"Now, for all the money and the car," Claire said after a moment, "what's different from the others about this photo?"
"Do I get the girl?" He didn't look up; he was concentrating on the photos.
Kurt was looking good tonight. Past good. Downright delicious. He'd changed after work. Arrived in a pair of stylishly wrinkled khaki shorts and a plum-colored pique polo, his full head of dark hair, slightly shaggy, falling over one eye. It would be so easy to fall into bed with him.
Claire resisted. She wasn't completely against good sex for the sake of good sex, but not with Kurt. That emotional territory was just too dangerous. "You don't get this girl," she answered. She hopped off the chair to pad barefoot to his side of the dining table. "Come on, come on, what's different?"
He barely skipped a beat. "Umbrella."
"I have never liked you," she muttered, snatching the photo out from under his hand. "What's really remarkable is that I think it's his, not hers."
He hooked his thumb in his shorts pocket, thoughtfully. "He left nothing at any of the other scenes?"
"Nope. Nothing but the body and their purses, if they were carrying one at the time of the abduction."
"So, he killed her, but then left her an umbrella?"
"It had been raining when she was kidnapped. Rain still in the forecast the night he dumped her." She shrugged. "He left it for her in case another storm came through?"
"Sick fuck."
She exhaled. "Amen to that." She walked back to her chair and patted the one around the corner. "Now, sit down here and listen to what I have on one of my potential suspects. Tell me if I'm getting off track, because I desperately need someone to point my finger at."
Kurt listened attentively to her explanation of her conclusion that the killer was picking out his victims from the diner. She then proceeded to go through the top suspects. He never lifted a brow when she brought up the mayor's police record. The man had never had much respect for authority.
"But Seth Watkins is who I think I like." She slid a copy of his criminal record faxed to her from Nevada. "He's single, so he lives alone. He's a realtor, so not only is he constantly meeting people, but he has access to vacant properties. He lives in a condo, but maybe he's not killing them at home. Maybe he's taking them somewhere else."
Kurt read the police report of the pee incident, slowly, his mind obviously at work. "Could be," he said.
She let her arms fall to her sides in exasperation. "Could be? You should meet this guy. There's something definitely slimy about him. He was born and raised here. A big star of the high school football team. One of those people that high school was the highlight of his life. And he's big on the dating scene in town. He's seen in all the bars all the time. And..." She slid a photo of the contents of Phoebe's purse to him. "The pièce de résistance—Phoebe Matthews had a pen in her purse with his name on it."
He glanced at the photo. "I thought you said you believed he meant to kill the other sister. The one who was in that accident and had the plastic surgery."
"I did. I still do," she corrected herself. "But Phoebe was living with her sister. They both knew him. Either one would have accepted a ride from him in a minute. And he was the realtor the sister was using to look for property for a restaurant. She bought a place and intends to open up next spring."
Kurt glanced up, brown eyes unreadable. "Have you talked to her?"
"Can't really. She and her family went on an extended vacation—and I think it was smart."
"If sick boy missed her the first time—"
"He might try again," she finished for him.
Kurt shuffled through the other police reports she had on the citizens of her hometown. He read a couple, went back once to reread something. After a long silence, he pushed the paperwork away from him. "I think you've got some good ideas here, Claire."
"But you don't think Seth Watkins is my man?"
"I'd bring him in. Better yet, go see him. Make a house call. See if there's anything that strikes you as odd at his place. But I'd interview the others, too."
"I want to keep this quiet. You have no idea how fast stuff spreads in this town. The flu and information," she said wryly.
"Well, this kind of killer knows you're looking for him. He might want to talk to you. It might add to the whole thrill of stalking and killing these women."
She nodded, considering his words. "Could be, because I keep getting this feeling that part of the thrill is outsmarting us. Not just the women, but the whole town." She rested her forehead on her hand for a moment, letting her guard down slightly. "It's awful, Kurt. Everywhere I go in town, I'm looking for him. I'm looking into the faces of men I've known my whole life and wondering if I'm looking into the face of a killer. Even my officers could be suspects."
