by Nancy Bush
“Novato,” Auggie repeated, glancing at Dugan. “Does he know where he is?”
“Like I said, call him.”
Auggie was already punching numbers into his cell as he asked Dugan, “Can I get you some water? Coffee? I can take you down to the staff room.”
Whoa, September thought. Kind of proprietary, even for her brother.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
Olivia Dugan looked anything but fine, in September’s opinion. She appeared tense, tired and anxious. Small wonder, if this Navarone was guilty of half the crimes they were laying at his feet. The woman was lucky she’d escaped Zuma Software with her life.
Auggie was talking to Wes, and when he clicked off, his expression was hard. He didn’t say anything for an instant or two, then brought himself back to the moment. “Weasel has an address. He and I are planning to pay the doctor a visit. Liv . . . Olivia . . . I’ll take you back to—”
“No, no. I’m going with you,” she said, showing more spunk than September would have credited her with.
“—my place. You’re not coming along.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” she said tautly.
Auggie’s blue eyes slid a glance September’s way. “Don’t mind me,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender.
“Come on,” he said to Dugan, helping her to her feet.
He was regarding the lovely Ms. Dugan with a thoughtful exasperation that did not bode well, so September reminded him, “She can’t go with you.”
Olivia Dugan turned and gave her a look.
George was grinning across the room as Auggie said tightly to September, “I can handle this.”
“Fine. Have at it. I’m outta here,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve got an interview.”
“When? What kind of interview?” Auggie demanded.
“Six. Check the Channel Seven news. Maybe you’ll see my bright shining face on TV.”
“Pauline Kirby?”
“You got a complaint, take it to our boss,” she said, hiking a thumb in the direction of D’Annibal’s office as she gathered her identification and firearm, then walked down the hall to the staff-room lockers where she retrieved her purse with its small makeup bag tucked inside. She next headed to the women’s room. No sense going on television without looking her best.
“I’m not going back to your place,” Liv stated firmly when they were outside and heading to his Jeep.
“This guy’s a killer. Probably stalked you for years. That’s what you said, not me. Let me handle this from here,” Auggie responded.
“I want to face him,” she said. “I want to look in his eyes and tell him that it’s over.”
“We don’t know enough. Wait till we bring him in for questioning.”
“Hell, no.”
“Liv—Olivia—whatever,” he said through his teeth as they climbed inside the vehicle.
“You can call me Liv,” she said tautly.
“Oh, now I can call you Liv. When you want something. Keep reminding me as the rules change. I don’t want you anywhere near Navarone.”
“I get that, but I don’t care. I’m not going back to your house.”
“Then stay here at the station.”
“No.”
“You’re not going to Navarone’s,” he gritted out, thrusting the key into the ignition.
“I don’t want to be away from you!” she shouted back. “I’m afraid. Do you get that?”
He paused, his hand still on the key. “Liv . . .” he said.
“Please. I’ll wait in the car. Down the block. I don’t care. I just need to be near you until he’s captured. Sorry. I know what that sounds like, and I wish I were stronger, but I can’t be yet.”
“It’s not safe. . . .”
“It’s better than being alone,” she argued.
He shook his head, not looking at her. A moment later he fired the ignition and slowly turned the Jeep out of the lot.
“Where are we going?” she asked anxiously.
“To meet Weasel,” he said, sounding exasperated. “That’s what you want, right?”
“Thank you.”
His answer was a string of swear words beneath his breath that she couldn’t quite make out, which was probably for the best.
September reached the site where Emmy Decatur had been found and realized the two hikers who’d discovered the body were there and prepped and ready for the camera, too. Pauline was talking to them like they were old friends, and the videographer was standing by, his camera on his shoulder.
Uh-oh. Ambush, September thought, as she pulled her Pilot to a stop at the edge of the gravel access road and climbed out. Spying her, Pauline waved and walked carefully across the field in her expensive-looking black pumps. “Detective Rafferty!” she greeted with a wide smile.
