Closer Than You Think

by Karen Rose

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Ms Jones.’ He leaned forward. ‘Why are you whispering?’

  She looked startled once again. ‘I didn’t know I was. I guess I’m used to talking softly. Mrs O’Bannion didn’t like loud noises, especially there at the end. God rest her soul.’

  ‘You knew her, then?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I was her caregiver for ten years. I miss her.’

  ‘I was under the impression that Mr O’Bannion took care of his mother.’

  ‘He did, but he’s a man. I was there to take care of her more . . . personal needs.’

  ‘I see. Do you know where Mr O’Bannion is? It’s important that I talk to him.’

  ‘He’s sometimes at the gallery this late, especially if the post-show party went well.’

  ‘This late? It’s not even ten A.M.’

  ‘The parties go on all night. Ten A.M. is late. But there wasn’t a party last night, so I’m not sure where he went after closing. I’d be happy to give him a message when he gets home.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Deacon gave her a card. ‘Please have him call my cell number on the back.’

  ‘I certainly will.’ Mary set the rake against the wall. ‘I have to get to my indoor chores now. Have a nice day, Agent Novak.’

  ‘Wait. Where can I find the gallery?’

  ‘It’s at the intersection with Hill Street. There’s a sign in the yard. You can’t miss it.’

  Deacon turned in the direction she pointed. Hill Street was at the very bottom of the hill, ironically enough. When he turned back toward her, she was gone, the door already closing behind her. She wasn’t telling the truth. She knew where her boss was.

  Deacon wondered if she was merely discreet, or hiding something. She was right, though. He couldn’t have missed the gallery, or its sign in the yard. O’Bannion’s was all it said, but it was nearly as large as a front door and intricately carved. Deacon got out of his car and walked around it to inspect it more closely before going to the front door.

  ‘He’s closed,’ a woman said from above him, her voice deep and sultry.

  Deacon looked up and was glad he had on his wraparound shades, because his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. The woman sat in the window on the upper floor, balancing on the sill. She hadn’t been there when he’d driven down the hill. He would have noticed. Because she was as close to naked as was legally possible.

  She was dressed in a tiny genie costume, complete with veil. A tiny pink genie costume.

  Halloween, he thought, relieved. She had to be a leftover partier from Halloween. ‘Ma’am, you could seriously break something if you fall.’

  She laughed. ‘I won’t fall. I’ve done back flips off a beam narrower than this.’

  A gymnast genie, then. ‘Do you know where Mr O’Bannion is?’

  She smiled and pressed her finger to her lips. ‘Sshh. He’s here, but he’s not receiving visitors right now. We partied a little too hard last night and he’s a little unconscious.’

  Good God. What kind of drugs was Faith’s uncle doing? ‘Should I call an ambulance?’

  ‘Oh, heavens no.’ She fluttered her hand. ‘It’s just a hangover. We were doing tequila Jell-O shots until dawn. He’ll be fine when he wakes up.’ The genie sounded more than a little inebriated herself. It must have been some party.

  ‘I see,’ Deacon said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. ‘When do you expect him to regain consciousness?’

  ‘By dinner time. Maybe. Can I give him a message?’

  ‘No, I’d like to talk to him. Please wake him up.’ He started for the front door.

  The genie looked back over her shoulder into the room with a frown. ‘I’ll wake him up and have him call you.’

  ‘I can wake him up.’

  ‘I don’t think you can. I know he wouldn’t want you to. He . . . he’s not presentable.’

  It was Deacon’s turn to frown. ‘I don’t care.’

  The genie slid from the windowsill back inside the room, then closed the window and pulled the shade. A minute later the front door opened and she stood before him, a cell phone in her hand. ‘You might not care,’ she said. ‘But he will.’

  She showed him the photo on her phone and Deacon sighed. A man lay naked, curled almost into a fetal position, empty liquor bottles on his nightstand. He appeared well and truly passed out. She turned off her phone, her expression one of quiet entreaty.