"Could be." He frowned. "But cops usually leave certain telltale signs that scream law enforcement gone bad. You know what kind of macho son-of-a-bitches they can be."
She chuckled, cutting her eyes at him. "Do I ever." She paused and then went on. "The thing is, though, if you were killing women and you didn't want to get caught, wouldn't you be careful not to leave any signs you're a cop with predictable cop ways?"
"Probably," he agreed, meeting her gaze.
There was something about the way he was looking at her. Something he knew that he wasn't telling her. She let her hand fall. "Okay, so out with it."
"Out with what?"
"Whatever it is you aren't telling me, Captain Kurt Gallagher."
He glanced away, then back at her. "The task force."
"I know, you already told me it was only a matter of time. That's why I've got to hurry up and figure this out. Well, not just for that reason," she backtracked. "This isn't about my career; I don't want to see another woman die."
"Claire, the wheels have already begun to turn."
"What wheels?"
"You know what wheels."
She slapped her hands on the table and half rose from her chair. "A couple of hours ago I talked to you and you acted as if it was some nebulous thing." She put out her hands, palms down, shifting them one way and then another. "Could be, possibly—"
"The call came after I spoke to you."
"What call?" She stared at him, knowing very well what he meant, but she wanted to make him say it.
He was looking at her notes in front of him. Or maybe his fingernails.
"Now?" she blasted at him. "Don't tell me they're convening this task force—"
"Claire, this should have been taken over by the state police as soon as you found the first dead woman—"
"Don't tell me they're putting you in charge of my case!"
"It was unfair of anyone to expect you and your force"—he stood up—"to handle this kind of—"
"You son of a—." She slapped the table again with one hand. "Get out." She pointed to the front door. "You came here anyway, knowing you were taking over my case? You came here pretending you were helping me when you were trying to find what direction I was going." She hadn't started out screaming, but she was definitely screaming now.
"Claire, please. It could be weeks before this comes to fruition. There's got to be money allocated, people—"
"Get out!"
"Mom?" Ashley peeked around the corner of the dining room. "You all right?"
Kurt glanced at Ashley. "She's fine. We're just having a difference of opinion." He tried to smile. "You know how it's always been between the two of us."
Ashley thrust out her lower jaw. "Want me to call the cops, Mom?"
"I am the cops," he said indignantly.
Claire marched out of the dining room into the front hall. "No need to call, he was just going." She unlocked the deadbolt and jerked open the front door. "Weren't you, Kurt?"
He had followed her to the hall. He had that look on his face men got sometimes. Like they had no idea how they had arrived in the position they were currently in. "What about my key lime pie?"
Claire stared him down, her a
rms crossed over her chest. "No pie."
He stood there for a second, as if in indecision, and then, wisely, seemed to draw the conclusion that the best way to save face and his ass was to get out. "I'll be getting in touch."
Claire slammed the door behind him and threw the dead bolt. "I bet you will."
As she punched the keypad on the house alarm to set it, Ashley came closer. She didn't actually put her arm around her mother, but she brushed her back and shoulder with her fingertips. "You sure you're okay?"
Claire nodded.
Ashley glanced at the curtained window that showed a flash of headlights as Kurt backed up and pulled out. "That's kind of too bad he left like that. When he showed up tonight, I kind of thought maybe the two of you—"
"Not a chance," Claire said, closing the door on the alarm box. "But what do you care? You never liked him anyway."
"Sure I did. He was nice to me." She shrugged. "To you."
Claire stared at her daughter in surprise. "When we were dating, you acted like you hated his guts."
"Not any more than I would have hated anyone who loved you," Ashley said matter-of-factly. She turned away. "I'm eating the pie. You want some?" She disappeared into the kitchen.
Claire couldn't resist a chuckle. Her whole life was falling apart and she was laughing. She threw up her hands and followed her daughter into the kitchen. "Sure. Why not? And I want Kurt's piece. The big one."
