Roses from My Killer

by Linsey Lanier

  But there was one afternoon he came back to visit. He had stood in his bedroom listening to his mother’s screams, wanting to save her, but not daring to come out and face his father.

  That night, he found his mother on bathroom floor in a pool of blood. She had slit her own wrists. With her last bit of strength, she’d reached out for his hand and squeezed it.

  “Forgive me, my sweet boy,” she’d said, softly as an angel.

  And then she was gone.

  He’d been eight years old.

  He shook the image from his mind. He needed to work.

  He ambled into the living room where he had an easel and his latest sketches. Picking up a stick of charcoal, he made a few strokes on the page, but his mind wouldn’t be still. The memories from the past wouldn’t leave him alone.

  After his mother was gone, his father hired a governess to take care of him, and the beatings stopped. He must have been afraid the woman would report him.

  But there were new torments in store for him when he went to school. He had no friends. Everyone made fun of him and called him vicious names. Every day he had wished he was dead—until Josie came into his life. He was so in love with her.

  But she had rejected him.

  He dropped the charcoal and picked up the small mat knife he used for framing. Hurrying back into the bedroom, he opened a dresser drawer and stared down at his dolls.

  Princess dolls and fairy dolls. A brown haired adventurer. A ballet dancer.

  It was the ballroom doll that reminded him most of Josie. It wore a pretty white gown like the one she’d worn when she was Homecoming Queen. It had shiny long blond hair that fell in curls down its back. Its face was frozen in a perfect expression of awe.

  He imaged her looking at him that way.

  But no, Josie would never look at him like that. Not before he fixed himself.

  He put the knife on the dresser and picked up the doll. Holding it tight, he slapped it against the drawer over and over. “You can’t do that to me, Josie. No, not any more. I won’t let you.”

  But he could still hear her laughing at him. Her and her friends. He’d been so ugly and awkward.

  Gently he took the pretty dress off the doll. Then he picked up the knife and carved another heart into her plastic flesh. This one couldn’t scream, but he remembered the screams of the real one.

  It gave him such a sense of power. He was becoming more like his father.

  When he’d scrawled those words over Josie’s body, he hadn’t even known what he’d meant.

  “I’ll get the others, too.”

  But there were others. Josie’s friends who used to laugh at him and call him ugly. The teacher who’d held him back in second grade because he couldn’t keep up. Another teacher in third grade who’d shamed him in front of the class when he’d wet his pants once.

  As he dug the knife in deeper, he was the one who was laughing.

  He’d thought his work was finished. But now he knew he had only begun.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Miranda called Ballard as soon as they left Mrs. Yearwood’s. By the time they reached the police station, he’d put out a statewide manhunt for Jay Charles York.

  Before she got her coat off, she was doling out assignments, coordinating efforts. She had Becker and the team searching through databases, trying to find a vehicle registration, a last known address, anything on the guy.

  They had to find him now.

  Becker took the yearbook photo of York Miranda sent him and aged it sixteen years. Deweese added that to the BOLO. He also sent it to the news station.

  “Maybe he’s living in one of the other rental properties,” Hill suggested.

  “Right under our noses?” Deweese smirked.

  “Yeah. You know, hiding in plain sight?”

  “Call Miss Mae back,” Miranda said to Smith.

  Smith complied, putting her phone on speaker. But Miss Mae said York had never lived in any of the homes he owned. He wanted the income.

  “I always assumed he drove in from Charlotte where his father lived,” she told them.

  Charlotte? Was that his base of operations? “Do you have his father’s address there?”

  “I can get it from the trustee.”

  An hour later Miss Mae called back with the address of the York estate. Ballard got in touch with the Charlotte PD, and they sent a team out to the location. It was vacant and in disarray. Looked like it hadn’t been lived in for years.

  So where was this bastard?

  Deweese dug up a partial list of York’s high school teachers. Miranda and Parker went out to talk to them. Like the other instructors, the Art teacher said he was quiet, kept to himself.

  “The other children teased him,” she said shaking her head. “He was the sensitive type and took it to heart. But he was talented, I thought. I encouraged him to paint. He had an eye for detail.”

  Like the artistic flair Miranda had seen in the hearts he’d carved into Josie. And in the lettering on the wall.

  When she and Parker got back to the station, they found everyone gathered around Hill’s desk.

  He waved them over. “Becker thinks he’s got something.”

  Hill’s cell was on speaker, next to Josie’s open laptop.

  “What have you got, Becker?” Miranda said.

  “Hi, Steele. Remember I said there was something that bothered me about those dating sites?”

  Hill had told her that. “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been doing some deep digging into Josie’s laptop,” he sounded nervous and unsure of himself.

  “What did you find?”

  “Another dating site.”

  “A fourth one?”

  “Yeah, but this one is different.”

  Did it allow users to post nude photos or something? “Different how?”

  “It’s fake.”

  She rubbed her eyes, too tired for games. “What do you mean, fake?”

  “I mean it’s a phishing site.”

  “You mean like those things that mimic real sites and try to steal your personal information?”

