Cold Justice (Kali O'Brien series Book 5)

by Jonnie Jacobs

She tried to keep it light. “Not really, but this is kind of a busy period for me. A big case at work, a couple of other commitments . . .”

  “Hey, it’s okay. You aren’t the only fish in the sea, you know.” Cool had turned to ice. He hung up abruptly.

  What a jerk. She was glad now that she’d been busy.

  When the phone rang again a few minutes later, she thought it might be Nathan calling back with an apology. But instead it was someone who identified himself as John Jones.

  “When do I get my money?” he asked.

  “Money?”

  “Yeah, for the reward. You got the guy, right?”

  She mentally arranged the pieces. “Are you talking about the reward money offered in connection with the two recent murders?”

  “Yeah. The twenty grand.”

  “How’d you get my name?”

  “It was in the paper. No one was answering at the other number.”

  “What other number?”

  “One I called the first time.”

  Slowly, she was beginning to understand the sequence of events. He’d called the tip line originally and was now calling back to arrange for payment. Kali found a pencil and wrote “John Jones” on a sheet of yellow paper.

  “What makes you think the money should be yours?” she asked.

  “I called up and told them what I seen.”

  “Which was?”

  “A man in that RiteAid parking lot. Same night that woman got kidnapped and killed.”

  That woman, Kali realized with a start, was Anne Bailey. “You saw who took her?”

  “I saw a man. Built like he worked out, you know?”

  “But you didn’t see him with the woman?”

  “No, never saw no woman. But I saw one of those flyers with information about the reward. Store had them in the window.”

  “What makes you think the man you saw had anything to do with her murder?”

  “Looked like a punk.”

  If they arrested everyone who looked like a punk, the jails would be overflowing. “Give me your number. I’ll see what I can find out. But the reward is good only if the information leads to a conviction.” And his description didn’t even sound much like Lancaster.

  She called the detectives. Bryce answered. His brusque tone softened the minute she said her name, a reaction that Kali found pleased her.

  She explained about John Jones’s call.

  “Yeah, he’s the guy who saw a white van in the parking lot.”

  “What else did he see?”

  “Let me check the log,” Keating said. He put her on hold for a moment. Then came back. “I took the initial call myself. Maureen Oliver followed up on it. Jones is apparently missing a few brain cells. Said he saw some guy standing next to his vehicle smoking. Never went into the store, just parked and smoked.”

  “And what made him think this guy had anything to do with Anne’s murder?”

  “The reward most likely. We get tips like this all the time.”

  “Then his description of the van doesn’t do us much good with Lancaster, does it?”

  “We’ve got other stuff on Lancaster.”

  Too bad the caller hadn’t seen a slender, wiry man, Kali thought. But that gave her an idea. “Can you look through the list of tips and see if any of them might implicate Lancaster?”

  “Will do. Meanwhile we’re running Lancaster’s prints against every bit of evidence we’ve got.”

  All they needed was one solid piece of direct evidence. It might not be enough to ensure a conviction, but it would make Kali feel much better about pressing ahead with the case.

  CHAPTER 29

  Bryce Keating opened the database on his laptop and scrolled through the list of people who’d called with tips about the murders. He wasn’t optimistic about coming up with anything Kali would find useful, but you never knew. He’d been a cop long enough to know that seemingly inconsequential details were sometimes pivotal in breaking a case. He had to assume the same was true in prosecuting one.

  Then, too, he wasn’t about to pass up having an excuse to call her.

  Not that he generally needed an excuse to call a woman. He was, in fact, quite adept at such things. But Kali was different. Bryce hadn’t figured out yet just how or why, but she was.

  He was clearly attracted to her, but he felt an unusual wariness as well. It wasn’t that he wanted to admire her from afar (the very idea was depressing as hell), but every time he thought about making a move, he hesitated.

