She'll Never Know

by Hunter Morgan

  She shifted her gaze to Ty. "Was there a contact number?"

  "Yup. Atlanta police. I hope you don't mind. I already called. Talked to a Detective Whitby or Whidey."

  Jillian wanted to chastise him for contacting the police without coming to her first, but she had asked him to help her and she would have told him to go ahead, anyway. "What did he say?"

  "You know, the usual cop run-around. I think he was a little busy."

  "He doesn't think I could be Dr. Laura Simpson," she said, surprised by how disappointed she was.

  "He said something about the disappearance of the doctor was suspect. I got the idea they thought maybe she was dead. But hey, how do they know?" He stood up. "Anyway, I asked him to fax a photo to my dad's office. He wasn't sure he could. He said he might have to fax it to the police station here in town, but I told him that was cool." He shrugged. "I figured you wouldn't mind. I told him to send it to Ryan McCormick's attention. You know, because I know him."

  She grimaced. "You told him to fax it to McCormick?"

  "Yeah, sure, why?"

  Recalling the incident in the diner the other day, she shook her head with a sigh. "Nothing. Doesn't matter. Either it's me or it's not, and it's probably not." She began to tidy up around the cash register, so disappointed she could cry, and she wasn't even sure why.

  "Well, I'm going to go." He hooked his thumb in the direction of the door. "Jason got the new Play Station II game last night. Hot off the presses."

  "You're not going back to work?"

  "Can't." He started for the door. "Sick. Remember?" Again, the fake cough into his hand.

  She couldn't help laughing. "You're going to lose your job," she called after him, picking up his sunglasses and waving them at him.

  "So." He flashed that grin and stepped back to take his glasses. "Quitting in a week, anyway. Might stop by tonight." He lifted his hand in the customary peace sign and then he was gone.

  Jillian grasped the round pedestal mirror customers used to try on necklaces and studied her face for a moment. "Laura Simpson," she murmured. "Dr. Laura Simpson."

  The name didn't seem to fit the face that looked back at her. It didn't taste familiar on the end of her tongue. As far as she knew, she had never heard the name before Ty walked into the store.

  The bells over the door rang and she pushed the mirror away, dismissing Dr. Laura Simpson from Atlanta. Of course she wasn't a doctor, and she certainly wasn't from Georgia. She didn't have a Southern accent. "Hi," she said, putting a smile on her face. "Let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

  * * *

  "I'm telling you, I didn't kill those girls," Ralph repeated miserably, twisting his red, dish soap-chafed hands.

  Claire had arrested him more than six hours ago, and she'd been interrogating him on and off for the last four. So far, he hadn't budged, and Claire was getting a feeling she didn't like at all. He just sounded so hurt that she would accuse him of such a thing as killing Anne, or Patti, or any of the women who'd been murdered. And the officers she had sent to inspect his place the minute she'd wrangled a search warrant out of Judge Collier had turned up nothing even remotely damaging except for a laundry basket of women's clothing.

  "Ralph, come on. You lied to me about being Jimmy Claus. What would make me think you're not lying to me now?"

  McCormick paced behind Ralph's chair. Claire knew he was making Ralph nervous because he was making her nervous. He kept punching his hand with his fist, saying she needed to let him take over the interrogation, that he could get a confession out of the dishwasher. It was a side of McCormick she had never seen before; a side she wasn't sure she liked.

  Ralph was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face cradled in his hands. He glanced up at Claire across the table from him, his eyes watery. "All that other stuff, it was a long time ago, Chief. You got to believe me."

  "So you're saying you did try to kill Kissy McGee in Trenton, New Jersey, in February of '93?"

  "I'm not sayin' nothing like that until I get to talk to a lawyer, but you got to believe me when I tell you, I didn't kill those women." He wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. "Chief, you know me. I flirt a little, but I'm harmless. Just Ralph, Loretta's harmless right-hand man."

  "Maybe we ought to ask Kissy McGee how harmless you are, huh?" McCormick struck the back of Ralph's chair and the poor man jumped up, slamming his knee on the table as he tried to get away from the officer.

