The Dollmaker (Forgotten Files Book 2)

by Mary Burton

  His gaze darkened. “Dig into your memory and find every connection you can between Diane and Kara and Madison.”

  “I don’t understand. Kara’s death was different than Diane’s. She didn’t have tattoos or any kind of doll getup.”

  “She died of an overdose, which Dr. Kincaid believes is Diane’s cause of death. She was missing for five days before she was found. And witness statements put her at a Halloween party with friends dressed as dolls. I’m assuming one of those ‘dolls’ was Diane.”

  “Yes. Diane, Elena, and I were wearing the doll costumes,” Tessa said, more to herself. “All four of us had gone to a Halloween party, and I thought it would be fun if we dressed alike.”

  “Kara went for that? She hated dolls.”

  “She didn’t like the idea at all,” she said. “Diane tried to talk her into it, but she wore a red dress. She thought we looked ridiculous. She kept making cracks about how she was trying to look like a grown-up and not a kid.”

  He shook his head. “Jesus,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear. “Roger might have been right all these years.”

  Tears tightened her throat. It pained her to see him twisted in knots. “Dakota, you’re suggesting the same person is responsible for two deaths separated by a dozen years.”

  “Killers evolve, Tessa. They learn and they practice, and even though they go dark for years, they don’t stop thinking about the killing.”

  She wasn’t buying his theory. “Facial tattooing is a major evolution.”

  “The killer could have taken Kara on impulse. She might have been his first kill. Fast-forward a dozen years, and this same killer is now thinking and planning his next kill. He now isn’t satisfied with a doll costume but wants to completely change her. Whoever killed Diane put a lot of thought into it.”

  “Why her? It can’t be as simple as a Halloween party that happened twelve years ago.”

  “I don’t know. Not yet, anyway. Maybe he targeted her because he knew her from college. Or because she was Kara’s friend. I don’t know the connection yet, but it’s there. It’s one of the first questions I’ll be asking Madison.”

  “God, I can’t believe this. I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  He rubbed the back of his head with a grimace. “Believe it. There’s one thing I know. Coincidences are rare things.”

  She recognized the look in his eyes. He was a dog with a bone. And he wouldn’t rest until he had answers. How many times had they argued over his work, his distance, or his inability to let go? A year ago, she’d have tried to talk him out of this. Now she took solace in the fact that they were working together. “I hope you’re wrong, but I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  He smacked the paperweight on her desk, but when he looked into her worried eyes, he inhaled. “I know you think I’m going to obsess about this case like I have the others I’ve worked. And you know what? I am.” He shoved out a ragged sigh. “I know I wasn’t easy to live with. I know I get lost in my work. But it’s going to take someone as driven as me to catch Kara and Diane’s killer.”

  She blinked back tears. “I want to help, but I don’t know what to do.”

  “All I need from you are any pictures taken when you four girls were together. I want you to make lists of all the people you girls knew. Please think back. Was there anyone lurking around, watching you?”

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Call me when you have information. This killer has murdered one woman you know, maybe two. Until I know what his agenda is, keep your eyes open and be careful.”

  “Sure.”

  The Dollmaker laid Harmony carefully on the chair he’d modified especially for his work. Though she could sit up, there were armrests with straps as well as lower straps for her legs. She would be sedated for the duration of her transformation, but he would bind her just as he did Destiny because he couldn’t run the risk of her moving while he was doing some of his most delicate work.

  He straightened her head in the headrest and took a moment to trace his finger across the fine bone structure of her face. High cheekbones. Pale skin. Arched eyebrows. She was pretty now and soon would be perfect.

  Turning to his computer, he switched on soothing music and hummed as he strapped her arms to the chair and then her legs. He plugged in the hot wax machine, and as the hard material melted, he moved to his workbench and reached for a comb and a pair of sharp scissors.

