by Gregg Olsen
Lainie pressed her, gently. To push too hard would get her nowhere. “Everyone dreams,” she said.
“Maybe so. But I don’t remember any of it.”
“Sometimes I dream of things that I feel are happening to you.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Not always.”
“Like what?”
“I sometimes dream of Jason and what happened that night on Banner. Sometimes about the night Mom died.”
“Leave it alone, Lainie.”
“I can’t. I don’t know how.”
“Leave it.”
“I want to tell you about my dreams. They scare me. They seem real. More than real.”
Tori stood up, wincing in pain. “I don’t want to hear it. Besides I have real problems now. The media’s going to be coming around. Let’s ignore the house phone and the front door. I just can’t deal with all of this crap.”
Kendall Stark could have found the Connelly address without a GPS, though she had it turned on. She’d been in the neighborhood once before when she and Steven took the Tacoma Historic Homes Tour. This time curiosity, not history, brought her there.
It figures that Tori would end up in a place like this, she thought, as she pulled in front of the Victorian on North Junett. She always wanted more than anyone dared to dream.
Kendall parked her car and looked over at Darius Fulton’s place, which seemed deserted. She told herself she would talk to him only if he was outside. She knew that inserting herself in any kind of investigation going on with Tacoma PD was a major breach. Her only way around it was that she and the victim’s twin sister were friends. Lainie was staying there. Seeing her on a personal basis was probably something that others would accept.
As she stepped out of her vehicle, a woman across the street got out of her car and walked over. She was a small woman, but she was walking big, purposeful steps.
“Are you the sister?”
Kendall shook her head.
“No. I’m a friend. Are you here to see Tori?”
“We’ll, no one’s home. I’m Laura Connelly. Alex was my husband. Rather, he was my husband before he divorced me to be with her.”
Her. The word was uttered with complete disdain. Kendall smiled slightly. She didn’t care much for Tori, either.
Laura swept back her strawberry blond bangs and looked over at the house. Kendall kept her eyes fixed on Laura.
“I wanted to talk to Tori. I don’t appreciate what she’s done since the shooting.”
“What do you mean?”
“She isn’t even doing a memorial service. I talked to her on the phone. She says she’s too upset. But you know what, she sure didn’t sound upset. She sounded more like she just didn’t want to deal with it.”
Kendall could see the woman was barely hanging on, caught up in the emotions that come with loss and anger. “I’m friends with her twin sister. Lainie told me about the service, or rather the lack of one right now. I’m sure that Tori will come around and do the right thing once she’s feeling better.”
“You don’t know her very well. I mean, you might know her twin, but I can assure you that Tori never does the right thing. She wouldn’t know the right thing if it bit her on that lipo-sucked butt of hers.”
“You’re angry,” Kendall said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this is hard for you, too.”
In that very instant, the fuse that had been burning ignited and Laura started to cry. She turned away, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. I’m more worried for my son. He’s a special boy and he’s torn up over this. I just know that losing his dad is another blow. I honestly don’t know what to do. I’m pretty sure that Tori had something to do with Alex’s death. I don’t know how my son will deal with this . . . he’s only seventeen.”
There was a lot wrapped up in Laura’s words, but there was only one part she could address right away. “The police will take care of it.”
“How do you know? They don’t seem to care. They just go through the motions.” Laura wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hands.
“I’m a police officer,” Kendall said. “And believe me, I care. I care about the victim here and those who are collateral damage to a violent crime.”
“Like my son.”
“And like you,” Kendall said.
Laura nodded. “I appreciate that. Thank you. I’m glad that you’re working on this case. Makes me feel better.”
“I’m not working this. I’m an investigator with the Kitsap County Sheriff’s Office. This isn’t our case, but I do care. I’m sure that Tacoma Police will do an excellent job.” Kendall held out a business card. “You can call me if you want to talk. I’m a mother, too. I know how hard this can be on your son.”
Laura accepted the card. “Thanks, I know it might seem silly that I care so much. I know I’m not his wife anymore, and it really isn’t that anyway. It’s my son. He needed his dad.”
“It isn’t silly at all,” Kendall said. “I know you are grieving, too.”
The year before her husband died, Tori Connelly smiled. It was a big, white, sexy grin. Tori liked what she was hearing. She loved it when her ideas were embraced. Indeed, she thrived on it. In fact, the whole world spun in the right direction when others understood her place in the universe. She was the center of it all. Always had been. She knew that the greatest power came when a person took her idea and held it as his or her own.
“We’ll need a patsy,” he said.
She looked at him with that smile on her face. “What have you been doing, reading up on Chicago gangsters?”
He snuggled next to her and laughed. “You know what I mean.”
She kissed him. “Yes,” she said, “I do. Someone we can pin this on.”
He nodded. “To buy us the time we need.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kitsap County
Amy’s by the Bay was in fact owned by a woman named Amy, but it did not have a view of the bay. It did, however, look out across Sinclair Inlet toward the Bremerton shipyard with its mile-long row of navy vessels waiting for their turn to be decommissioned and disassembled for scrap. From their table, the reunion committee could see the ships looking like a string of beached gray whales.