  ‘Let him have his dignity, please. I will wake him, get him cleaned up, pour some coffee into him. As soon as he’s lucid, I’ll have him call you. Do you have a card?’

  Deacon hesitated. Part of him wanted to grab Faith’s uncle and shake some answers out of him. Some smaller part, however, considered that Jordan would become part of his life should he and Faith build a relationship. More like a big brother than an uncle, she’d said.

  ‘If I say no?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Then I’ll close the door and tell you to get a warrant,’ she said. ‘You may be working an important case, but I won’t allow you to bully him.’

  Deacon hid his annoyance. ‘I won’t bully him. I just want to talk to him.’ Since he wanted O’Bannion cooperative, not defensive, retreat seemed the wisest action. ‘He has my number, but here’s my card. If I haven’t heard from him by noon, I’ll be back to wake him up myself.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you.’ She took the card and started to close the door.

  ‘One more question,’ Deacon said. ‘What is your name, ma’am?’

  ‘Alda Lane.’ She closed the door noiselessly.

  Faith had told him that she was glad she hadn’t developed a drinking problem after Jordan gave her beer when she was only a teenager. It looks like Jordan wasn’t so fortunate, Deacon thought, texting Bishop as he returned to his car.

  Jordan O’B sleeping off a bender, he typed. Will meet u @ King’s soon.

  Bishop had been at the scene of the abduction at King’s College for the past hour. Deacon had detoured from meeting her there because of the call from O’Bannion.

  Almost done here, Bishop texted back. Meet at attorney’s abt the will?

  Deacon confirmed as two new multi-recipient texts came through. The first was from Isenberg and it was good news: Bellman from hotel survived surgery. In ICU. Next 24 to tell.

  At least that was one less body on the way to the morgue.

  The second text was from Vince Tanaka. Deacon read the message, then simply sat for a moment, his eyes closed and bile rising in his throat. Fucking hell.

  CSU had finished removing the floor tiles in the O’Bannion basement. They’d found seven more bodies. Ten total. Ten blondes buried in Plexiglas coffins. No wonder this asshole hadn’t wanted Faith in the basement. He’d realized she would remember what the place looked like originally and notice how it had changed.

  Another text came through from Tanaka, this one sent only to Deacon, asking him to contact the ground-penetrating radar expert for help in mapping the graves. Tanaka’s contact at the university was on sabbatical and they needed to know if anyone or anything was buried outside. Or inside, in the dirt under the layer of Plexiglas. Please don’t let there be any more.

  Deacon had added Sophie Johannsen-Ciccotelli’s phone number to his favorites when they’d worked together in West Virginia the previous year. He called her and she answered right away. ‘Sophie, it’s Deacon Novak.’

  ‘Deacon! Long time no hear.’ She hesitated. ‘I saw you on the news this morning.’

  ‘In Philly?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘It’s online and top of the hour on CNN. They said you were shot at. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Vest caught it. I’m calling because I need your help. I need to find someone with your scanning skills here in Cincinnati.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she murmured. ‘Not again.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, knowing that she knew how he felt because she’d gone through it too. She had, in fact, gone through it more times than he had because she was the scanning expert
everyone called when they found unmarked graves. ‘Can you recommend someone?’

  ‘Of course. Where is the site?’

  ‘A little town called Mount Carmel, Ohio, on the river near Cincinnati. It’s the O’Bannion place. The road doesn’t even have a name on the maps. I can meet whoever you send and show them the way.’

  ‘How many graves do you think you have, Deacon?’

  ‘Ten so far, all above ground. We don’t know what lies beneath.’

  He heard the sound of an exhale, then the tapping of a computer keyboard. ‘Send me the GPS coordinates. I’ll have someone there by early afternoon.’

  ‘Thanks, Sophie. I owe you one.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ she said warmly. ‘What are friends for? Take care, Deacon.’

  He disconnected with a sigh. Ten so far. He’d see Faith’s attorney with Bishop, then he’d go to the morgue. He needed to see the bodies. Needed to know what had been done to them.

