Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2)

by Melinda Colt

  Chelsea let out a long breath. “Yes. I wonder if she became an illustrator or something like that. She always liked to say she had the hands of an artist—and she did.”

  She stared down at her own hands. Unlike her face, her hands showed her age and then some. They weren’t pampered, they showed the wear and tear of all the years she’d washed clothes and dishes by hand, cleaned and scrubbed, helped her father recondition their house in the country, did all the work any housemaid would do.

  “She laughed at my hands, said they looked old and rugged,” Chelsea said, barely aware she was talking out loud. “I told her I washed my own underwear, instead of having my mummy do it for me. Probably her mother still does her laundry up to this day.”

  No matter how she tried, a bitter, angry, spiteful bundle of emotions formed in Chelsea’s heart. She didn’t want to hate Aideen, but she was unable to stop. This woman, this monster, had taken the lives of others just because she could. She had always been a selfish, spoiled bitch, and her parents had thought they were doing their baby girl a favor by protecting her and making sure she had everything her heart desired. Instead, they had unleashed upon the world an evil monster who had taken two lives and surely had plans for many more.

  Abruptly, she stood. “We need to stop her. Come on, let’s go to her flat.”

  Evan stood too, the wooden legs of his chair making a scraping sound against the parquet floor. He reached out and took Chelsea’s hands, then lifted them to his lips.

  “Your hands are beautiful,” he said softly. “Just as you are, both on the outside and the inside. You’ve been through tremendous heartache, yet you became an incredible woman. You could have gone to the dark side, like O’Bannion; instead, you chose the right path and made it your own. You’re an amazing woman, Chelsea. And I think that’s what’s eating at this sick bitch—that she will never be you, no matter how hard she tries. We’ll find her, and we’ll put her away for life.”

  Chelsea swallowed. Her emotions were too raw and she was unable to speak. She looked away, not wanting him to see the tears that stung her eyes.

  Her cell phone rang, startling her a little. She fished it out of her pocket and checked out the display. It was the Technical Bureau.

  “Hello,” she answered cautiously.

  “Chelsea? It’s Nóirín.” The older woman’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Is Evan with ye? I tried his phone, but there’s no service.”

  “He’s here. Maybe his phone ran out of juice,” Chelsea said, raising her eyebrows toward Evan. He took out his phone and checked it, then nodded.

  “Is anything wrong, Nóirín?” Chelsea asked. “Do you need to speak with Evan?”

  “Just put me on speaker, so I won’t have to say this twice.”

  Once Chelsea did as she was told, Nóirín spoke again. “Listen here, and listen good, Yank. Two of the hairs we found in the backseat of Dunhill’s car belong to Jenny Williams. We also found faux leather fibers on the front seat, and one of our men found a pair of gloves and a heavy brass paperweight in a trash bin several blocks away from the murder scene. Jenny’s blood was on the paperweight, so we know this is the object she was hit with. The gloves’ fibers match the fibers we found in Dunhill’s car.” She paused for breath, then continued. “If you thought this was exciting, make sure you don’t hyperventilate after what’s coming. There was a loose cuticle inside the gloves. We did a quick, preliminary test, and get this. The DNA shows the killer is a woman.”

  Chelsea and Evan stared at one another, barely breathing. When several moments had passed, Nóirín’s voice broke the heavy silence.

  “Have ye fainted over there?”

  “No,” Evan said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Actually, we just figured that out.”

  “Wow. You’re even better than I gave you credit for,” Nóirín said, sounding impressed.

  “Thanks. Do you have a name for this woman?”

  “Unfortunately, no. She’s not in the system. But if you have a hunch and you bring her in, we can match her DNA and that will be the noose around her neck.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’ll drive over to her flat, and you do a search on Aideen O’Bannion,” Evan said as they got into his car.

  Beside him, Chelsea fastened her seatbelt and switched on Evan’s police tablet. There was a slight tremor in her fingers, and her heart raced faster than usual. She’d never been hunting in her life, had never been drawn to the act of stalking an animal for sport, but this hunt for Aideen heated her blood. The woman was a killer, a lunatic. Unlike a wild beast, she deserved to be hunted and brought to justice.