* * *
Tonight, Jillian didn't fight the dream. Tonight she was ready for it. She went to bed early. No allergy medicine to help her sleep. No alcoholic beverages. As she drifted off, she thought about the bedroom, the man in the shower. She willed him to come to her bed.
And he did. And then...
Jillian got out of a car. Not her own. A rental, maybe? She heard the gravel crunch beneath her feet. She was wearing sandals. The ones she had been wearing when she was left at the hospital. Some nurse had bagged them up for her. Jillian had thrown them in the trash along with the jean skirt and the white T-shirt. They were too bloody to be salvaged.
Only now in the dream, the sandals weren't bloody at all. They were new and a soft butternut brown. And she liked them. She thought they made her feet look small.
She remembered seeing a car she recognized in the driveway. Whose driveway? Whose car? She didn't know.
She walked up to the door. Knocked maybe?
But if he was expecting her, why did she knock?
Tonight the dream seemed to come to Jillian on more than one level. She was seeing it as she must have seen it that night, but also, she was thinking through it, not as the woman in the dream, but Jillian. As Jillian who had been shot by someone inside.
The dream seemed to skip forward then, as if she had hit the scene skip with the remote to her new DVD player.
She had a new DVD player?
Her mind flitted from the dream to a shiny new piece of electronics. She remembered being so proud for buying it herself, hooking it up to the cable box and the TV all by herself without his help.
Whose help?
Suddenly she was in the bedroom again. Transported forward in time and space. Only now her heart was pounding and she was afraid.
Why? Her lover was expecting her, wasn't he?
All over again, she heard the shower running, the fan ticking. The air was humid, hot. Steamy from the shower. She could smell the sex on the air, the musky scent of exchanged body fluids. And alcohol.
Some had spilled. She could almost taste the bite of the Scotch. She saw the sweaty glass on the nightstand, the melted ice cubes in the bottom, the ring of water beneath it.
Now she was in the bed, her naked legs tangled in the hot sheets. She heard the drunken laughter. Her own. She was calling to him. He was just stepping out of the shower.
That was when Jillian saw the pistol on the nightstand beside the bottle of Scotch.
She screamed as she saw it rise, seemingly of its own accord. Saw the gun barrel pointed at her.
Light travels faster than sound.
She saw the flash, then heard the shot. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out as the pain exploded in her neck.
Jillian woke from the dream, shaking but in control of herself. She flipped on the light in the stifling bedroom and reached for her glass of water. The sweat on the glass from the melted ice reminded her of the glass of Scotch on the nightstand.
Why had she been drinking Scotch? She hated Scotch. It tasted medicinal. Like drain cleaner, she remembered telling him.
Jillian finished the glass of water and lay back on her sweat-soaked pillow to stare at the stained white ceiling. Instead of making more sense, the more details she remembered, the less she understood.
* * *
"You're not going to believe this." Jewel popped her gum enthusiastically as she approached Claire's desk. "I know I'm not supposed to be really be looking at this stuff, but..." She didn't bother to make an excuse. Another reason why Claire liked her. "It just came over the wire. Ralph's got himself an alias," she sang.
Claire looked up from her notes on Seth and snatched the paper from Jewel's hand. "You're kidding me."
She shook her head. She was wearing bright blue, metallic eye shadow à la the seventies. The funny thing was, it worked with her. "His name's not Ralph Jones; it's James Claus. Known as Jimmy Claus. He's wanted for assault and battery and attempted murder of a woman he met in some bar in Jersey."
"Eleven years ago," Claire said, scanning the report quickly. "I'll be damned."
"Picked her up after she left the bar and slit her throat with a box cutter after he beat her up. Left her to die in the alley behind the bar," Jewel offered.
Claire glanced up, eyeing her. She wanted to read the report on her own. She didn't need Jewel to relay the information. She looked at the printout again.
"Sorry," Jewel squeaked. "I'll just be going back to the fishbowl." She backed her way out the office. "Give me a holler if you need me. Nails are already done."