  He hoped like hell that the ME would find some way of identifying them. The killer in West Virginia had collected wallets with his victims’ ID, but they’d found nothing like that in the O’Bannion house. Families with missing kids would be coming out of the woodwork as soon as word spread of their grisly discovery.

  It had been that way in West Virginia. He’d had to tell grieving parents that he’d identified their missing child, but he’d had to tell more grieving parents that he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure if he could go through that again, but it looked like he would have to.

  If he didn’t, who else would? Besides, the victims themselves deserved the courtesy. Someone needed to care about them. Someone needed to get them justice. That someone is me.

  Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 9.45 A.M.

  Faith dried and put away the last of the breakfast dishes, surreptitiously watching Special Agent Colby. His arms were crossed over his chest, his finger tapping the bicep of his other arm. He didn’t like playing babysitter and Faith didn’t think he liked her. But he’d do his job. Novak wouldn’t have left her alone with agents who weren’t qualified. She hoped.

  ‘I’m going to try to sleep,’ she told him.

  ‘We’ll keep everything under control out here,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘Where is Agent Pope?’

  ‘Doing a perimeter check. If you do hear any commotion, stay put in the bedroom. We will come get you when the coast is clear.’

  ‘Look for me under the bed,’ she said with a shaky laugh, grabbing her handbag as she left the kitchen. The weight of it returned some small measure of her confidence. Agent Colby gave no indication that he knew she had a gun in her purse. If Novak hadn’t told them she was armed, she wasn’t going to mention it. There was no way she’d be unarmed until this was all over.

  She paused to check out Novak’s TV as she passed through the living room. He’d hooked up a cable tuner and his own Xbox 360. A few of the boxes on top of the console were multi-player games. That meant he had wireless Internet somewhere, which was good because she needed to send an email to her boss telling him she’d had a car accident and ‘complications.’

  She rolled her eyes as she got her laptop from the empty bedroom where her things had been stored. ‘Complications, my Aunt Fanny,’ she muttered, but she knew it was the best way to deal with the situation. The alternative was too surreal. Please excuse Faith from work. Her basement is flooded with bodies and anyone standing next to her is a target.

  She opened doors along the upstairs hallway until she found Novak’s home office. Feeling awkward, she checked his desk, looking for the Internet router. The connection would be password-protected, she was certain. Novak seemed to be careful about things like that. But passwords were generally noted somewhere on the router, so she should be able to get in. If not, she knew his cell number and would ask him. She wasn’t going to be able to sleep until she got a message to her boss.

  She didn’t find the router on his desk, but three framed photos caught her eye. She paused before snooping, but her hesitation was brief. In a little more than twelve hours he’d discovered almost everything about her. It seemed only fair that she should catch up.

  The largest was a photo of a group gathered around a fancy table set with china and crystal and half-empty flutes of champagne. Everyone was dressed up and other tables could be seen in the background. A wedding, maybe?

  Novak sat on the far right of the table, looking relaxed – and amazing – in a black suit and a red tie. His arm rested casually on the back of the chair beside him, occupied by a blond, good-looking young man who appeared to be college age. Next to the young man was a woman about Faith’s age with a blonde beehive, wearing a lime-green strapless gown and a smile that made Faith smile back. She’d laid her head on the young man’s shoulder in a motherly way while holding the hand of the dark, dangerous-looking man on her left. The dark man scowled at the camera, one brow lifted in a warning that seemed more bark than bite.

  The young woman standing behind the scowling man, hands resting on his shoulders, wore a dress identical in style to the lime-green one, but in a more gentle rose. She was laughing at the camera, undiluted happiness in her eyes. At the far left was a redhead with an easy smile who’d leaned toward the dark man for the photo, but whose arms were folded on the table in a way that said her relationship was not as personal as those shared by the others.

