by Joanna Wayne
They were fascinated with the act of murder, the same way racing fans lived for the big crashes and people stayed glued to their TVs when tragedy hit.
He watched and studied them all, especially Detective Sam Turner. But his gaze was drawn again and again to the reporter in the sexy red dress. She was doing her job, but it was clear she was getting no respect. Sam Turner thought this was his game, but he was wrong. He’d find that out soon enough. They’d all find out.
Murder by murder by murder.
Chapter Two
It was ten minutes before midnight by the time Caroline had finished at the newspaper office and made it back to her house. As she’d expected, John was thrilled that she’d managed to get few pertinent details and a couple of usable pictures of the cops working the crime scene. He’d stood over her while she’d written the copy, making suggestions and asking questions, but when she’d finished, he’d told her what a great job she’d done.
She was tired, but the images from the murder scene stayed with her, replaying like a video in slow motion as she showered, brushed her teeth, then rummaged through her bureau drawer for something soft and satiny to sleep in. Lingerie was her one indulgence, a side effect of the years she’d had to wear nothing but functional cotton that could take lots of wear and harsh bleaches and detergents.
Tonight she slipped into a pair of pink silk pajamas with a matching robe. But even that didn’t calm her mood. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine and carried it with her as she roamed from one room to another. She loved the historic old house better all the time, even though the rent was a tad more than she could actually afford.
Sure the floors creaked and moaned and the ancient plumbing rattled, but the house had character and personality. It had seen weddings, births, countless celebrations—and deaths. It almost breathed stories of the past. So if a few spirits remained, who could blame them?
But she doubted any of the former inhabitants of the Billingham house had ever seen anything like the brutal murder she’d covered tonight. Caroline wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold and filled with a kind of nebulous apprehension, then climbed the creaking, winding staircase. The second-floor hallway was wide and high-ceilinged, and contained the furniture her landlord had left. A Queen Anne sofa so faded and stained, it was impossible to decipher the original color. An antique chest with spindly legs and broken pulls. A wavy wall mirror, bordered in tarnished silver, ornately embellished as if made for a queen.
And her favorite, a marred and stained secretary that had been made in France and shipped to America just before the Civil War. She’d found that out from records still stored in the secretary itself.
Caroline dropped onto the sofa and pulled her feet up beside her. Leaning back, she stared at the gold-framed portrait that hung above the staircase. Even at this angle, the eyes in the portrait seemed to be looking right at her.
“Things have changed, Frederick Lee. Time is no longer passing by your peaceful Southern town. History and modern macabre have now officially merged.”
Finally she gave in to the burning pressure of her eyelids and let them close. Her subconscious took over, forming new images out of gruesome reality. She was trying to close the victim’s gaping wound while Detective Turner guided her shaking hand. They moved slowly and deliberately, as if working some deranged jigsaw puzzle. The pieces were there, but she couldn’t make them fit. She was so tired. So very, very tired.
Slowly the images faded and she fell into the old nightmarish dream that had haunted her for as long as she could remember. The old church. The dark steep staircase. Dread so real she could taste it.
She jerked awake, the silk pajamas soaked with cold sweat that still beaded between her breasts and on her brow.
But it was only the nightmare that crept out from the dark recesses of her mind whenever she was stressed. Still, she flicked on the light. Frederick Lee was looking down on her, watching over her—at least, his painted eyes made her feel that he was.
It was nice to have him there.
CAROLINE STOOD with a dozen or more reporters at the news conference held at noon in Mayor Henry Glaxton’s office. The room overflowed with eager reporters, but it became whisper quiet the second the mayor stepped behind the podium and adjusted the microphone.
He addressed the group in a smooth Southern drawl, expressing his condolences to the family of the victim, who’d now been identified as Sally Martin, and warning the citizens of Prentice to be cautious until the man who had committed the crime was identified and arrested. A task that he assured them was top priority.
The chief of police took the mike next. His explanation of the murder was brief. Sally had been a waitress at the Catfish Shack and was last seen alive at about 10:30 p.m. when she’d left work alone. Her car was found in the parking lot of her apartment complex, her handbag in the passenger seat, apparently untouched. There was no sign of a struggle. Like the mayor, the chief declined to answer questions. He’d leave that to the lead detective, Sam Turner.
“Which means we’ll learn absolutely nothing,” a reporter standing next to Caroline muttered. “Turner considers reporters disgusting parasites that exist merely to plague him.”
Still, hands shot into the air as Sam joined the chief at the front of the room. He was no longer dressed in the faded jeans and T-shirt, but a pair of gray slacks and a light blue sports shirt, open at the neck. He cleaned up real good.
SAM LOOKED over the crowd and felt an annoying dryness in the back of his throat and a tightening of his muscles. As far as he was concerned, news conferences were a waste of time and a damn nuisance. He should be out in the field tracking down the murderer, not standing here trying to appease a bunch of clueless reporters.
