She needed to feel appreciated.

  Respected.

  A real man wouldn’t so much as kiss her again until this whole thing was over, so she’d know his affection was real. For her. She mattered too much to be treated cheaply.

  Could he really do it? Stay away from her as long as it took, no matter the temptation to do otherwise, so that he could prove she meant something important to him?

  Davis sighed. He’d have to.

  He was a cop.

  * * *

  Amber feigned sleep until her chosen alibi left for work. He’d been a perfect mark. Horny enough to ask no questions and discreet enough to let her Camry be the car in his one-stall garage.

  After showering, she headed to the closet to pack as many supplies in his old gray duffle bag as she could. Just as soon as she took care of business, she was outta this town.

  Clothes, toiletries, smokes, what else? Food. Amber strode into the kitchen and depleted the supply of South Beach meal replacement bars and Diet Coke. Damn health fanatics.

  Last but not least, money.

  “Here’s where keeping your eye on the prize comes in handy,” Amber muttered to herself as she popped the hideous family portrait from the office wall and twirled the hidden dial.

  The safe swung open.

  “And here’s where making your birthday the combination turns out to be a big mistake.”

  She pocketed what bills she could, dumping the rest in the duffle bag and leaving the jewels alone. Before heading to the garage, she grabbed a tube sock from the bedroom and stalked through the house, wiping off anything she might have touched.

  In another ten minutes, she was on the road.

  Part of her brain said the smart thing to do was to leave town. Now. Put as must distance as she could between herself and Isla Concha. Get away from Florida altogether.

  Hell, it was probably a good five-hour drive to the border, and that estimate didn’t include Spring Break traffic.

  The other part of her, the more vindictive part, said hell no.

  No way was she leaving town without putting an end to the scheming witch who started this whole mess and got her into this trouble in the first place.

  But how? There was no way she could go back to work and hunt up the account.

  By now the cops were probably crawling all over her usual hunting ground. Without the advantage of the finance terminal, how could she track Lori? It’s not like she could waltz into any old bank and hijack their system without raising any eyebrows.

  Wait. Oh, yes she could. Thanks to George Culver, bank manager of the satellite branch outside of town.

  Amber gunned the engine. It was Georgie’s lucky day.

  He was seated at his desk when she sashayed through the door. His jaw nearly hit his keyboard when he saw her.

  “Amber! What are you doing here? I called you seven times this morning and kept getting your voice mail. You never called me back yesterday. About Saturday. Our date.”

  What an idiot. “I’m so sorry, George. How thoughtless of me. I wanted to tell you in person that I would be honored to go out with you on Saturday. I can hardly wait.”

  His wheeled office chair shot backward as George jumped to his feet. “Really? That’s fantastic. Wow, Saturday night. Two and a half days. Wow.”

  Not only was he quick with math, he had such a way with words. Amber fluttered her eyelashes to hide her disgust.

  “George, would you fetch me some coffee? Three creams, two sugars. An ice cube.”

  “Of course, Amber. Yeah. Right away.”

  He started walking off. Amber retrieved his chair and plopped down behind his computer screen. “Oh, and is there anything to snack on in the break room here?”

  “Um, yeah. Doughnuts. Do you like doughnuts?”

  “Oh, I love them! Just as long as there’s no cream inside. I’m lactose intolerant. Better check the color of the jelly, too. I’m allergic to red dye.”

  There. That ought to keep him busy for a while.

  George bobbed his head and disappeared around the corner. The tellers cast her suspicious looks but made no move to intercept her or ask annoying questions. Good.

  Amber wiggled the mouse and the screen flickered to life. He hadn’t had time to sign out, which meant she didn’t have to worry about guessing any passwords.

  Fingers flying, she wasted no time calling up the one checking account she cared about.

  Two transactions yesterday. Both on the same street. One to transfer money, one for a café. Amber scribbled down the locations on the back of a deposit slip and stuffed it in her purse. For good measure, she clicked open an Internet browser and mapped out the addresses before double-checking the account.

  No transactions for today.

  Was it too early for Sleeping Beauty to get up? Or was she in hiding? She better be scared, because Amber was on her way.

  Even if she didn’t have an exact address, nothing could stop Amber from trolling the area, looking for her. Sassy Summers probably thought she was being smart, shacking up outside of city limits. Too bad that bonus fell just as easily into Amber’s corner.

  She’d trace her steps. Hunt her down. Kill her.

  After closing out of the computer screens, Amber waltzed out the door without waiting for George. He’d get over it. She had a bitch to catch.

  Wouldn’t it be funny if she found her just standing around, playing games with an ATM? Amber slid behind the wheel of her car. No doubt Little Miss Model thought she was pretty smooth, dodging bullets at the tiki bar. Amber turned the key in the ignition.

  Let’s see her dodge a Camry.

  * * *

  The window-lined walls of the beach house closed in around Lori. The birds-eye view of the swaying palm trees constricted her lungs until she could hardly breathe. She had to get out of there. Break free of this suffocating box on stilts.

  Davis would be angry, of course, and she didn’t want to anger Davis.

  But then again, she’d left yesterday, hadn’t she? Nothing bad had come of it. No bullets, no sirens, no killer.

  She could leave again and nothing would happen. It’s not like she’d be gone long. Just a little jog, that’s all she needed. A little run, with solid ground beneath her feet.

  Or sand. She’d settle for sand in a second. Anything but this place.

  Lori turned off the TV and stood. A book wouldn’t be amiss, either. She wasn’t into cop fiction, and daytime talk shows destroyed her brain cells by the second.

  There was that convenience store down the street, right? A mile and a half round trip, max. She’d be back in no time. Quicker than yesterday, even, since she wouldn’t be waiting around for a sandwich.

  Although, a sandwich wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

  Next thing Lori knew, she was out the door, down the steps, and runn
ing from the house as though the devil himself were on her heels. She reached the water’s edge and stopped, glancing behind her.

  A grapefruit tree stood in Davis’s backyard. Lori hated grapefruit.

  No wonder she had to get out of there. The feng shui was all wrong in that place.

  Well, that and the whole house-on-stilts thing. Plus, she’d long since stopped feeling hidden and begun to feel forgotten. Lost. Frustrated. Angry.

  Keeping the house to her left and the Gulf to her right, Lori sprinted through the sand. The hot sun drifted above her, casting her shadow below her feet.

  Seagulls clamored to the sky, eager to get out of her way as she raced along the sand.

  The water looked calm. Peaceful.

  The sparsely planted houses just looked desolate. Lonely. A solitary passenger in a small red car cruised the center of the street, riding the brakes. No doubt the driver was lost. Why anyone would want to live like this was beyond her.

  A few minutes later, Lori glanced at the road again, surprised to see the red sedan keeping pace with her. Probably hoping she’d be able to offer help with directions. Too bad the only landmarks Lori knew around here were the café and the convenience store.

  Plus, she couldn’t take the chance of the driver recognizing her and blabbing her location all over the news.

  Davis would kill her.

  Facing forward as if she hadn’t noticed the car, Lori concentrated on her legs and her breathing, and making long, even strides.

  Running exercised her muscles. Helped work off stress. She had plenty of stress.

  When she got to the café, she realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. Lori slipped inside and ordered lunch. Might as well eat in, rather than take out. She hadn’t made it to the convenience store yet and didn’t want her food to get cold.

  Lori paid with cash, making sure she tipped well. No other customers had appeared while she ate. Hard to believe that these little beachside venues made any money at all.

  When she stepped out of the café, the red car had gone. Driver either gave up or figured out where he was going, she guessed. Lori felt bad that she hadn’t stopped to help, but she didn’t want to take too many chances.