  She wasn’t the kind of woman he usually went after. Maybe that was the problem. Kali was more of a challenge. At least Bryce hoped that was all it was. After the divorce, he’d promised himself no woman was ever going to get under his skin again. He worked hard at making sure that didn’t happen, and he didn’t like to think he’d found a weak spot.

  Bryce sorted the list of names using several different criteria, and pulled out five for further consideration. Rereading the notes on each of them, he whittled it down to three. He loved the way computers eased the storage and retrieval of information. Lou wouldn’t get within five feet of a computer. He relied on his notebook and pen, and a drawer full of file folders he never looked at. The first homicide they’d worked on together, Lou had accumulated so many bits of paper that you couldn’t see the top of his desk. Bryce had everything he needed on a three-inch flash drive.

  He printed out the summary of information and went to see Kali.

  She was bent over her desk, pen in hand. Her other hand fiddled with a wave of curly auburn hair that fell over her eyes. She hadn’t heard him approach, and he watched her silently for a moment before knocking.

  “Don’t pin your hopes on these tips,” he told her, handing over the printout.

  She looked up and smiled. “Wow, that was fast.”

  “The benefits of modern technology.” Bryce leaned against the door jamb. “The first name there, Mills, is a man who had a conversation with a stranger in a bar. The stranger apparently talked about having sex with a corpse. Mills thought the guy was pulling his leg, but when he read about the murders, he called us. The stranger’s description could fit Lancaster.

  “The second name is a woman who saw a man and woman struggling the evening of the Parkhurst murder. She said there was a lot of name calling and the man hit the woman, but in the end, the woman got into the man’s car and they drove off. Again, the man might fit Lancaster’s description. The third is probably your best shot. A florist who recalls a man buying a single rose. Maureen Oliver talked to her in person and got only the vaguest description—white male, indeterminate age. But maybe if she saw a picture of Lancaster it might jump-start her memory.”

  Kali rubbed the bridge of her nose. “It would be terrific if she recognized him.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  Kali hesitated. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  She was silent for a moment. Bryce watched her. He liked the way her green eyes darkened when she was lost in thought. She had nice eyes. You could tell a lot about a woman by her eyes.

  “You’re not seeing anyone, are you?” he asked. The words were out before they’d even formed in his mind. He didn’t have the foggiest idea where they’d come from. She’d already said she would meet him for a drink sometime.

  She gave him an odd look, then shrugged. “I was for a while, but I stopped a couple of months ago. Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want to step on any toes.”

  She made a small noise, something between a hiccup and a laugh. Whatever it was, it stuck in her throat. She took a couple of swigs of coffee to wash it down. Her cheeks grew pink. Bryce could have sworn she was embarrassed, although it might just have been her cough.

  Finally she looked at him and managed a smile. “You wouldn’t be.”

  <><><>

  God, how could she have been so dense? Kali pounded her forehead with her palm. Her mind had been someplace else altogether. One of those weird mind leaps borne of
associated memory. When Bryce had asked if she was seeing anyone, she’d thought he was talking about a shrink. At the encouragement of just about everyone she knew, and some she didn’t, like the police chaplain, last fall she’d gone to see Dr. Sadler, who insisted on endlessly rehashing what had happened with Steven. It reminded her of the movie, Groundhog Day. She figured when she finally got it right, he’d pronounce her cured. But in the end she’d simply quit going. She still had the nightmares sometimes, but her sessions with Sadler hadn’t done anything to relieve the terrible memories.

  Bryce, however, had apparently been asking about her social life. Kali felt an involuntary smile on her lips. She couldn’t imagine that she and Bryce Keating would have many interests in common, but in terms of pure chemistry, she had a feeling it didn’t get much better.

  The idea was so appealing that she had to force her mind back to the job at hand. She finished drafting a press release, ran it by Owen and gave it to Gloria to fax to the major media outlets. Then she took Lancaster’s photo and set out to track down the three names Bryce Keating had given her.