“Stunning view,” Adam Canfield said, his snarky tone in full swing. “Port Orchard’s true best-kept secret is that it is a waterfront town that looks out at a bunch of rusty ships.”
“That’s the sight of freedom,” Penny said, pointing to an aircraft carrier.
“They’re still ugly.”
“Don’t they come in any other color? Taupe?”
Adam smiled. He had that know-it-all Penny right where he wanted her. “Taupe, Penny? Really, Penny? That’s so two decades ago.”
The waitress came and Penny used the intrusion to ignore Adam.
Kendall ordered fish and chips and a slice of cheesecake to go. She’d bring it to Cody for dessert that evening. He was back on a strawberry kick.
That meant that sandwiches had to have strawberry jam, milk was flavored with Strawberry Quik, and Kendall had to wear a pink coat when they went out together.
“So, Kendall,” Adam began, “what’s going on with the O’Neal case?”
“I can’t really say,” she said. “You know that.”
“What? Is this some law enforcement code of silence or something?” Penny said, stabbing a shrimp on her salad with a fork like she was on the hunt.
Kendall shook her head. “No, not really. I mean, I really can’t talk about it.”
“Well, I can,” Adam said. “I talked with Lainie last night. You know when I was checking to see if she’s coming to this meeting.”
“I take it she’s not coming,” Penny said, looking around the table.
“You should be a detective, Penny.” Adam poured a packet of artificial sweetener into his iced tea. “Actually, she told me a few little tidbits that I can pass along.”
Kendall was interested in what
Adam was about to say but did not egg him on. Adam never really had to be egged on anyway.
“She thinks her sister had a lover.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Tori was such a slut,” Penny said.
Kendall glared at Penny, then focused back on Adam. “What did she say about that?” she asked.
“She didn’t say anything. She found a condom wrapper in the bedroom.”
Penny chomped down on the last of her shrimp, wrinkling her nose a little. As the owner of her own quasi-restaurant, she had to show her disdain for the competition.
“Kind of skimpy here on the shrimp,” she said.
“Aren’t you still trying to slim down before the reunion?” Adam asked.
Penny ignored the remark.
“I know this isn’t good food conversation,” Adam said. “But what’s up with digging up Jason Reed? That’s so gross.”
Kendall set down her fork. “You’re right, Adam, that isn’t good food conversation.”
“I saw it in the paper, too,” Penny said.
Adam motioned for some more sweetener. “I’m glad Lainie wasn’t around when you dug him up. They were pretty serious.”
Kendall shook her head. “No, you got the wrong twin. Tori was dating Jason. And they were not serious. Not at all.”
Adam poured the white powder into his drink and stirred.
“I could never get those two girls straight. Who could?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Port Orchard
Josh Anderson stood awkwardly outside the women’s restroom at the Kitsap County Sheriff’s Office. A young deputy walked by and gave him a strange look, but Josh shrugged it off. The minute the door cracked open and a records clerk exited, he poked his head inside.
“Kendall, you in there?”
A voice came from one of the stalls. “Yes, Josh, do you mind?”
He took a step inside, hoping that Kendall was the only woman in there. “We got to go,” he said.
“I’m trying to go now,” she said.
“Seriously, Kendall. Mike Walsh has been killed. Church secretary just called it into Cen Com.”
“Our Mike Walsh?”
“Yeah, the Reed accident witness.”
Kendall flushed.
“Coming now,” she said.
From the street it appeared as if the Lord’s Grace Community Church was nothing more than a relic of an old business, an enormous, rusted tin can stuck in the sandy loam of the peninsula. But not so. Outside appearances were so deceiving. The Lord’s Grace Church was paneled inside with quarter-sawn old-growth fir that had been salvaged from somewhere. The interior of the building glowed pink, like the interior of an enormous scallop shell. But that day none of that mattered because tragedy had visited there in a very big, bloody way. The church had not seen such commotion and traffic since the funeral for a firefighter who’d been killed in the line of duty the previous summer. An ambulance, a trio of the black-and-white Kitsap County Chevy Blazers, and a horde of onlookers crowded the parking lot. Forensics had already begun processing the scene when the Kitsap County detectives arrived in Josh’s blue BMW, one of the rare times when he offered to drive. Josh parked behind the church, and the detectives followed the painted plywood sign that indicated the location of the office.
“This place is a dump. Gives me another reason to be glad I don’t go to church,” Josh said.
Kendall looked at him before returning her gaze to the celestial Quonset hut. On the edge of the walkway, a box marked FREE was filled with canned goods.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Church might be a good thing. Surely a needed thing.”
“You believe in all that shit?”
“I do. I thank God every day for the gifts he’s given me—Steven and Cody.”
Josh looked uncomfortable. “I guess so. Not sure what God has to do with any of it. And considering that the pastor was murdered, I’d say God didn’t do much for him, either.”