  Slowly he ran his hand through her hair. Thick. Lovely. But wrong. He gathered it at the top of her head, and with his shears, cut through the thickness until the long ponytail was free. Her hair fell around her face. Setting the ponytail aside, he cut away at the remaining locks until they weren’t more than a half inch from her scalp.

  Next came hot wax. With a flat edge, he picked up a dollop of wax and smeared it over her scalp. Quickly he laid a strip of cloth on the wax and pressed it into her hair and skin. Then with a quick practiced jerk, he pulled back the cloth, ripping the hair from her scalp. She moaned, still drugged but unable to completely escape pain.

  “Shh,” he said gently. “You have to suffer a little to be beautiful.”

  Sharp called Stanford Madison but landed in voice mail. Instead of leaving him a message, he decided to pay him a visit in person. He drove to the man’s Hanover Avenue address, located a few blocks from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.

  Many of the older homes built in the early twentieth century had been renovated and now went for good money. Wrought iron framed the windows, and porches made each home as distinctive as the massive old trees that lined the streets.

  Stanford Madison’s corner-lot art studio and second-floor apartment was located in an old converted grocery. Its facade included a red door paired with a large plate-glass window. The window displayed the portrait of a woman with dark hair, rich mocha skin, and green eyes.

  Sharp got out of his vehicle and walked up to the building. He peered through the large front window.

  Inside, the structure’s historical details had been gutted to create a long simple space with whitewashed walls and tiled ceiling. Hanging on the walls was a collection of portraits of women. Each exhibited the same extreme detail.

  He knocked on the door and waited. When there was no response, he knocked again. Still silence. “I will be back.”

  As he headed back to his car, he received a call from the Sunday-night bartender who’d rung up the credit card of “Terrance Dillon.” The man introduced himself as Liam Hunter, also the bar owner, and said he was working tonight.

  The bar was less than five miles from his current location, so he made the detour south to speak with Liam Hunter.

  Traffic was light, and he easily cut through the side streets until he spotted the bar. He pushed through the front doors into the darkness as a cue ball smacked against a freshly racked stack of balls. He noticed the early-evening crowd was light as he strode up to the bar, where a tall, thin man stood polishing bar glasses.

  Sharp reached for his badge. “Agent Sharp. Virginia State Police.”

  The man glanced up from his glass, studied the badge, and nodded. “I’m Liam Hunter. I own the place.”

  He tucked his badge back in his breast pocket. “Thank you for getting back to me.”

  “Sorry I missed your call. I was called away on a family matter. Normally I’m always here. You said something about a credit card receipt. Terrance Dillon, right?”

  “Yes. I’m looking for the guy that used the card.” Sharp pulled his notebook from his pocket and flipped through a couple of pages. “According to the time stamp on his credit card, the card was used about eight on Sunday night.”

  Liam flipped the towel over his right shoulder. “I don’t remember the transaction, but you’re in luck—we haven’t scrubbed the security footage yet.” He nodded his head toward a camera pointing toward the bar and cash register.

  “Best news I’ve had all day.”

  The bartender asked a waitress to t
ake his place before he led Sharp past a collection of well-worn pool tables that smelled faintly of beer and cigarettes to a backroom office. A small desk was crammed in the corner and piled high with invoices and papers. Above the desk on a shelf were three monitors for the security cameras. The first camera captured the store’s entrance, the second covered the bar, and the last an exit door from the outside.

  Despite the clutter on the desk, Sharp could see the surveillance was high-tech. “Nice setup.”

  Liam pulled dark-rimmed glasses from his pocket and slid them on. “We had a few robberies last year and then a waitress who was skimming the till. I decided to beef up the surveillance.” He pushed aside a stack of papers, revealing a laptop. He opened it, selected the cameras, and typed in the date and time.

  Sharp leaned in as nighttime footage from Sunday emerged on the screen.

  “This is the camera covering the bar,” Liam said.

  The color image showed Liam at the bar, ringing up a purchase and handing a credit card to Jimmy Dillon. As Dillon was turning from the bar, he fished his cell phone from his pocket. Dillon’s face melted into a frown. He glanced around the bar and moved quickly to the back exit.