  She tried the florist first. A middle-aged Asian woman who wanted very much to please, but was sadly unable to identify Lancaster as the man who’d purchased a rose.

  “It might be him,” she said. “But maybe not, too. We get so many customers, they all seem the same after a while. Flowers I remember. A beautiful bouquet of iris and baby’s breath for the gentleman yesterday afternoon, or Peruvian lilies for a lady with the little black dog. But people . . .” She looked at Kali sadly. “I’m sorry I cannot be of more help.”

  Kali thanked her and left. At least the woman hadn’t ruled Lancaster out.

  She tried Mills next. He was a man in his fifties. Distinguished, even in blue jeans and a corduroy shirt. He’d taken early retirement, he told her. Best thing he’d ever done. The way he bent her ear, though, Kali had a feeling his days weren’t as full as he let on. He spent time studying the photograph before saying definitively that Lancaster was not the man he’d had the conversation with in the bar.

  Likewise, the woman who’d seen a couple fighting was reasonably sure the man wasn’t Lancaster.

  By the time Kali had finished, she was exhausted and grumpy. Bryce had told her not to pin her hopes on any of these people, but that hadn’t stopped her from secretly believing one of them would provide the corroboration she needed. If Lancaster was their killer, there had to be ways to tie him to the crimes.

  Back at her desk, Kali tried calling Dr. Dunworthy, fully expecting to get an answering machine. Instead, the man himself picked up.

  “Sorry to bother you again. If you’re in the middle of something, I can call back.”

  “Not at all. I read there was a suspect in custody. I’m quite interested to hear how he fits the characteristics we discussed.” Dunworthy’s voice resonated with anticipation.

  “I’m not sure he does,” Kali said. “Not fully, anyway.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “We’re still filling in the pieces. What we know now is that he’s thirty-six, never married, works as a janitor, with his own window-washing service on the side. His boss says he’s a good worker, keeps to himself but in a friendly way. Neighbors say the same thing. He helps an elderly couple in his building when they need little things done around the apartment.”

  “What about family?”

  “He’s got a mother in Colorado. No brothers or sisters, and the father hasn’t been in the picture for years.”

  “That part’s not so far off,” Dunworthy volunteered. “An only child from a single-parent home—there’s potential there for issues of rage and control.”

  An overly simplistic assessment, Kali thought. But she made note of the point all the same. Fleshed out, it might provide context if the case went to trial. “But here’s the interesting part,” she said. “He makes and collects life-sized dolls.”

  “You say he makes them?”

  “Some of them. They’re constructed of cloth like the old Raggedy Ann dolls. A few had porcelain faces. But he also had mannequins and at least one that was actually a sex toy, though he dressed her conservatively. He has them set up all over the apartment. Like roommates or something. He has a complete wardrobe of clothes for them.”

  “Most interesting.” Dunworthy sounded almost as though he were talking to himself. Kali could picture him stroking his goatee, his small, dark eyes narrowed in thought.

  “They’re like grown-up Barbies. I think he probably dresses them, moves them around, talks to them. The way kids do when they’re playing with dolls or action figures.” Kali was always fascinated watching her friends’ children weave stories as they played. Their make-believe world was every bit as real as the physical one.

  “You said before that the killer could be acting out his own personal fantasy with the murders,” she continued. “Would he act it out both with the dolls and in real life?”

  There was a scratchy sound, like the phone was being transferred from one ear to another, or walked between rooms. “I can’t say I’ve encountered this before, either in my own experience or in the literature, but I wouldn’t rule it out.” Dunworthy was breathing heavily into the phone. Kali could imagine his excitement at discovering some new wrinkle in serial killer behavior. A major paper and the lecture circuit beckoned.

  “I would have to speak to this man to know with any certainty,” Dunworthy continued. “Perhaps the games with dolls no longer satisfied him, and his fantasy required the real thing. Fantasies do have a way of escalating. In fact, I’d very much like to interview him.”