  "McCormick," Claire snapped with irritation. "Take a break." She nodded in the direction of the door.

  "I don't know if I should leave you alone with him," McCormick said.

  Claire flashed him a warning glare. "I'll be fine," she said dryly. "He gives me any trouble, I've got my side arm." She patted her pistol on her hip.

  Ralph stared at the pistol, gulped, and sat down again.

  Claire waited until she heard the door close behind her before she returned her attention to Ralph. She sat back in her chair and sipped some of the bad, lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup from the break room. Ashley would kill her if she knew her mother was drinking from Styrofoam. "You want something to eat, Ralph? Maybe something to drink? We've got some chocolate-covered donuts in the other room. I know you like those."

  "What I'd like is to talk to my lawyer."

  "I know, I know. But everyone's on vacation. End of July. You know how that is. And we're going to have to extradite you to New Jersey anyway. They've got good lawyers in New Jersey."

  He looked at her, then away. He was jiggling one knee. "I have to go there?"

  "I'm afraid so." She hesitated. Set the coffee cup down. Drinking the grounds would have tasted better. "Unless there's something else you want to talk to me about." She lifted her shoulder and let it fall casually.

  She always liked to play her interviews as the accuser's buddy. It worked for her. Kurt had always said it was the shaggy blond hair and to-die-for blue eyes. She liked to think it was her technique. "Maybe you'd like to talk about something you might have done in this town that you're sorry for now. Something I might need to keep you for questioning about."

  He sniffed. Wiped his nose again. "I didn't kill those women, Chief. I might... might have done something to Kissy. It was so long ago, and she was such a little c—" He bit back a vicious word and exhaled before he met her gaze. "I didn't kill 'em, Claire. I just didn't."

  She almost felt sorry for him. He seemed so lost, so scared in the small, overly warm interrogation room that was sorely in need of a coat of paint. Of course, this was what interrogation rooms were supposed to be. They were supposed to be confining and stuffy. They were supposed to be used as a technique to squeeze confessions out of criminals.

  Ralph was a criminal, all right. She just wasn't sure he was the one she was looking for.

  Claire rose, pressing her fingertips to the tabletop. "I'm going to send someone in to transfer you to a holding cell."

  "Not McCormick," he said shakily.

  She shook her head. "Savage is here. How about if I send him in? You like him, don't you?"

  Ralph half smiled, seeming very juvenile all of a sudden. It was funny the kind of behavior you got out of people when you cornered them.

  "I like Savage," he said. "He's nice."

  "I don't know if you'll be here the night or if we'll send you up to Georgetown."

  "I'd rather stay here with you," he said, his thin hair falling over his eye. He needed a haircut badly. She hoped someone would take care of that before he went before the judge in New Jersey.

  "I'll see what I can do. Now, you think of anything you need to tell me, you get one of my officers to come get me. Middle of the night." She shook her head, waving her hand. "I don't care, Ralph. Because I want to help you with this. I just need you to help me."

  He leaned forward on the table, meeting her gaze yet again. Murderers didn't look their accusers in the eye this way, did they?

  "I want to. God knows I do, I just don't know anything a
bout who killed those girls. I just don't."

  Claire knocked on the door and it opened from the outside. "Savage will be right in," she told Ralph.

  "Move him to a cell," she told Savage. She walked past McCormick, heading for her office.

  He followed her down the hall. "You want me to take a stab at it, Chief?"

  Considering the weapon Ralph/Jimmy allegedly used in Jersey, his choice of words didn't amuse her. "No, McCormick. Go shuffle some papers or something. And get an attorney in here for Ralph."

  "Chief, there's a lot of different ways to interrogate a prisoner. Maybe a different approach—"

  She whipped around. "Officer McCormick, I'm well aware of the processes of interviewing of a prisoner and I don't need you, Patrolman First Class"—she pointed at his insignia—"to tell me, a Chief of Police, how I should be interviewing anyone. I don't approve of the style I'm guessing you prefer, and I'm warning you." She brought her finger up beneath his chin. "There's so much as scrape or a bump on Ralph when he leaves this station, I'll have your ass and your badge." She narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Do we understand each other?"