  “Right. She got an invitation to it through an email and signed up. It’s not a real dating site, but Josie wouldn’t have been able to tell. It looks genuine.”

  It made sense. York wouldn’t register for a real dating site. He’d have to give too much personal information about himself. This way he could stay undetected.

  “You think that’s how York contacted her?”

  “I think so—” He sounded unsure. “They had several conversations. He told her he really liked the Bayside Manor restaurant. She told him that was her favorite place. He said maybe they could go there sometime and that he’d be in town in the next few days.”

  “When was it sent?”

  “Last Monday.”

  “That’s got to be him.”

  “But—”

  “But?”

  “Jay York isn’t the name on the account. The name is Robert Earl.”

  “Was that his username?”

  “No. That’s RealDeal.”

  Miranda let out a huff.

  “It would stand to reason he would use an alias,” Parker offered.

  “You’re right.” Were they going down another dead end? No, they couldn’t be.

  “Sorry I couldn’t give you more, Steele,” Becker said.

  “You gave us something. I think we’re getting close. Good work.” She turned to Deweese. “Can you put out feelers on the name Robert Earl?”

  His fingers were already on his keyboard. “Adding it to the statewide alert now.”

  Using a borrowed laptop and an empty desk, she and Parker got to work, too. Everyone searched for the new name and any bit of data on Robert Earl or Jay Charles York they could find, but nothing turned up. They worked until past two in the morning.

  By then Miranda was pacing back and forth, dead on her feet.

  With a concerned look, Parker rose from his desk. “You’re exhau
sted and so is the team. Let’s get some sleep. We’ll get an early start and go at it again.”

  She didn’t want to let it go, but she had to admit it was hard to catch a killer when your brain was turning to oatmeal.

  “Okay.”

  She dismissed everyone, got her coat and headed back to the B&B with Parker and Wesson.

  Ignoring the dead weight of frustration laying heavy in her heart, she closed her eyes and was asleep in less than a minute.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Cindy Smith crawled into bed bone tired and desperate for sleep.

  Steele was a slave driver. She’d never worked so hard in her life. But would any of it do any good?

  She closed her eyes and tried to drift off, but all she could see was that picture of Jay Charles York from the yearbook. The boy with the knobby nose and acne covered face.

  That poor boy Josie and Angie had tormented in high school. And she’d joined in, trying to make the girls like her. It hadn’t worked. She wasn’t quite pretty enough to be in Josie Yearwood’s inner circle.

  Why hadn’t she remembered all that? Why hadn’t she shown some initiative and dug out her own yearbook? If she had, maybe they would have caught Jay York before he killed Angie. It was all her fault. Why couldn’t she be like Wesson? Like Steele? Why couldn’t she be stronger?

  Turning over, she buried her face in her pillow and wept.

  What a wimp you are, Smith, she told herself. Then she sat up and dried her eyes.

  Something had just come to her.

  She’d spoken to that boy once. To Jay York. It was in the hall between classes. He’d dropped a book on the floor near his locker and she’d stopped to pick it up for him. She had a vague memory of their conversation. It had been short, semi-friendly. But she was pretty sure about one thing he’d said to her.

  Yes. She remembered the words clearly.

  An idea formed in her mind. It might be another stupid one, but she had to try it. She would. First thing in the morning.

  And if she turned out to be right, maybe she’d be able to help solve this case.

  Maybe she’d be able live with herself.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  At eight o’clock the next morning, Miranda, Parker, and Wesson once again brought armfuls of breakfast sandwiches into the police station break room.

  Without saying much, everyone grabbed a biscuit, a coffee, and headed back to his desk.

  “Storm’s coming in,” Garwood commented as he filled his cup.

  Through the window Miranda eyed the dark clouds rolling across the sky. About like the mood here. She knew the team was nearly spent. Nobody looked like they’d slept well. They were so close, and yet so far, as the saying went.

  It is what it is, she told herself.

  She was full of clichés this morning, wasn’t she? Trying to shake off the bad feelings, she strolled over to Deweese’s desk to catch up on what had come in overnight.

  No one had called in any sightings of the suspect, though his aged picture was being flashed on the news along with the information they had.

  Feeling opportunity slipping away again, Miranda turned to Wesson and asked how Smith was doing.

  Wesson seemed surprised by the question. “I don’t know. She hasn’t come in yet today.”

  Miranda decided to let it go. Maybe Smith had slept late. In a way, she didn’t blame the woman.

  Ignoring the weather reports, with fresh eyes, the team went through the reports they’d all dug up on their suspect again, but nobody had any revelations.

  The clock was ticking toward eleven when Miranda realized Smith still hadn’t come in.

  “Do you know where she lives?” she asked Wesson.

  “Yeah. Cindy took me over there to meet her mother the other night before she took me back to the B&B.”

  “Go get her.”

  “Why don’t you take my car?” said a voice behind them.

  They were standing in the hall near the break room where Deweese had just emerged with a cup of coffee.

  “In case anything breaks in the meantime,” he added with a shy smile.

  He was right. Anything could happen, and Smith was exactly reliable right now.