  Framed, the photo had been printed on to a sheet of paper and signed in the margins. Thanks for everything, Ford. Our door is always open to you, Love, Daphne. It’s been an honor. JC. And in the same masculine scrawl, as if an afterthought, You’ll be missed. The redhead had written: Take care of yourself or you’ll answer to me, Kate. And above the laughing young woman’s head, a bubble with the inscription Don’t forget you promised to come back for my wedding. Who else will keep Joseph from killing Dylan? (jk) LOL. Love, Holly.

  His old work group, Faith thought with a smile. More, actually. She could tell from Novak’s relaxed posture that these people were like family. He must miss them.

  The second photo was a group of five men on the deck of a fishing boat. Faith brought it closer, squinting. The boat was called The Fiji. Novak was there, as was the dark, dangerous man from the first photo. It was clear that they were all friends. Novak stood out, his bright white hair a stark contrast to the dark heads of the others. It was a wonder they didn’t tip the boat, she thought whimsically. Five men the size of Novak. One was even bigger – he looked like a bodybuilder. But it was Novak who held her attention.

  The third photo was of Novak with Dani when they were teenagers. Faith was again struck by the resemblance between them, made so much stronger by their near-identical coloring. Both had black hair with bold white streaks in the front. They sat astride bicycles, laughing, as if they knew a secret joke, just the two of them.

  Faith felt a pang of wistfulness. She’d always wanted siblings. At the same time, she would never have subjected anyone else to the pain of her mother’s suicide.

  Even her father. Especially him. Especially now. Twenty-three years ago, her father had grieved so hard when he thought his wife had died in a car accident that Faith had feared she’d lose him too. Because then she would have been all alone.

  But just that fast she heard Novak’s voice, soothing her. You’re not alone. I’m here. He’d gotten her through those moments in the basement. In the hotel lobby. In the police station when she’d thought her heart would break.

  He was a good man, one she’d come to depend on shockingly fast.

  And a finely built man, too. Her stomach fluttered with the memory of all that bared skin. He was the same bronze color all over. At least everywhere but under his boxers. And maybe there too. The fluttering in her stomach moved lower, as everything within her clenched.

  It had been such a long time since she’d looked at any man like that, since she’d wanted to be touched. But this morning, she hadn’t just wanted his touch. She’d needed it. If the Feds hadn’t rung the doorbell, t
hey would have ended up in his bed. They still might.

  Might? Honey, it’s just a matter of time. Hopefully not too much time. To have her long fast broken by a man who looked like Deacon Novak was the kind of bright spot she hadn’t had in her dismal world for a long time.

  Job. Email. Focus. Snapping herself back to reality, she returned the photos to his desk and checked the makeshift worktable beside it – a piece of plywood on two sawhorses. There she found the wireless router along with a dozen electronic gadgets and as many power tools. She noted the router’s password, then took her laptop to his bedroom.

  Which smelled like him. All cedar and . . . delicious. Novak smelled so damn good, it was all she could do not to sniff him like a puppy. Which would be so attractive, she told herself with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes. Although somehow she didn’t think he’d mind.

  She eyed the big bed with its rumpled sheets. That would smell like him too.

  She settled against the headboard, nearly groaning when her butt sank into a soft mattress. Just how she liked them. Not like the hard hotel mattresses she’d been sleeping on for so long. She indulged for a moment by putting her face into one of his pillows and drawing a deep breath.

  Yes. It smelled just like him. And imagining him here . . . her whole body went instantly tight. And wet. God. Novak would be an incredible lover, of that she had no doubt.

  If he survives. The thought snuck in, leaving her cold. He was out there right now, trying to find the man who had killed so many already. Who is trying to kill me. Who’d very nearly killed him last night. He would have died protecting me. He would have died before I ever got to have him.

  He’d do it again, she knew. He’d risk his life for her again in a heartbeat and there would be nothing she could do to stop him. Except keep herself out of the killer’s sights as he’d asked.

  Faith opened her email, composing a short note to her new boss, just as Novak had suggested. Neither of the numbers the office had on file were functional, so she gave her boss Novak’s cell in case he needed to reach her. She sent the message and then checked the news.