Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

  “Or he talked to Glover himself,” Zoe said.

  “Let’s go have a chat with Patrick,” Tatum suggested.

  CHAPTER 75

  Leonor Carpenter’s days were an endless roller coaster of anxiety and relief. Her emotional state was completely in the hands of her unborn child. Or more accurately, in his feet.

  Every time he kicked, she felt a surge of relief. He was still there, still alive. But then, as time went by with no movement, she’d start worrying. Had he choked himself on his umbilical cord? Had his little heart stopped? When she was in the hospital, the reassuring beeping of the monitor was worth the constant discomfort. But once they’d disconnected the monitor, she was at the mercy of little Bump’s movement.

  She shouldn’t have given him a name; it had been a mistake. She should have known better by now. But after twenty-nine weeks, she couldn’t call him it or the fetus any longer.

  If he didn’t kick her for more than two hours, the trepidation became too intense. She’d lie on her side in bed, tears in her eyes, whispering to him, “Come on, Bump. One little kick for Mommy. Just one little kick.”

  And he always listened, finally giving her the tiny kick she needed to calm down. He was already such a good boy.

  He’d kicked fifteen minutes ago, so she was, like Patrick had begun to jokingly say, at kick-plus-fifteen. She felt calm, almost happy. She watched Patrick as he finished his cup of coffee before leaving. She knew he had to go; the congregation needed him, with Catherine gone and Albert in mourning. Their community was fracturing under the weight of the sadness and fear. The constant police persecution kept the congregation away from church, away from solace. They needed Patrick to help them recover.

  She and Bump could spend a few hours without him. Besides, it wasn’t like she was alone in the house.

  Still, she saw Patrick’s worried frown as their eyes met.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe I should stay. Albert could . . .” The words faded. She could see the truth in his eyes. Albert couldn’t. She wasn’t sure Albert would ever heal enough to return to his duties in the church.

  “Go,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be fine. I’ll rest in bed. And if anything is wrong, Daniel will help me.”

  As if on cue, their guest stepped into the kitchen. Leonor’s heart squeezed again as she saw how thin he was. Poor man, the cancer was rapidly eating him from inside. Not to mention being hounded by the police like that. A surge of anger blazed through her, and Bump kicked, feeling his mother’s rage.

  “Good morning,” he said blearily.

  “How did you sleep?” Leonor asked. She’d heard him tossing and turning in his bed. He’d told her the pain became difficult to bear at night.

  “Like a baby.” He flashed her a smile and winked. “Maybe not as well as little Bump.”

  She grinned, marveling at Daniel’s good cheer. “He actually kicked me all night long.”

  “He’ll be a feisty one,” Daniel said. “Like his mama.”

  “I’ll come back to make lunch,” Patrick said. “I don’t want Leonor cooking.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Daniel answered. “I can cook. I’ll make my special chicken à la Daniel.”

  Patrick still didn’t seem at ease. “If anything is wrong, don’t drive her to the hospital. Get an ambulance.”

  “Couldn’t drive even if I wanted to, my friend,” Daniel reminded him.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Go.” Leonor laughed. “We’ll be okay.”

  Daniel left, giving them time in private. Patrick hugged her before going, holding her tight, as if he was afraid to let go. She pulled his palm to her belly just as Bump kicked again, and they smiled at each other. Then he left.

  She gazed out the kitchen window, lost in thought, thinking of poor Catherine. She would never know the feeling of a growing life inside her. The sensation of those tiny kicks. The bond between a mother and her child.

  Leonor wiped a tear from her cheek.

  And to think the police believed Daniel could have done this. As if he could ever harm anyone, not to mention Catherine. The police didn’t know him, not like Leonor and Patrick did. They hadn’t seen him at the homeless shelter, talking to those men and women, giving them an encouraging smile along with a warm blanket for the winter. The police hadn’t heard him pray fervently at church. They weren’t there when he’d talked to her, shedding a tear, telling her about his violent childhood.

  And they hadn’t been there last night, when Daniel had thanked her and Patrick for letting him lay low and told them he’d decided to turn himself in. He was worried that the stress could affect the pregnancy, and he didn’t want to risk that.

  It was Leonor who’d managed to convince him to stay. They all knew if he turned himself in, he would probably never get the medical treatment he needed. The cancer would kill him. It would be a death sentence long before the acquitting trial.

  She was about to get up, when Daniel stepped into the kitchen.

  “I was just about to go and rest a bit,” she said. “Feel free to grab anything from the . . .” She suddenly noticed he held something. It took her a moment to realize it was a pair of her stockings. He gripped it strangely, stretched tight between both hands. His eyes seemed distant.

  “Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “Did we leave that in the guest room?”

  He gave her a small smile and took a step toward her. “I’m sorry, Leonor, but—”

  A sudden knock on the door made them both freeze. Daniel’s eyes widened in fear.

  “It’s probably the neighbor,” Leonor reassured him in a soft voice. “She said she might drop by and give me a cake she baked. Go in the back; I’ll tell you when she leaves.”

  He hesitated, then nodded and quickly left the room.

  Leonor got up and shuffled slowly to the door, just as there was another knock.