“Do you think this was a crime of passion?”
“I don’t stick labels on murders. I leave that to you guys.”
“Do you think the killer knew the victim?”
“It’s possible.”
“Do you think this is connected to some kind of cult or devil worship?”
“We don’t have any information to indicate that.” Sam pointed at a skinny guy in the back of the room.
“If it’s not some kind of cult murder, how do you account for the marking on the victim’s chest?”
“I’m not jumping to conclusions and I’m not ruling out anything at this point.”
“But you do think it could be some kind of ritualistic killing?”
“Anything’s possible.” How many ways was he going to have to say that before this was over? He glared at the waving hands, then pointed to the woman who’d thrown up in the bushes last night.
“Do you think the killer will kill again?”
Not the question he wanted. Not that he didn’t know the answer. The guy was a walking time bomb armed with a hunting knife. And if Sam said that out loud, he’d send the town into total panic and give the mayor a heart attack.
“I think people should stay alert until this man’s behind bars.”
All the hands were flying now. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes before he could cut and run. Five more minutes that the killer was walking free.
SAM TURNER was the first to leave the room when the conference was over. Caroline was the last. There was no reason for her to rush to the office and put a story together from the skimpy details that had been provided. The Prentice Times didn’t run a Sunday edition.
She took the side exit, the one closest to her car. That side of the building was deserted, and for a second she had the weird feeling that someone was watching her. She turned and looked behind her. No one was there.
Still, she locked the car doors the second she got in, realizing that this was the first time she’d done that since she’d moved here from Atlanta. Instead of starting the engine, she took out her notebook and scribbled down her thoughts, not in reporter framework, but just in the order they flew into her mind.
A young woman had her throat slashed and blood smear
ed over her breasts. What would cause a person to do such a hideous thing? Anger? Passion gone berserk? Or had something in the killer’s mind just slipped off center? And would he strike again?
Caroline’s cell phone rang, startling her so that she jumped and bumped her elbow on the steering wheel. She checked the number. It was Becky. She took a deep, steadying breath before she answered, trying to dispel the dark mood that had come over her.
“Okay, I’m a louse,” she said. “I should have called and explained my sudden departure just when the party was starting to get fun.”
“No need. We figured you’d rushed off to a story. Was it the woman whose body was found in Freedom Park?”
“Yeah.”
“I was afraid of that. That must have been totally gruesome.”
“Pretty bad.”
“We’ll have a beer later. You can tell me all about it.”
“You’ll need more than a beer if I do.”
“You sound upset.”
“A little. Actually more than a little,” Caroline admitted reluctantly.
“Maybe you should ask your boss to put you back in your old assignment.”
“Just wimp out?”
“Hey, if it involves murder, I would,” Becky said. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Fine. How did the rest of the party go?”
“Not a lot happened after you left. We danced awhile. The party started breaking up about midnight.”
“So how does it feel to be the ripe old age of twenty-six?”
“Not bad. I checked for new wrinkles this morning, but didn’t find any. Of course, it could be that my eyes are going.”
“No. I’m already twenty-seven, and I can still read the very small letters they print my name in when they bother to add it to my copy,” Caroline said.
“Tell them to make it bigger or you’ll quit.”
“And who would pay my rent?”
“I’ll lend you money. I have plenty.”
Which was quite true. Not only were Becky’s parents well-off, but her grandmother had left Becky a trust fund that ran somewhere in the millions. Caroline wasn’t even sure Becky knew what she was worth. And not only was she rich, she was fun, petite and cute, with baby blue eyes and bouncy blond curls that danced about her tanned cheeks.
“I’ll just keep working,” Caroline said. “It keeps me out of trouble.”
“It won’t if you keep wearing that red dress you had on last night. You were hot!”
“Do you think it’s appropriate for shopping at flea markets? That’s about the only place I go these days, except for work.”
Caroline stuck the key in the ignition as she talked, then noticed a yellow square of paper stuck under her windshield. Not a parking ticket, but some kind of note.
“Let me get back to you, Becky. I’ve got some business to take care of.”
“Okay, but first, what did you think of Jack?”
“Do I know a Jack?”
“He was at the party last night. Cute guy. Blond hair. I saw you talking to him before he left.”
“Oh, yeah. He seemed nice enough. Why?”
“I just wondered.”
And probably wanted to fix her friend up with him. But the guy obviously wasn’t interested, or he wouldn’t have cut out early.
They said their goodbyes and she opened the door and retrieved the note. It was about three inches square with a sticky strip across the back. She might have spoken too soon about how acute her vision was. This time she had to squint to read the tiny, but very neat, print:
I saw you last night in the park. You look good in red. Come to my next party. I’ll be looking for you.
She read the note again, but this time her blood ran cold. My party. Surely this couldn’t be from the deranged bastard who’d killed and cut up the woman in the park. Yet…
She sat there, shaking, holding the note and staring at it until her fingers grew numb. Finally she turned the key and the engine purred to life. She yanked the car into gear, then waited for a black sedan to pass.