September did a mental inventory of her black pants, black, V-necked T-shirt and light gray, linen jacket. It was sweltering, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to go on camera and have to worry about pitting out. She’d dragged the jacket out of her locker and given it a few snaps to clear the wrinkles . . . she hoped.
“Come on over,” Pauline invited, glancing at her watch. “I’d like to get this tape ready for the ten o’clock news.” She showed September where she wanted her to stand, then said, “We’ve already done the intro, so we’re ready for you.”
September wondered what that intro was. Since the hikers didn’t seem to be setting up, she suspected they’d already spoken.
Peachy.
If there was one thing Pauline Kirby knew it was good television. When Lieutenant D’Annibal—sly politician-type that he was—had said he would put her in touch with one of the investigators on the Decatur homicide, she’d expected to be given someone who would make the Laurelton Police Department look good, in the public-opinion sense. What she hadn’t expected was to be delivered someone so attractive. Dark auburn hair, large and serious blue eyes, a trim figure that looked hard, as if she worked out regularly, a wide mouth.
And young . . .
It was all Pauline could do not to touch a hand to her hair, though she knew every strand was in place because her hairstylist sprayed the hell out of it.
Little did Detective Rafferty know what she had in store for her. Pauline had friends in high places, all over the region. Well, maybe not friends, exactly, but sources. She even had a few with the Portland PD and had curried favor with someone at Laurelton, too.
As if catching a whiff of what was to come, Rafferty said, “I can’t tell you much more about the investigation than you already know.”
“I just need some corroboration. Darrell . . .” She signaled her cameraman without looking at him. She and Darrell understood each other and there was no need to ask him to set the shot.
He lifted the camera to his eye. They were going hand-held. Gave the video a little more jerky-but-immediate quality that played well to the public. The hikers were off to one side, out of the shot.
Pauline started slowly, getting Rafferty to reiterate the circumstances that brought Decatur’s body to their attention, and also the connection made with Sheila Dempsey. When the detective was a little more relaxed, she asked, “We understand there were markings on the bodies. Words.”
Rafferty’s eyes slid off camera, to where the hikers stood. Then she looked directly at Pauline. “Cause of death was strangulation in both cases.”
“But there were markings . . .” Pauline looked over to the two hikers whom she’d introduced in the intro. “There were words, cut into Emmy Decatur’s torso. ‘Do Unto Others As She Did To Me,’ right?” Brian, the male hiker, nodded and Pauline felt rather than saw Darrell pull back the camera lens to include him. “Can you confirm, Detective Rafferty?”
“Not at this time.”
“You’re afraid of a panic? That people will freak out when they learn there’s a serial killer whose signature is cutting a phrase into his victims’ skin? Well, I think this is information we all need to know.�
�� She looked directly at the camera, her expression super-serious. “Young women are being murdered and their bodies used as a crude message.” She turned back to Rafferty. “What are you doing to protect us, besides keeping the truth to yourselves?”
“There’s an ongoing, full-scale investigation in progress,” Rafferty said smartly.
“Really? Excuse me, Detective, but how can that be, given the other still-unsolved major case, the Zuma Software Massacre? Is that an ongoing, full-scale investigation, too?”
“Yes.” Rafferty’s lips had tightened.
“Do you have the manpower for both? We all know there have been major slashes to government budgets and that includes law enforcement as well. Can you guarantee our safety? I mean, seriously?”
“Laurelton PD, in conjunction with the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department and Portland PD, has qualified personnel working hard on both cases. We—”
“But has progress been made anywhere?”
“Yes, of course.”
“On Zuma, or the Do Unto Others killer?”
“Both,” she said. “I’m sure you understand we can’t reveal details that would jeopardize—”
“What about Dr. Frank Navarone?” Pauline asked, almost hearing the descending whistle of the dropping bomb. Blindsided, Detective Rafferty blinked once. Perfect!