  “Where does that door go?”

  “Back alley.”

  “And you said you have a camera outside there?”

  “Yeah.” Liam pressed more keystrokes, and the back alley materialized. Dillon moved in the alley, the phone pressed to his ear as he paced back and forth. He pressed a fist to his forehead and scowled. He ended the call and continued to pace before heading along the alley to the parking lot. The time stamp read 8:25 p.m. That would have given Jimmy Dillon just enough time to make the twenty-five-minute drive north to meet Terrance at the parking lot. So who the hell had Jimmy been talking to on the phone? Agitated body language suggested he’d encountered a problem.

  “Can you send me a copy of that?” He handed the man his business card.

  “Sure.”

  “Anything about him strike you as odd?”

  “Now that I see the tape, I remember him. He drank a few beers. Kept to himself. A couple of the ladies hit on him, but he didn’t seem too interested. He looked impatient.”

  “Did he say he was expecting a meeting?”

  “It was a busy night. My barback was late getting to work, so I didn’t have a lot of time to chat.”

  The medical examiner had put Terrance’s death between midnight and 2:00 a.m. on Monday.

  Liam stared at the screen, now frozen on Jimmy’s face. “So you think this guy killed that kid?”

  “I don’t know. But finding him is a top priority.”

  Seconds later the DVD copy popped out, and Liam handed it to Sharp. “Good hunting.”

  It was nearly eight in the evening when Sharp received a call from Vargas. The Emerys were willing to meet with them now.

  Vargas told him that the home of Diane Richardson’s parents was located at the end of a cul-de-sac in the gated community on the James River. The Emery family was from Sharp’s small town but had moved closer to Richmond ten years ago when Mr. Emery was named senior partner in his law firm. Mrs. Emery was a public relations professional who worked mainly for nonprofits. Diane was their only child and the sole beneficiary of a generous trust fund from her grandmother.

  Sharp got out of the car, jangling his keys in his hand as he stared at the ivy-covered home with its wide front double doors. A dark mourning wreath with a silk bow hung on the door.

  Vargas pulled up in a plain white vehicle and took a sip from a to-go cup. He watched as she rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn before she got out of her car.

  The pace during the first forty-eight hours of a homicide investigation was often nonstop and brutal. With two cases on his plate now, he’d be lucky if he got more than two or three hours of sleep a night in the coming days.

  “Not the kind of place a cop will ever own,” she said.

  “Who needs a fancy address when the job is so glamorous?”

  “Right.” Vargas’s gaze settled on the dark bow on the front door. Her frown deepened. “Who has time to do arts and crafts at a time like this? I just talked to her a few hours ago. When my mother died, it was all I could do to push a vacuum before the minister came by the house.”

  “I don’t know.” His mother had all but shut down after Kara’s death. The family doctor prescribed tranquilizers to get her through the worst of it. Unfortunately, the drugs created a habit that chased her to the grave a year later.

  Approaching the door with Vargas, he rang the bell. Footsteps sounded inside and the double doors opened to an older man. He was midsize, distinguished, with neatly groomed hair brushed back to accentuate a tanned face. Deep lines creased the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.

  Sharp held up his badge. “I’m Agent Dakota Sharp and this is Agent Julia Vargas. We’ve come to talk to you about your daughter.”

  The old man cleared his throat. “I’m Stephen Emery. I’m Diane’s father.”

  “Thank you for seeing us,” Vargas said. “May we come inside?”

  Mr. Emery stepped back, his outstretched hand beckoning them inside. “Please come inside.”

  Emery led them into a sunroom, where an older version of Diane’s DMV photo sat in a chair by the window. Dressed in black, she’d pulled her white hair back into a neat ponytail. Her makeup was expertly applied, and she was wearing a fruity perfume.

  “This is my wife, Cassandra.”

  Cassandra Emery stood and met Vargas’s gaze. “Thank you for returning. I know it must be an inconvenience.”