  “Just a minute,” she called. She took a look through the peephole and instantly recognized the man and woman on her doorstep. For a second she considered not opening the door. But they’d heard she was there already. If she didn’t let them in, they’d know she was hiding something.

  She unlatched and opened the door. “Hello,” she said frostily. “You’re the people who showed up in the hospital last week. Tatum and . . . Zoe, right? You didn’t tell me you were from the FBI.”

  Tatum looked appropriately abashed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “We didn’t want to alarm you, considering your condition.”

  “How very considerate. I wish you’d have shown the same consideration to the rest of our congregation.”

  “Is Patrick home?” Zoe asked.

  “No, he’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “You’d have to call him and ask him yourself.” He was at the church, but she wasn’t about to tell them that.

  “Mrs. Carpenter, can we come in?” Tatum asked. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Patrick is probably at work,” she said desperately. “I’m sure he’ll talk to you.”

  “It’ll only be a few minutes,” Tatum said. “We don’t want to take too much of your time.”

  She could tell them no. She was almost sure they needed a warrant to enter by force. She tensed, about to tell them to leave, but the words never left her lips. If she told them they couldn’t come in, they’d be suspicious. They’d know she was hiding someone.

  No, she had to let them in. They wouldn’t start searching the place. They had no reason to suspect anything. “Sure,” she said, feeling her gut roil. She moved aside. “Come in.”

  She led them back into the kitchen. Daniel was probably locked in his room. All she had to do was answer their questions and get them out of there. Despite there being four chairs in the kitchen, none of them sat down.

  “Leonor,” Zoe said. “Do you know Daniel Moore?”

  “Sure,” she said. “He was in our congregat
ion.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  Leonor shrugged. “Just before he left Chicago. He told me he was leaving because of a family crisis.”

  “Weren’t you concerned about him driving, considering his medical condition?” Tatum asked.

  “He could still drive—” She almost bit her tongue. She should have known better. She’d always been a lousy liar. It wasn’t about keeping cool. She could do that. It was about thinking the alternative truth through. The reality and fabrication always got tangled. She hated it.

  “What were you going to say?” Zoe asked. “That he could still drive despite his medical condition?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I just said that he could still drive.”

  “But you didn’t seem surprised to hear about his medical condition,” Tatum said.

  “I just assumed . . .” She had nothing. “I’m very tired. I need to rest. I can’t stand too long—it’s not good for Bu . . . for the baby.”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Zoe suggested.

  “I need to go to sleep,” she said firmly. “Please leave.”

  “Just a few more questions, and we’ll be out of your hair,” Tatum said lightly. “When did you or Patrick really last talk to Daniel?”

  She sat down and stared at him. She wouldn’t lie any longer, but she wasn’t about to say another word.

  “Did he contact you after he returned?” Tatum asked.

  The silence stretched. They thought she could be intimidated by silence? She put her palm on her belly. Bump gave her a small kick, reassuring her. She wasn’t even alone.

  “Did you know Daniel Moore’s real name is actually Rod Glover?” Tatum asked. “That he’s wanted for the murder of eight women, including your friend Catherine Lamb?”

  She let her mind wander, as she did sometimes. Thinking of little Bump, of their family. Thinking of doing the right thing. This was when good deeds really mattered. When they were difficult to do.

  Zoe glanced at Tatum, and he sighed. “Can I use your bathroom before we leave, Mrs. Carpenter?”

  She almost said no. But then again, they had a small bathroom just across the kitchen’s doorway. “Sure,” she said. “It’s just over there.”

  He followed her pointed finger, and she kept her eyes on him until she was sure he went nowhere else. Zoe sat down in front of her.

  “Leonor.” Zoe’s tone was soft, just above a whisper. As if she didn’t want Tatum to hear. “There’s something important you need to know.”

  Leonor said nothing, but she found herself leaning forward to hear the woman’s voice better.

  “I knew Daniel back when I was a child,” Zoe said. “He was our neighbor.”

  Leonor felt a flash of astonishment, followed by the sudden realization. “You’re the Bentley girl!” she whispered, smiling warmly. “Daniel told me all about you.”

  CHAPTER 76

  Zoe wasn’t sure if she could hide the shock that shot through her as Leonor said those words.

  Daniel told me all about you.

  Leonor hadn’t said it angrily or accusingly. In fact, whatever Glover had told her about Zoe made her seem more friendly.

  She forced herself to smile lightly. “That’s right. I was fourteen when he left Maynard. I knew him quite well.”

  “He told me you worked for the FBI, but I didn’t make the connection until now,” Leonor whispered, clearly intending not to be heard by Tatum. “He said you two stayed in touch.”

  Zoe felt dizzy. With Glover, it was sometimes impossible to know the purpose of his lies—or if he even believed they were lies at all. As a teenager, she’d caught him lying a few times, and he always made it seem as if he was just joking. But occasionally, he almost seemed to believe the fabrications himself. Did he really think they had “stayed in touch”?

  Perhaps he had told Leonor that story to make him seem more approachable. It turned him from a single man with no family to a sympathetic man, caring enough to stay in touch with the neighbor kid.