  Dunworthy was an expert, Kali reminded herself. A man who’d written and lectured widely on the very sort of thing they were now discussing. So why should his clinical interest in Lancaster bother her? But it did, and she wasn’t eager to have him questioning Lancaster for his own interests.

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate at this point,” she told him.

  “Perhaps as the trial approaches.”

  Kali mumbled something noncommittal. “Another thing, Doctor. When we last spoke you’d pointed out that our killer, as opposed to the Bayside Strangler who was meticulous in dressing his victims . . . that our killer has been more haphazard.”

  “Right.” He dragged the word out, no doubt wondering if he’d been too hasty in his pronouncement. “Based on what you told me, it sounded like there was a difference in the way the two killers treated the victims. But what you’re saying now is that this man you’ve arrested dresses his dolls with great care?”

  “In a nutshell, yes.” She waited to see if he would elaborate on his theory.

  “Well, again,” he said slowly, “without studying the evidence in more detail, I’m not in a position to speak with conviction, but I do understand your point. Nonetheless, one would assume that dressing a real body is much different than dressing an inanimate doll. There is also the discovery factor. The killer was no doubt under some pressure to get the bodies dressed and disposed of before someone saw him.”

  “I thought of that, but isn’t there a core—uh, signature is what you called it, I think. A personal stamp, so to speak, that is unique for each killer?”

  “Yes, yes. But that is with regard to actual killings. What we’re talking about here is something different. These dolls, however bizarre they may strike you, aren’t real living women.”

  “So you couldn’t say one way or the other if he fit the pattern of our killer?”

  “No. Certainly not without interviewing him directly.”

  Had she really expected Dunworthy to give her a definitive answer? Would she have believed him if he had? Still, she was disappointed. Maybe all she was looking for was an easy answer. “One last question, if you don’t mind. The first of our victims was killed on the anniversary of the murder of one of the original victims, Wendy Gilchrist. Any idea why the killer might do that?”

  Dunworthy’s laugh sounded almost gleeful. “My dear, that seems quite
obvious. This type of killer is enamored of ritual and the game aspects of murder. It’s clear he likes taunting the police.”

  Kali picked up a paperclip and toyed with it. “Why that particular victim of the Bayside Strangles though, and not some other?”

  Dunworthy seemed to think about it for a moment. “Well, he had to choose one, didn’t he? There’s also the possibility the date has some significance for him aside from the two deaths. We all make connections in our mind, often in ways that defy logic.”

  Kali remembered the tangled path of mental associations that had led her to think Bryce Keating was asking if she was getting professional help when he’d really been inquiring about her social calendar.

  “I remember one case,” Dunworthy continued, “where a man murdered three women, three years apart. All on August sixth. It was only after he was in prison and the subject of intense study by a colleague of mine, that it was determined August sixth was the day his mother had punished him as a child by making him play in the front yard in a dress. That happened when he was eight years old, and the first murder didn’t take place until eighteen years later.”

  “He remembered the date?” Kali couldn’t remember dates that were only a week past.

  “The subconscious is a powerful thing, my dear.”

  As Kali was bending the paperclip with her fingers, it twisted and poked her thumb, drawing blood. She grabbed a tissue and tried to ignore the fact that it smarted. “Taken to its logical conclusion, your example implies that our current killer was responsible for Wendy Gilchrist’s death as well.” Except that Lancaster had been in jail at the time.

  “I was simply making a point about the personal significance of certain dates.” He paused. “But it’s an interesting idea you raise. Wasn’t the Gilchrist woman the one who most deviated from the pattern?”

  “Right.” Kali hesitated, reluctant to open the proverbial can of worms. But she’d come this far, she might as well finish the thought. “In fact, her murder is similar in many ways to the recent ones.”

  “Ahh, that raises some fascinating questions, doesn’t it?” Again, Dunworthy’s tone resonated with what Kali could only think of as delight.