  “Again, let me say how sorry we are for your loss,” Vargas said.

  Mrs. Emery nodded. “Thank you.”

  The four sat around a large glass table outfitted with a huge display of irises in a crystal vase. Sharp set his notebook on the table and opened it.

  “When was the last time you saw Diane?” he asked.

  “It had been a month,” Mrs. Emery said. “We were traveling. She’s in sales for her job, so she travels quite a bit as well. When your children get older, they have their own lives to lead.”

  “Did anyone call you from her office and let you know she was missing?” Vargas asked.

  “No one called,” Mrs. Emery said. Her lips flattened into a hard line. “And I didn’t call them because Diane didn’t need her mother chasing after her at work. I wish now I had hovered over her more.”

  “I spoke to my daughter’s boss this morning and asked why he hadn’t contacted us earlier,” Mr. Emery interjected. “He said Diane quit her job three weeks ago.”

  “Did Diane give you any indication she wanted to leave her job?”

  “No,” he said. “She loved it. And it’s not her style to quit with a text message and not offer a proper notice. She was a professional and would have at least had the courtesy to face her boss in person.”

  “Was there anyone in her life she had a romantic relationship with?”

  “No,” Mrs. Emery said. “She divorced four years ago, and then last year she started dating a painter, but she broke it off.”

  “Where is her ex-husband?”

  “Nathan is stationed in California,” Mrs. Emery said.

  “Was the divorce mutual?” Sharp asked.

  “No,” Mr. Emery said. “Nathan left Diane. She was very upset, and I think that’s why she ended up with the painter.”

  “Do you have Nathan Richardson’s contact information?” Sharp asked.

  “I have a phone number,” Mr. Emery said. “You might have trouble reaching him. He’s in the navy, and his ship is out to sea for a couple more months.”

  Emery found the number and gave it to Sharp. It would be easy enough to verify the ex-husband’s alibi if he was stationed on a ship.

  “Diane’s husband divorces her, she rebounds with a painter, who she leaves. Do you know why?” Vargas asked.

  “Stanford’s a lovely man but does not have a strong work ethic,” Mrs. Emery said. “He’
s the kind of man a woman dates until someone better comes along.”

  “His name is Stanford Madison?” Sharp asked.

  “Yes. He teaches classes in the city and is prepping for an exhibit on Hanover Avenue,” Mr. Emery added. “I have a few of his paintings in the study if you’d like to see them.”

  Whoever had done the work on Diane’s face had been a skilled artist. “I’d love to see them.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Mr. Emery demanded.

  “I don’t know who’s responsible yet,” Sharp offered. “We’re still piecing together the evidence. Did Diane meet Stanford in college?”

  “They did know each other then. How did you know?”

  “Came up in another interview.”

  Mrs. Emery led them into a study where three small oil paintings hung. There were paintings of Diane done in such vivid detail, Sharp found himself leaning in to capture all the nuances.

  “He gave those to us last Christmas,” Mrs. Emery said. “We were thrilled, of course. They’re so beautiful.” A phone rang, and Mrs. Emery turned to check the display. “That’s my sister. I need to take this—please excuse me.”

  “Of course,” Vargas said.

  When his wife left the room, Richardson kept his gaze on the pictures. “I asked to see my daughter, but so far the medical examiner isn’t granting us access.”

  “There are certain details the police are trying to keep under wraps right now,” Sharp said.

  “I’m not asking for sensitive case information. I just want to see Diane. To know that this is all real and not some kind of mistake.”

  Sharp pulled in a breath, knowing difficult details were best told directly. “Did Diane ever talk to you about tattooing?”

  “I know she has two. She told her mother, who then told me. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but she’s a grown woman.”

  “Did she express interest in having work done on her face?” Vargas asked.

  The question sparked surprise, which gave way to anguish. “No! Why would she cover her face? She’s beautiful.”

  “What happened to her face?” Mrs. Emery asked from the doorway.