  As she accessed social media websites, she found what she’d expected.

  “She has a social media profile under her real name,” she told Evan, reaching out to turn up the heat. “She describes herself as an ‘Artist and literary whore.’”

  Evan chuckled. “Literary whore? What’s up with that? Was she a literature lover?”

  “No. She was actually a below average student, but not lacking intelligence, which again fits the profile of some psychopaths. Other than her innate talent at drawing, I don’t recall her having good grades in any subject, or manifesting a passion for any specific class. I still wonder how she managed to acquire these computer skills. When I knew her, she could barely turn on the thing. And then there’s the fact that she was able to buy a flat.”

  “Probably internet fraud. We’ll dig deeper, but if she doesn’t have a job listed, it’s most likely. It’s a path a lot of people take in order to make a living with little work,” Evan said, stopping for a red light. “It doesn’t take a lot of intelligence to be a good hacker. You just need time and a willingness to learn.” He glanced over at the tablet and whistled. “Boy, that’s a lot of selfies. Add ‘narcissist’ to her list of mental illnesses.”

  “That’s the least of it,” Chelsea murmured, looking at Aideen’s posted photos.

  As Evan had pointed out, almost all of them were selfies, taken indoors—probably in her apartment. In one of them she wore a Batman kid’s T-shirt and a Batman mask. Another one was taken in a very provocative pose, with Aideen staring at the camera across her bare shoulder, nude to the waist. There were more of her wearing provocative negligees, as though posing for a video chat ad. Chelsea noticed there wasn’t a single person who liked her photos or any of her content. In-between ranting posts trash-talking any and all successful people, couples, politicians, activists, vegans, and just about everyone, there were more photos.

  Chelsea couldn’t suppress a giggle when she reached a picture of Aideen hugging a huge plush toy penis.

  “Holy Mary, she’s got it bad!”

  “What?” Evan looked over and gave a short laugh. “She’s itching for it, isn’t she? And… Is that a photo of her on the toilet?”

  “Yep.” Chelsea wasn’t even surprised at the selfie Aideen had taken in the bathroom. “At least she’s dressed here.”

  “Charming.” Evan winced in disgust. “That’s a turn-on for all guys.”

  Chelsea continued to swipe through the photos. As she stared down at those yellowish-green eyes, outrage and revulsion twisted her stomach. They had proof that this woman was a murderer. She would have killed Chelsea too, given the chance.

  “She’s still single,” she said. “Not one photo of herself and a friend, a lover, a family member—just selfies of a desperate loner craving attention. She has a black cat—what a surprise! She didn’t even like cats before she met mine,” she said bitterly, unable to suppress her fury. “Feckin’ freak! She’s imitated my whole bloody life, Evan.”

  The rage that had built inside her was like a wave of lava, hot and destructive, ready to erupt and consume everything in its path. She’d never known she owned this dark side, didn’t want to acknowledge it, but as she spiraled between past and present she felt she could kill Aideen with her own hands. At the very least, she wanted to smash her fist into that malefic, smug face, rip off that fake blond hair t
hat was a pathetic imitation of her own, and slap that crooked, vampiric smile off her enemy’s face. That’s what Aideen was. Her enemy. While Chelsea had lived a quiet, peaceful life and struggled to be a good person, this sick bitch had become her enemy without her even knowing it before now. For the first time in her life, Chelsea knew what hate was and embraced it. She wanted revenge for the women who’d died, and for herself.

  “Hey, calm down.” Evan reached out to squeeze her thigh gently. “We have her. It’s only a matter of time now. We’re getting close. Maybe you should stay in the car.”

  “No fecking way. I want to be there. I want to look her in the eyes and see her in handcuffs. I’m going with you, that’s not negotiable.”

  “Okay. Just… Keep your cool.”

  “I will.”