  A look flashed across his face that made Claire think he might call her bluff. It was just there for an instant, then gone so fast she wondered if she had imagined it. He took a step back, lowering his gaze submissively. "Yes, Chief Drummond. We understand each other."

  She walked into her office and closed the door behind her. "Ass," she muttered. In her chair, she pulled open a drawer and reached for a bottle of Excedrin Migraine. The phone rang. It was Jewel.

  "Yup?" Claire took two capsules with a swallow of water from a half empty bottle on her desk.

  "Captain Kirk of the Star Ship Enterprise on line two."

  "Very funny," she muttered. "You're not even old enough to have watched that show."

  "Reruns on the Sci Fi Channel," the dispatcher came back.

  Claire punched two phone buttons, the first to cut Jewel off, the second to pick up Kurt on line two. She knew there was no sense in trying to continue to avoid him. She'd made a fool of herself the other night, and there was no way of getting around it.

  "Drummond," she said, pretending she didn't know who the call was from.

  "It's Kurt." His voice was all warm and fuzzy. "I just wanted to call and congratulate you."

  "For what? Powerball hasn't been drawn this week yet. I still have to get my ticket."

  "Word is you've picked up a suspect who looks good for your killer."

  She groaned. "How the—" She stopped, took a breath, another swallow of water, and started again. "I'm holding a guy wanted in New Jersey for attempted murder which, on the surface, looks close to how our girls died."

  "That's what I—"

  "Eleven years ago, Kurt." She sighed. "And it's not him. Our guy's not Ralph."

  He was quiet for a moment. "You don't know that. How long have you talked to him? These kinds of interviews can take days."

  "I know very well how interviews can go. I don't need anyone else telling me I don't know what I'm doing today," she said unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  "I'm not the enemy, Claire," he snapped back. "I took up for you. I've put a drag on this whole task force thing from the beginning to save your lovely ass, so don't get premenstrual with me."

  Claire gripped the phone until her knuckles went white. When men said things like that, it made her want to rip their guts out.

  But he knew her too well. She was premenstrual...

  "And in light of this arrest," Kurt continued, "I intend to suggest the Attorney General hold off a little longer. We'll save the state a hell of a lot of money and time if we've got our man."

  How the killer had become Kurt's man, she didn't know. She was the one who couldn't sleep at night out of guilt for the women who had died. She was the one who had cried silently behind her sunglasses at each and every funeral. She was the one who checked and rechecked the locks on her doors every night, fearing a madman might come for her daughter.

  "Look," she said coolly. "I'm following every rule of procedure by the book. If Ralph is the killer, we'll find out sooner or later." She hesitated, wondering if it was wise to go on, but she couldn't stop herself. "But we've got no evidence. No one should have leaked we were questioning him for anything but the New Jersey gig."

  "You know how these things get out, Claire. And as hard as you may find to believe it, there's a lot of people rooting for you all over the state. We want to see you get this guy."

  Claire leaned forward on her desk, pressing her forehead to her hand as she cradled the phone in the other hand. "Kurt, you're the one who always told me to go on gut feeling, and my gut feeling is—"

  "Sometimes it's wrong."

  "For once, I hope you're right," she said, and then she hung up.

  * * *

  "So I guess you heard the news, even on your day off," Millie sat on one of the chairs she and Jillian had dragged out onto the cottage's porch and rocked back to prop her feet on the rail. They'd had dinner together and were now just relaxing before Millie headed home for the night.

  "People were actually talking about it on the beach today." Jillian followed Millie's lead, leaning back and propping her bare feet on the worn white rail. "Not just locals. Tourists. A lady from western Maryland on the towel next to me was telling this other lady about how she'd met Ralph at the diner the other night and how he was the nicest man," she mimicked. "She just knew he couldn't have killed anyone."