  Whatever the reason, she could use it. “So he told you what happened in Maynard? About the girls?”

  “He did.” Leonor’s eyes widened in sadness. “He even said the police suspected him. But you were there, so you know what happened.”

  Zoe didn’t have to make an effort to guess what Glover had told the woman. “They caught the guy who did it,” she said. “A high school kid. He killed himself in jail.”

  Leonor nodded, and her eyes flickered to the hallway and the bathroom door. “But your partner thinks . . .”

  “Never mind what my partner thinks,” Zoe said smoothly. “I’m keeping this investigation objective. We don’t want to make any assumptions.”

  Leonor seemed to relax slightly. “That’s right.”

  Zoe chose her words carefully. “I’ll be honest with you. There’s some evidence linking Daniel to those crimes. But I get a feeling he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. But if we don’t get his version of what happens . . .” She shrugged. “Things don’t look good for him. The sooner we get a chance to talk to him and clarify everything, the better. That’s why I need to know when he talked to you and what he said.”

  Leonor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to him recently.”

  She was losing her. Zoe thought fast. “He’d be safer if he turned himself in. The Chicago PD are looking for him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn himself in eventually.”

  Eventually? Then Zoe realized what the woman was talking about. “After he finishes his treatment?”

  Leonor seemed to think it through. Finally she said, “I wouldn’t know. But I doubt he’d get the treatment he needs in prison.”

  Zoe suspected that Leonor knew where he was right now. She had to make the woman see things clearly. “Do you know how he pays for the cancer treatments?”

  Leonor’s forehead furrowed. “No. Like I said, we didn’t talk recently.”

  “He sells pictures on the dark web. Pictures of his victims.” She opened her bag and drew out the pictures. She lay them down one by one.

  “This is Shirley Wattenberg. She was twenty-two when she died. He raped her and strangled her and left her in the ditch like trash. This is the picture he took.”

  Leonor glanced away in disgust. “You lied to me. You already decided he’s guilty.”

  “He is the one who lied to you. This one you know. Catherine Lamb. Look at the picture. He did this. He sold this picture online.”

  Leonor’s body became rigid. “I want you to leave. Get out. Now!”

  Zoe knew she’d blundered. She should have kept her cool. Leonor would have given her something. But she was committed to her course of action now. She laid the pictures of Henrietta Fishburne on the table. Leonor glanced at them, the color rushing away from her face. She looked sick.

  Zoe pointed at the picture. “This is Henrietta. Daniel did this. But his real name is Rod Glover. We need you to tell us everything you know. We need to catch him before he does it to anyone else.”

  Leonor shook her head and shut her eyes. Her lips twisted as if she was about to cry.

  After a few seconds, the toilet in the bathroom flushed, and Tatum stepped out. They exchanged glances, and Zoe shook her head. She then collected the pictures from the table and placed her card in front of Leonor.

  “If you think of anything else, let us know,” she said, getting up.

  For a moment, Leonor seemed on the verge of saying something, but instead she glanced away.

  Zoe strode out of the house, furious with herself. She’d been so close; she was sure of it. If she’d only said the right thing, the truth would have come out. Leonor had wanted to talk. But instead, she’d made Leonor close up, like she invariably did with people.

  “Patrick is probably at church,” Tatum said, unlocking the car. “Let’s find him. If we need to, we can get them both into separate interrogation rooms at the st
ation.”

  Zoe nodded, sliding into the passenger’s seat. She gazed through the window as they drove away, leaving the house behind them. “She said Glover told her about me as a child. He made it sound like we had a good relationship.”

  “Glover lies. He says things people want to hear—you know that.”

  “But why talk about me at all?”

  Tatum sighed. “I know you feel the need to explain everything those people do, but you know what? Sometimes there is no real reason. He just felt like talking about you, and he did. And naturally, he made it sound like you two are best friends, because everything he says is supposed to cast him in a good light.”

  “Yeah.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “You shouldn’t have shown her those pictures,” Tatum said. “Not in her state.”

  “She knows something. I was trying to jolt her into talking.”

  “Still, showing her a picture of her dead friend took it too far. If she complains to the police—”

  “She didn’t seem to care about her so-called dead friend,” Zoe said impatiently. “She hardly looked at the photo. She seemed a lot more upset about the picture of Henrietta Fishburne.” She thought back to that moment. The way the blood had run from Leonor’s face. She hadn’t seemed disgusted or horrified. She’d seemed . . .

  Scared.

  “Well, I don’t blame her,” Tatum said. “If you showed me a picture of—”

  “Turn the car around,” Zoe blurted.

  “What? Why?”

  “She wasn’t looking at Henrietta at all—she was looking at the arm in the picture.” Zoe took out the picture just to verify. Henrietta Fishburne, being strangled, only the arm of her attacker visible. And his skin was scraped in several places, long red scratches.

  Leonor had seen those scratches before. That’s what had scared her. She’d seen them on Glover’s arm, and when she saw the picture, she realized that he was the man who was strangling Henrietta.

  But that could only mean she had seen him very recently. And it was possible he was in Patrick and Leonor’s house right now.

  CHAPTER 77