  Chelsea focused on her breathing, conjuring calmness and peace of mind. Evan was right. They had Aideen. It was only a matter of minutes before he arrested her. The DNA would be a match, and she would spend the rest of her life in jail or most likely in a mental institution. Knowing Aideen, this would be more humiliating than prison. Maybe not enough to make up for the lives she’d taken, but it was all they could do while obeying the system.

  Evan rolled to a stop in front of an old building, one of those establishments that usually were inhabited by elderly people who couldn’t afford better accommodations. He hadn’t even cut the engine and Chelsea was already climbing out, staring up at the four stories. There was something menacing about the cracked gray walls and dark windows. No flowers or people peeked or smiled from behind the dusty glass. The word ‘haunted’ came to mind. Simply living in this dump was a hazard to anyone’s mental health.

  “Which floor?” she asked Evan, as he stepped beside her.

  “Second. Stay behind me. Let’s do this properly.”

  “Okay.”

  She let him walk in front of her, then followed at the same brisk pace, doubling her steps to keep up with him. There was no elevator, so they climbed the two long rows of cement steps in silence. Here and there, small pieces were missing from the edges and corners of the steps. Chelsea didn’t dare touch the rail, which was covered in dust and mysterious sticky substances. If Aideen could buy a flat, why hadn’t she been able to afford something in a better neighborhood? Just one more question to thicken the plot.

  Once they reached the second floor, Evan consulted his tiny notebook, then hitched his chin toward a door marked by a crooked number 6.

  He knocked several times, but there was no answer, no sign anyone was home. Despite the drumming of her heart in her ears, Chelsea listened for all she was worth. There were no sounds coming from inside.

  Evan knocked again, louder this time.

  “Aideen O’Bannion? This is Detective Gallagher from An Garda Síochána. I need to speak with you. Open the door.”

  Silence. Stillness. Evan reached toward the old-fashioned doorknob and pressed it. Chelsea was amazed when the door slid open, revealing the dark interior of the apartment. Evan signaled her to stay behind, and advanced cautiously into the flat, finding and flicking on the light switches. A few minutes later, he returned to the entrance where Chelsea waited, a bundle of nerves and anxiety.

  “Fuck! She’s gone,” Evan said through clenched teeth. “Can’t be more than an hour ago. The stove is still warm; she was making eggs. She must have added some kind of security program to your laptop that alerted her when I started digging.”

  Chelsea followed him inside the sick, twisted little world Aideen O’Bannion had created for herself. The smell of half-cooked eggs, cigar smoke, and cat urine was nauseating. She felt worse with each step she took, as if she were walking through the valley of the shadows of death. Her skin rose in goosebumps as she realized she probably was.

  The apartment was furnished as though it belonged to someone twice her age, with old-fashioned furniture, dozens of knick-knacks, and crocheted doilies. Walls were partially covered in photographs, some of movie stars, others of comic book heroes, heavy on posters of Batman and Catwoman. The air was thick with cigar smoke in the small, stuffy rooms.

  The kitchen was off the hallway. Chelsea tried not to cringe as she stepped on the manky linoleum-covered floor. Evan was right. The stove was still warm, covered in stains of oil and food. On one of the burners there was a frying pan full of half-congealed eggs.

  For a second Chelsea was sure she would throw up. She rushed to open the window, flinging aside the gray curtains which had probably been white decades ago. As she took several deep breaths, she felt Evan’s hand on her waist, caressing her back, then gently massaging the back of her neck.

  “Are you okay? Go and wait outside in the fresh air,” he said softly. “I’ll finish here.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “No. I just need a minute, that’s all. I can do this. I didn’t expect this place to be so filthy.”

  “Take your time. Do you want me to go and buy a bottle of water?”

  She shook her head again. After taking several gulps of rain-scented air, she pulled back inside and squared her shoulders. Damned if she was going to act like a wuss!

  “I’m okay,” she told Evan.

  He glanced at her skeptically.

  She stared right back, lifting her chin. “Give me a pair of gloves. I won’t touch anything if I don’t have to, but I want to be prepared.”