Kendall wasn’t a regular churchgoer, but challenges in her life had brought her to the place where she folded her hands and asked for guidance. She didn’t say so right then, but one of the people she prayed for was Josh Anderson. She also prayed about things that she’d done in the past, and for forgiveness for any mistakes she’d make in the future. Mostly it was about the past.
“Nice ride,” one of the uniformed officers said, indicating the BMW.
“It gets me here and there,” Josh said, as the officer held up the plastic yellow crime-scene barrier for the detectives to pass under.
Kendall didn’t say a word. Josh Anderson’s life had been reduced to one bright spot—a car. She made it a point to let him bask in any attention that came his way. In the office, at a latte stand, or even at a crime scene. Josh had been down so low that a little boost was probably a good thing.
Not too much. But a little was good.
A woman in a khaki jacket stood over by the door. Her face was red, and it was obvious that she’d been crying. A lot.
“Secretary Susan Piccolo,” the officer said. “She found him. He’s been dead a while.”
Just inside the doorway to the church, a tall African American officer whom Kendall had met at a fund-raiser for a crime victims’ group greeted her with a smile and a nod.
“Fishing knife,” Charlie Turner said, “recovered in the pastor’s office.” He motioned for Kendall and Josh to follow him inside. Yellow cards had been taped to the fir floor in the pattern that suggested the obvious—footprints.
“Left tracks,” Josh said.
Charlie nodded. “Yeah. The scene is pretty clean except for five small imprints left by the toe of a tennis shoe. Tech says Nike. Lab will confirm, of course.”
The body had been dead long enough to emit the gasses and stench that comes with death, but not long enough for blowflies to lay their eggs.
“Cause of death is pretty obvious,” Josh said kneeling next to the body.
Kendall crouched closer, pointing to the gaping wounds cut through the fabric of what had been a plain white shirt. It was now dark brown and red. Blood had coagulated in a kidney shape, like an old Hollywood swimming pool, on the floor next to the body.
“He was sliced pretty bad, wasn’t he?” she asked.
Josh nodded. “Overkill.”
Kendall used her silver Cross pen to point. “Bound at the wrists with tape.”
“Red tape,” Josh said. “Wonder if the poor SOB was tortured. Maybe this is one of those cases in which the abused choirboy comes back with a blade and a plan for payback.”
Kendall stood and scanned the scene. Everything was serene, the lilies, the prayer books, the banner of doves and olive branches to the side of the altar.
“Let’s get everything photographed and mapped and get him down to Birdy’s table.”
Men know it because they were once teenage boys. They know that the power of desire and lust is a steel cable that runs from their penis to the body of a pretty girl. Sometimes any girl. If the real thing is not a possibility, the image of a woman in the foldout of a spank magazine is a surefire catalyst for sexually charged fantasy. Teenage boys are embarrassed by the stiffness that comes from the thoughts in their heads. Yet it cannot be helped. Teenage boys think of sex twenty times a minute. No adolescent male can stop himself from standing at attention.
Most teenage girls, average ones anyway, don’t understand their true power until their youth has faded and they no longer can command the eye of a horny male. But a beautiful woman always remembers how it’s done. How a look, a movement, a voice can excite a male. How she can cause something small to grow in size. Smart beautiful woman never forget. Smart, beautiful, and cunning women, like Tori Connelly, know how to use it.
Sex is joy. Sex is a weapon. Sometimes sex is an ecstasy-filled prison camp.
Tori sprayed on some Attraction by Lancôme perfume, checked her hair and makeup in the rearview mirror of her Lexus, and went into the Tacoma Police Department. If heads turned
when she passed by, that was fine. She was used to people studying her with both adulation and disdain.
Look all you want; you can hate me. You can want to fuck me. But you’ll never touch me unless I say so.
Kaminski met her in the lobby.
“Detective,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
“Mrs. Connelly.”
“Tori. That’s what people who know me call me.”
“Mrs. Connelly.”
“Don’t be so cold, so professional,” she said. “I know you can be friendly when you want to be.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure. I’m here to clear the air a little.” She looked over at the bench in front of the display of an old paddy wagon. “Can we sit? My leg still stings a little.”
The detective nodded.
They sat, and she scissored her legs. They were long, lean, and bare. Her calves were among her best features, and she rotated her heel slightly to make sure he got a look. Leg man? Kaminski moved his eyes back to Tori’s face, catching a look that indicated she’d tracked his gaze.
“I’ve been hearing things from Port Orchard that you’re still investigating me, which is odd because I’ve heard you’re about to arrest my stalker for the murder of my husband.”
“Just doing some background,” he said.
“Fine. So I’m here to answer your questions about my past. And yes, I have one. And even though my so-called criminal past occurred when I was a juvenile and was expunged upon my release, I’ll tell you about it. I also previously lost a husband in a tragic accident.”
“That makes three deaths?”
“Tic-tac-toe, detective. So what?”
“You feel good about that? About the coincidence of it all?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Two of those deaths made me rich. One made me the woman I am today.”
Kaminski chugged his tepid Mountain Dew. “Detective Stark thinks you might be a black widow.”