  “Thanks,” Miranda said as Deweese reached into his pocket for his keys.

  “I won’t be long.” Wesson gave them a business like nod and headed out the back door.

  Deweese had just gone back to his desk when Miranda heard a cry coming from the printer.

  “Oh, my God.”

  It was Hill. He was staring down at a paper he’d just gotten off the machine.

  Miranda hurried over to the officer as Parker rose to his feet.

  “What is it, Hill?” Parker said.

  The flustered man opened his mouth and pointed down at the report in his hand. “I—I was using an app Becker showed me, and I found some medical records on our guy. I sent them over here for a hard copy. Easier to read the fine print.”

  “What does it say?” Miranda said, trying not to bark.

  Hill looked at her with terror in his eyes. “Five years ago Jay Charles York was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. He’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals ever since.”

  “Good Lord,” Parker murmured.

  And he was probably off his meds.

  Shoulder muscles going tight, Miranda pressed a palm to her head. They had to find him. But how? York had to know every police officer in the state was looking for him.

  He was in the wind. Literally, she thought, glancing out the window at the swaying trees.

  She sent Parker a look of helplessness.

  Reading her thoughts he touched her arm. “We will find him,” he said sternly. “No matter what it takes.”

  Nodding, she turned back to Deweese’s desk.

  Suddenly Garwood shot up from his space. “Bingo!”

  Miranda scowled. That was her phrase. “You playing games over there, Garwood?”

  The man let out an odd-sounding laugh. “No, but I think we’ve just hit the jackpot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He waved at his computer screen. “Come and look.”

  Miranda hurried over with Parker, as Deweese and Hill joined them.

  Garwood had a florist’s site pulled up on his screen. The design was beautiful. A large bouquet of colorful roses set off with an elegant cursive text reading Belles Fleurs. More text announced a sale.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she said, not daring to get her hopes up.

  Garwood wagged a finger at the screen. “If you’re thinking this is the florist York used, it is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded emphatically. “It’s an online business. I just got off the phone with them a few minutes ago. I texted Becker. He’s checking into the order to see if he can find anything else, but the woman on the phone told me a dozen purple roses were delivered last Friday afternoon to a boat.”

  Miranda felt as if someone had socked her in the stomach. “A boat?”

  “No wonder we can’t find him on land,” Deweese said.

  “Did she give you any identification? What was the name of the boat?”

  “I’ve got it right here.” Garwood flipped to the notes he’d made in a small leather-bound book. “Free Spirit.”

  “I’m on it,” Deweese cried, rushing back to his desk.

  Now they all crowded around his screen and made suggestions as he searched through more databases. Were they really almost there? Miranda thought, her stomach in a hard knot. It sure felt like it.

  Deweese jumped in his seat. “Got it. Free Spirit is a yacht registered with the Wildlife Commission under the name Robert Earl.”

  The same name Becker had found on that fake dating site. York’s alias.

  Hill pointed to the formal document on the screen. “Look at that. A slip for Free Spirit is leased at the marina in Wanchese, also under the name Robert Earl.”

  “And there’s another one at the mar
ina in Manteo,” Deweese said.

  Miranda folded her arms. “The guy likes to be mobile.”

  “Scroll down a little.” Garwood pointed to the bottom of the screen. “Look at that.”

  Miranda couldn’t believe her eyes. “A late model Mercedes, also registered to Robert Earl.”

  Garwood grinned. “Yep, and the address listed is the boat.”

  Deweese started banging on his keyboard. “I’m alerting the sheriff’s office.” He stopped typing. “Heck, I’ll call them.” He picked up his phone. “Sharon? This is Mike over at Nags Head. I’ve got some news about our number one suspect.”

  He conveyed the information and hung up. “They’re sending officers out to check out the docks.”

  So now they had to wait.

  Miranda wanted to go. She wanted to catch this guy, but they had to spot him first. Once more she paced through the aisles between the desks. When she got to Smith’s vacant spot she spun around.

  “Why does he have two slips? Is he dancing around from one to the other to avoid detection?”

  “That would be my guess,” Parker said.

  “He’s got money, so that’s not an issue. Could he be living on his yacht?”

  Hill nodded. “Some folks do that, though he’d have to come in for water and supplies regularly.”

  And that’s when they’d catch him.

  “He’d have that Mercedes parked somewhere nearby, too,” Garwood added.

  Deweese nodded. “They’re also looking for the vehicle. Sharon said—”

  Before he could finish his phone rang. He picked it up, and Miranda’s heart jumped straight into her throat.

  Excitement beamed on Deweese’s face as he hung up. “No boat at the slip in Wanchese, but an anonymous caller reported a yacht in the one in Manteo this morning.”

  Thunder rumbled outside. It was starting to rain. “He won’t be going out in this weather.” Miranda’s mind began to race. “If he’s there, we can nab him. Let’s go.”

  “All of us?” Garwood said.

  “Why not?” She pointed to Deweese. “Call Sharon back and have her put the authorities in Manteo on alert. Make sure they’ve got York’s aged photo and the name of his boat. Make sure they don’t spook him. We can’t let him get away.”