Driving the sedan was none other than Sam Turner, talking into a cell phone without even a glance her way. She pulled out quickly and stayed close behind him, not sure that following him was a smart thing, but thinking she should show him the note.
Two blocks later he pulled into the parking lot of the Prentice Bar and Grille. She lingered in the car, giving him time to go in and be seated while she pulled herself together. Her first murder assignment. And now the killer wanted her for a pen pal. It was the stuff of horror movies.
Once inside, it took her a minute or two to locate Sam. He was in a booth in the back, on his cell phone again, one hand cradling a tall glass of iced tea. He looked even more imposing here than he had at the crime scene and the press conference.
“Table for one?”
She smiled at the hostess. “I’m with the guy in the back, the one wearing the blue shirt.” She nodded in his direction.
“Sam didn’t say he was expecting anyone.”
“I wasn’t sure I could make it.” She brushed past the waitress, made her way to Sam’s booth and slid in across from him.
He glared at her but finished his conversation. When he was through, he laid the phone on the table and made eye contact. His eyes were a deeper brown than his short hair, and she had the feeling he could see right through her. But mostly it was the sheer virility of the guy she noticed. He seemed to ooze testosterone.
“The news conference is over,” he said, his tone commanding.
“I don’t have a question. I have information.”
His expression changed very little. “What kind of information?”
She pulled the note from the side pocket of her handbag and slid it across the table toward him. “I found this on the windshield of my car after the press conference. I think you should read it.”
The condensation from his glass of tea had wet his fingers. He wiped them on a paper napkin and picked up the note, careful to touch only one corner. To avoid fingerprints, she was sure. Now why hadn’t she thought of that?
He read it slowly, his expression unchanging. But when he looked up, his gaze was piercing. “Where were you parked?”
“Behind the administration building. Between Cork Avenue and Savannah Street.”
“Did you see anyone when you approached the car?”
“No, but I had this strange feeling someone was watching me.”
“A feeling?”
“You know, just an uneasy sensation. And I’m not usually a nervous person.”
The waitress appeared and put a plate overflowing with a hamburger and fries in front of Sam. Caroline ordered a diet soda, quite certain it was all her stomach could handle at this point.
She waited until the waitress had walked out of hearing range before she asked the question that consumed her thoughts. “Do you think this note is from the man who killed Sally Martin?”
“It’s hard to say. That’s obviously what he wants you to think.”
“But who else would write something like this?”
“Any time there’s a murder like this, it brings out the weirdos.”
“You talk as if you’ve seen a lot of murders like this one.”
“I’ve seen my share. What about you, Miss…?”
“Kimberly, but you can call me Caroline.” She hesitated, hating to admit the truth but seeing no reason to lie. “This is my first one.”
His face remained unreadable. “Are you with a newspaper or a TV station?”
“The Prentice Times.”
“I thought Doreen Guenther handled their crime beat. Not that Prentice had much of a crime beat before now.”
“Her mother’s ill. She took a family-emergency leave.” The waitress returned with Caroline’s drink. She slipped the straw between her lips and took a huge sip, needing to soothe her dry throat. “So what do I do now?”
“I’ll take the note and try to get some prints o
ff it, but I doubt I can, since you mishandled it.”
“I didn’t know it might be from the killer when I tore it off the window.”
“If you get another, I want you to lift it by one corner and put it in a plastic bag. And call me immediately.” He took a business card from his shirt pocket and passed it across the table. “Use the cell number. And just for the record, I wouldn’t publish the fact that the killer may have contacted you.”
“Why not?”
“Whether the note’s a prank or from the killer, publicity is likely to spur him on.”
“So I may just keep getting these notes?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“Do you ever say anything definite?”
“When I have something definitive to say.”
Yeah, well, she was beginning to wonder if he had a clue what he was doing or if he was just faking the whole experience bit. Which didn’t make her feel any better, considering she was getting fan mail from a killer. “Why me?” she murmured more to herself than to Sam.
“You didn’t exactly fade into the crowd in that getup you had on last night.”
“I was at a party when my editor called and told me to head straight for Freedom Park. I didn’t have time to change into something appropriate for a murder scene.”
“No reason to get huffy with me. You asked why you were singled out. I was just answering.” Sam slid his plate in front of him and switched his attention to the loaded sesame bun. She figured that was her invitation to leave.
She took another sip of her drink, then wiped her hands on her napkin. The man was too calm. If he thought she’d heard from the killer, he should be doing something. She wasn’t sure what, but she wasn’t a detective. “Aren’t you going to ask for my phone number in case you think of something else to ask me?”
“Your number’s easy enough to get.”
“It’s unlisted.”
He took another bite of his burger.
She stood and slung her handbag over her shoulder.
“One more thing, Miss Kinnerty.”
“Kimberly. Caroline Kimberly.”