Pauline waited, and after a long moment, Rafferty said, “Dr. Navarone is a person of interest.”
“In which case?” Pauline asked, loving it.
“The Zuma Software shootings,” she said after another pause.
Oh, it was delicious!
With that Pauline turned back to the camera and Darrell zoomed in on her face. “It may be just as Detective Rafferty suggests, that the police are doing everything they can—” Her tone suggested otherwise. “—but can we trust our lives to an undermanned, overworked local police force? There’s a killer out there. Likely more than one. Take care and lock your doors. . . .”
Weasel and Auggie headed up the drive to the garage apartment that Dr. Frank Novato was renting in an older section of southeast Portland. Bubbles stood in pools of tar from broken-down asphalt and they stepped carefully toward the brick walkway that ran to the front door.
Auggie was tense. They had no warrant. This was really a reconnaissance trip; hopefully the doctor would be willing to talk to them. If not, they would have to go through proper channels, and Auggie was already chafing at the time waste, even though it hadn’t happened yet.
“This guy Dr. Frankenstein or Dr. Feelgood?” Weasel asked.
“More like a Freud–Timothy Leary combo, from what I get.”
“And maybe the Boston Strangler?”
“That, too.”
The converted garage apartment was a separate building in front of the main house by about ten yards. The brick walkway was about ten feet from the asphalt drive to the front door. Pampas grass leaned forward like greeters and Auggie pushed at it as he walked to the door, his heart rate elevating. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His Glock was in a holster under his arm, concealed by the navy jacket he kept at the station for whenever he needed to hide his weapon. With his dark blue T-shirt and jeans under the jacket, he supposed he looked like a guy working “casual Friday.”
Except it was Tuesday.
He knocked and Weasel stood a little in front of Auggie to the left, visible but ready to push his way in if necessary.
There was a long wait, and then the door opened. A man with oiled down gray hair and dark, suspicious eyes stood in the aperture. Dr. Navarone, Auggie thought, his pulse spiking.
“Dr. Novato?” he asked.
“I have a session. You’ll have to come back later.” He tried to shut the door, but Weasel moved quickly, his foot in the way. “I’m not buying anything!” Navarone shouted.
Auggie pulled out his badge and said, “Detective Rafferty with the Laurelton Police Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Get a warrant!” He slammed the door against Weasel’s foot.
“We will if we have to,” Auggie warned. “We just want to ask some questions!”
“Fuck you.” This time when he hauled the door back to slam it, Weasel moved back. Bam! The door shuddered as it slammed shut.
“Did you see that?” Weasel asked, inclining his head to the apartment.
“You mean the hypodermic on the table, or the woman passed out on the couch?”
“Probable cause.” Weasel was grim.
“Dr. Novato!” Auggie called through the paneling. “I’m calling 911. Open up, or we’ll break this door down! You have till the count of three!”
Liv was baking in the car. The events of the past week—her head injury, bruises and lack of sleep—all made her feel physically ill. She was parked around the corner from Navarone’s apartment. Part of her was glad to be safely out of range. Another part worried something awful would happen.
Bam! She heard the sound of a door slamming. She’d rolled down the window and now she stuck her head out, listening. Someone was beating on a door. Then there was yelling. Then blam, blam.
Gunshots.
Throwing open the door, she was running to the corner, skidding around, before she even considered her own safety. The front door to the apartment was wide open. There was a body lying half-in, half-out of it, a man’s jean-clad legs visible, his upper body disappearing inside.
Auggie . . . Her heart lurched painfully. No, the shoes were wrong. Weasel!
Liv ran forward, then stopped, looking around for help. She wanted to run pell-mell inside, but knew what a bad idea that was.
She needed a phone. Auggie had the cell. She glanced around quickly. A house . . . a neighbor . . . everything looked hot and dead and empty.