Claire read the report, then read it again. Was Ralph her man? Good old, slightly rumpled Ralph? It was certainly possible. He was on her list of suspects because of his proximity to the victims.
She'd run into Seth this morning in the diner. She was getting coffee. He was having the number two special—hotcakes, sausage, and biscuit—and flirting with a young woman who appeared to be just getting in after a night of partying, rather than just getting up.
Claire had sat and chatted with Seth for several minutes. He hadn't seemed nervous in the least, even when she'd asked him where he'd been the other night when Anne had disappeared from the boardwalk. He apparently hadn't made the connection between the date she provided and Anne's disappearance. He thought it was about some woman who hadn't paid her rent and his company was evicting her. He'd been quite charming in his own way. Claire could have sworn he thought she was hitting on him. She had walked out of the diner with her coffee and donuts thinking her gut instinct told her Seth was not her man.
And now this criminal report on Ralph, aka Jimmy Claus. Talk about a gift from God. Claire reached for the phone to dial the number of the police department in New Jersey that had put out the warrant for Ralph's arrest. Hopefully someone was still around who remembered him. She needed details on the incident before she went by the diner to pick him up.
"Please God," she mouthed as she waited for the call to go through. "Let this be my lucky day."
Chapter 12
The silver bells on the door of the shop jangled and Ty burst in. "You're not going to believe this," he declared.
Jillian glanced up from the cash register where she was running a charge for a customer. Another lady was checking out the artwork on some easels up front.
Jillian eyed Ty and held up one finger for him to wait. She finished the credit card transaction, then handed the elderly woman her bag. "Thanks. Enjoy your last day in town and come see us next summer."
Ty took the customer's place at the counter. "
I think I found you!"
"What?" Jillian glanced at the tourist who was now looking her way with interest. "Shhh," she whispered to Ty. "I'm not sure I want to share."
He rolled his eyes, obviously thinking she had no reason to care who heard, but he lowered his voice. "I think I might have found you." He slapped his hand on the glass jewelry case.
"Aren't you supposed to be on the stand?" She checked her watch. "Didn't your lunch break get over more than an hour ago?"
"I took the afternoon off. Not feeling well." He faked a cough. "Now, are you going to listen or not?"
She met Ty's gaze. He was as excited as a boy on Christmas morning. He didn't seem to realize the impact of what he was saying. It was as if "finding her" was just a game. And he always loved to win at games.
"I'm listening," she said quietly.
"Laura Simpson. Dr. Laura Simpson." He grinned.
She stared at him for a moment. The name meant nothing to her. Absolutely nothing. "Ty, I wasn't a doctor."
"Orthopedics." He pulled his sunglasses off and set them on the glass countertop. "A bone doctor. Atlanta, Georgia."
She crossed her arms over her chest protectively. The lady was headed out the door. "Have a great day," Jillian called after her. She looked to Ty again, her voice a little shaky. "I said maybe I was a physical therapist, not a doctor."
"An orthopedic doctor with some sports medicine group in Atlanta," he went on, ignoring her. "She went away on vacation for a week, the middle of May, and never returned. One of her partners called it in."
Jillian knew it wasn't her. She didn't look like a Laura. Didn't feel like one. And she certainly was no bone doctor. But against her will, her interest was piqued. "Is she married?"
"Divorced or in the process of divorcing, for some reason it wasn't clear. Blond hair, blue eyes. Five-foot-seven, one hundred and thirty-five pounds."
She flinched. "If it is me, you didn't need to know that."
He chuckled, and then grew serious. They were both leaning on the glass counter, face to face, foreheads nearly touching. "I really think this could be you, Jilly."
She pressed her lips together. This was it, her chance to just walk away, if she was going to do it. She glanced over his shoulder at the striped awning over the shop and the place where Jenkins sat on his bucket to paint. He wasn't there now; he'd gone home to watch his soaps more than an hour ago. But in her mind's eye she could see him sitting there, hear him say that everyone needed to make amends with their past to find their future.
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