  Millie gave a snort. "Like she would know. Of course, there are some women who like that kind of man. You read about it all the time. Women writing to, visiting, even marrying men on death row. Men they never laid eyes on before they went to jail. It gives these women some kind of kick, I guess." She waved her hand in dismissal. "World's full of all kinds, I suppose."

  "The Wilmington paper said Ralph would be extradited to New Jersey, where he's wanted for trying to kill that woman." Jillian tucked her hair behind her ears so that it wouldn't blow in her eyes. There was a nice breeze coming off the bay tonight, whipping around the porch. She was hoping it would cool the house down nicely before she had to batten down the hatches after Millie went home.

  "I guess they have to take one thing at a time," Millie mused.

  Jillian glanced at the older woman. "Like New Jersey has dibs or something?"

  Millie chuckled. "Something like that, I suppose."

  Jillian stared out over the waving beach grass. She could no longer see the ocean over the dune when she sat down. In the time she had been here, almost a month, the grass had grown too high. But she didn't mind; she knew the Atlantic was there, right on her doorstep. She could hear it. Feel it. And all she had to do was stand up and its vastness was hers again.

  "The paper wasn't really clear on what kind of evidence they had on Ralph, "Jillian continued. "I mean, it sounds like they're pretty sure he tried to kill that other woman by slitting her throat, but I don't know if there's been any real evidence that points to him in these killings."

  "Circumstantial, Bill Knowles says."

  Millie reached for her glass of mint iced tea. She'd made it fresh for Jillian to try, and while Jillian liked it, it still wasn't her sweet tea.

  "What circumstantial evidence?"

  "All four women had been in the diner in the week before they were killed. He spoke to all of them."

  Jillian frowned. "So did half the people in the town."

  "I'm just telling you what Bill Knowles said, sweetie." Millie patted Jillian's hand. "Apparently, when they searched his trailer, they found some women's clothing. Young women's clothing. Patti's T-shirt, specifically. I heard Loretta told the police that Patti had left it accidentally at work one night, in the back where they keep their stuff. The next day when she came back for it, it was gone. Apparently she made a big fuss about it. Was her favorite shirt or something."

  "That's weird," Jillian agreed, "but that doesn't make him a killer either. It just makes him a thi
ef."

  "And you know how he flirted with women. Everyone said he was half in love with Patti. Always offering to marry her and save her from all the young jerks she dated."

  "Again, that does not a killer make."

  Millie turned to Jillian. "What are you, the president of the Ralph the dishwasher fan club?"

  "No. I'll tell you right up front, he creeped me out. He always stares at my boobs when I'm in the diner." She slapped a mosquito on her calf. "But that's just a man."

  Millie rattled the ice cubes in her glass. "I don't know what all else they've found, but if Claire Drummond thinks he did it, he did it. She's one smart cookie, that girl. And they haven't actually charged Ralph with anything. Excuse me, Jimmy," she corrected herself. "But everyone says he did it. The whole town's pretty relieved."

  Jillian stared out into the darkness, mulling over Millie's words. If the killer had been arrested, she could leave her windows open tonight, couldn't she? With Ralph safely tucked away in the Albany Beach jail in the basement of the police station or en route to New Jersey, she should feel safe here in her little cottage.

  So why did she still feel as if someone was watching her?

  She reached for her glass of mint iced tea on the porch floor and lifted it to her lips. She didn't care what Millie said about Ralph being the killer. Tonight she would sleep with the windows closed and locked. Otherwise she wouldn't sleep at all.

  Chapter 13

  After Millie went home around eleven, Jillian put away the dinner dishes they had washed and dried. She refilled all the plastic ice cube trays in the freezer, thinking how she yearned for her automatic icemaker in the new stainless steel refrigerator she had somewhere.

  She smiled to herself as she stacked the ice cube trays. Her memory was coming back to her like that now, in little dribs and drabs. Sometimes it was a just a flash of recollection—like an old photo appearing on a movie screen in her head. Other times, she would remember a texture, a smell, an emotion. This morning she remembered where she left her favorite running shoes. By the back door. That bit of her past not only surprised her but amused her because not only hadn't she known she was a runner, she wasn't sure she had any desire to be one again.