Somewhere someone was moaning. Then shouts. She heard Auggie’s voice, yelling, “Put it down! Put it down or I’ll shoot. Put it down, so help me God!”
A clunk and then silence. Then a scuffle. And in the distance, the WOO-woo, WOO-woo of an approaching siren.
A moment later a middle-aged man came staggering out of the apartment, hands on his head, shrieking and sputtering, throwing spittle with each syllable. Navarone! Behind him, Auggie had a Glock aimed between the man’s shoulder blades.
“Give me a reason, you cocksucker,” Auggie growled through his teeth. He saw Liv and his mouth hardened even further. “Make a move toward her and I’ll kill you!”
“No, no . . . I don’t know what you want . . . she’s fine . . . she’s fine . . .” He fell to his knees on the brick path, catching himself with his hands. “You’ll pay for this!”
It was Dr. Navarone, Liv thought faintly. It was. From Hathaway House. From the picture.
“Shut up! Shut up!” Auggie yelled as the ambulance screamed down the street and came to a screeching halt. “You shot a police officer, asshole!”
Liv looked over at Weasel, whose legs were moving in pain. Please, she thought. Please . . .
EMTs rushed out of the ambulance and raced to Weasel. A Portland prowler pulled up, spilling out a couple of uniforms who aimed their guns at Navarone and Auggie, until Auggie carefully set his gun down, said, “I’m Detective Rafferty with the Laurelton PD,” and gingerly pulled out his ID.
Chapter 23
By the time September got back from her interview all hell had broken loose around the station. “What? What?” she asked as George and Gretchen were crowded into D’Annibal’s office and the lieutenant was on the phone.
“Pelligree’s been shot. They’ve taken him to Providence.” D’Annibal was grabbing his jacket from the coat tree behind him and smoothing his tie, his actions automatic, his gaze in the middle distance.
“Shit,” September whispered. “Is he all right? What happened?”
“Gunshot wound to the abdomen,” George said soberly. “He’s heading for surgery.”
“Navarone?” September asked, her mouth dry, her heart thundering in her ears. “My God . . . Auggie?”
�
�He’s fine. He contained Navarone after the doctor shot Wes.” D’Annibal was already halfway out the door.
“I’m going,” Gretchen said.
“No.” D’Annibal stopped. “Stay here. Take the calls. The press is going to be on our necks. “George, Nine . . . both of you, too.”
Then he was gone.
“Jesus,” George said, heading back to his desk and dropping heavily into his chair. His phone rang and he glanced at it dully, picking up and speaking into the phone in a monotone, clearly already answering questions of the press.
Gretchen was staring at the wall, her hands clenched, her slanted blue eyes glittering with suppressed anger. “If Weasel . . . if . . . that fucker hurt him bad . . . maybe . . . killed . . .”
“Don’t say it,” September said soberly. “Just don’t say it.”
Auggie and Liv were in the waiting room, both of them standing, neither being able to sit still. Auggie’s call to 911 had brought the cavalry, but he was kicking himself for not being able to stop Navarone before that first wild shot went off and Pelligree took the hit.
“Damn,” he said for about the fiftieth time, but with less energy now as worry replaced fury.
“He’s going to be all right,” Liv said. “No vital organs hit.”
“I took my eyes away. All I saw was the woman. I thought she was dead. But he reached for the gun on the shelf.”
“Auggie, it’s all right. She’s all right, and he’s going to be all right,” she said, parroting the doctor. “She was drugged with some kind of mind expander. Psychotropic drugs. But she’s going to be okay, and Detective Pelligree isn’t going to die.”
D’Annibal appeared through the whoosh of the ER’s sliding-glass doors.
“He’s in surgery?” he asked Auggie.
“Yep.”
“Where’s Navarone?”
“Portland PD took him in. I want to talk to him,” Auggie said pointedly.
“It’s your case. Go after him,” D’Annibal said. He looked to Olivia. “Excuse me, Ms. Dugan, but what are you doing here?”