  She sensed Evan wanted to ask if she was sure she’d be fine, but he dug in his jacket pocket and produced two pairs of latex gloves. Chelsea pulled them on, snapping the edge just a little harder than necessary. The sting served its purpose, keeping her anchored in the here and now, aware that they had a job to do.

  “I’ll do my best to stay out of the way.” She stepped away from the window. “How in hell did she know we were coming for her? Could she just be gone to the supermarket?”

  Evan shook his head. “I checked the bedroom. Clothes are strewn everywhere, as though she packed some in a hurry. She scrammed. There are programs one can plant in a computer system to alert them in real time if anyone tampers with anything they’ve installed on that device. They’re hard to detect, and I didn’t take the time to check,” he said bitterly.

  “Don’t.” She reached out and grabbed his hand. “You found her. Just give yourself credit for that. She can’t go far. She has no friends, no one to help her. We’ll find her.”

  “Yeah. Let’s search this place, then track down her folks. Even though she didn’t get along with them, family is usually the first place one turns to when in trouble.”

  “I doubt it, but we’ll give it a lash.”

  Chelsea followed him through the small flat, trying to breathe through her mouth. In the bathroom they found a pile of dirty laundry, and a litter box that desperately needed cleaning.

  “I wonder where the cat is.”

  “She took it with her,” Chelsea replied, sure of herself. “That cat is her talisman, which is an asset to us. If she wants to stay in a hotel or motel, it won’t be easy to find one that accepts pets. Do you see a computer or a laptop anywhere?”

  “No. Let’s look in the bedroom. Thank God this place is small. It makes it easy to search.”

  The single bedroom was at the end of the hallway, the door wide open. As they walked inside, Chelsea looked around carefully, taking in every detail. The bed was small for a double, covered in a patchy quilt. Multiple claw marks made it look even more ragged. Both doors of the armoire were wide open, and clothes were scattered on the floor and over the bed. Chelsea doubted Aideen had taken much, and what was left was a modest selection. Several T-shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans, a house robe, some underwear that had seen better days, a couple of dresses that were in style a decade ago. Aideen clearly didn’t invest in fashion—this was in fact one of the many subjects she criticized in her rants.

  “Wow. Uh… Chelsea? Would you step over here for a minute?”

  She looked around to see where Evan’s voice came from. On the wall across from the bed there was a
space that had probably been a separate closet or dressing area. As she stepped inside, Chelsea realized Aideen had created an office here. The desk and chair almost filled the tight space, illuminated by twin lamps mounted on the wall above the desk. The warm light fell almost obscenely over the photos taped to the wall. Chelsea’s mouth went dry as she stared at dozens of photos of herself, side by side with photos of Shannon and Jenny. It was like an altar built by a very disturbed woman.

  “Holy shit,” Chelsea whispered, taking an involuntary step back.

  In the middle of the photos there were a couple of newspaper clippings. One was titled Doctor Chelsea Campbell receives the Royal Irish Academy Charlemont Grant for her second published book, ‘How to Live with Schizophrenia’. Chelsea remembered the article, as well as the picture below of herself holding a copy of the book she’d worked so hard on. She’d never imagined she would get an award for it, much less a prestigious one, but it had been a very proud moment in her career.

  The second article was about her previously published work, an essay about criminal behavior in serial killers she’d written for a psychology medical journal. The irony didn’t escape her.

  “Is that you?”

  Evan had to ask, because in both clippings Chelsea’s face had been burned, apparently with a cigarette.

  She swallowed heavily. “Yeah.”

  “This article is dated April 17th this year.” Evan pointed at the paper without touching it. “I think this is what set her off. You getting a prestigious award, making such a successful career made her flip out.”

  Evan was right behind her, his body solid and protective. He put his hands on her shoulders, his touch firm.

  “We really don’t have to worry about not having enough evidence against her,” he said shrewdly. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her. She’ll pay, I promise you.”

  He stepped around her to take a closer look at the desk. He brushed one gloved finger over the wooden surface.

  “She has a laptop, and she’s taken it with her.”