Killer Image

by Tyson, Wendy

  HOW ABOUT MIA? ANY SUCCESS THERE?

  “Nothing new. Mia thinks Feldman may have known too much. She hated him. So I take Mia’s opinion with a few grains of salt.”

  BREMBURG?

  “Other than the wife’s allegations, nothing. Absolutely clean.”

  DOESN’T NECESSARILY MEAN ANYTHING.

  “True.” Vaughn sat on the edge of the bed and absentmindedly straightened Jamie’s blankets with his free hand. “But anyway, Mia doesn’t think Arnie was the blackmailing type. So I guess that says something, if even Mia wouldn’t accuse him of blackmail. She’s accused him of everything else.”

  I NEED MORE INFORMATION ABOUT THE CRIME SCENE.

  “I can ask Jason, but why?”

  BECAUSE I DID SOME RESEARCH ON THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN WICCA AND SATANISM. IT’S POSSIBLE MAGGIE WASN’T REFERRING TO SATAN IN THAT LETTER. THERE’S A CELTIC GOD NAMED CERNUNNOS. HE IS SOMETIMES REFERRED TO AS THE GOD OF DEATH. IN SOME WICCAN TRADITIONS, HE IS THE MASCULINE COUNTERPOINT TO THE GODDESS. HE IS ALSO CALLED THE HORNED ONE.

  “Hence the mix-up.”

  THAT’S WHY I NEED MORE INFORMATION ABOUT THE CRIME SCENES. ALLISON SAID PENTAGRAMS HAD BEEN DRAWN. SATANISTS USE AN UPSIDE-DOWN PENTAGRAM WITHIN A CIRCLE. IN HER LETTERS, MAGGIE DREW AN UPRIGHT PENTAGRAM—A WICCAN SYMBOL. WHICH ONE WAS USED AT THE CRIME SCENES? IT FEELS MORE AND MORE LIKE SOMEONE IS TWISTING MAGGIE’S IDENTITY TO SUIT THE SITUATION.

  Vaughn’s stomach twisted into a knot. “If that’s the case, and it’s someone we’ve touched, Allison could be in danger.”

  Vaughn picked up the phone in Jamie’s room and dialed Jason’s cell. This time, Jason answered.

  “I looked into Kyle Moore, Vaughn,” Jason said. “He’s clean.”

  Bremburg, now Moore. Vaughn thought about what that meant. Had Allison been off-base about Moore? Or had he just been lucky so far? Vaughn explained Jamie’s question about the crime scene and the pentagram.

  “I didn’t think there was a difference,” Jason said.

  Vaughn said, “Me either. But Jamie said the Wiccans use an upright pentagram. The Satanists, an inverted one.”

  “I just recall the word ‘pentagram’ in the reports I read. But I’ll go back and ask to see the photos. Can I call you back?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  Vaughn was looking down at his hand, thinking about the players in this situation, and didn’t immediately see Jamie’s next words. When he looked up, he said, “Are you sure?”

  I’M SURE. THE CHANGES IN MAGGIE’S PERSONALITY BEGAN WEEKS AFTER THE LETTERS WERE SENT TO SARAH. PLUS, I WAS ABLE TO CONFIRM THAT LANOMIA HAS BEEN LOGGING IN USING TWO DIFFERENT EMAIL ADDRESSES. ONE IS REGISTERED TO JANE DOE. Jamie paused, took a deep breath, and continued. I THINK ALLISON IS RIGHT. MAGGIE IS BEING FRAMED.

  Vaughn was just pulling into Sasha Feldman’s driveway when he realized he’d forgotten his phone. But his need for expediency outweighed his desire for his mobile. He’d get it later, before he took another swing past Desiree’s house.

  He knocked six times before Sasha answered. He knew she was there: he had seen her car in the driveway and that little Chihuahua kept running up to the living room window and away again, as though alerting someone that a stranger was outside. So he waited. When Sasha finally opened the door, she said nothing, just ogled him with an intense once-over that made him feel exposed.

  “Yes?” she said, with a look that could have been boredom or vapidity. He couldn’t tell.

  Vaughn decided not to sugar-coat his reason for the visit. “I work with Allison Campbell,” he said. “You spoke with her a few days ago.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  “I have a few more questions for you.”

  “Oh.” She looked less eager, but stepped outside in her bare feet, closing the front door behind her. “What do you want? I already told Allison what I know.”

  “Mrs. Feldman, was Kyle Moore Arnie’s client?”

  “No.”

  “Red haired man, freckles—”

  “I know who he is. I said no.”

  A helicopter flew overhead. Sasha looked up and, in that instance, Vaughn saw someone pull aside a living room drape and peek outside. A bare-chested male someone. Hmmm, Vaughn thought. No wonder it took her a few minutes to answer the door. Allison’s description of Sasha came back to him. No grieving widow is right.

  “Kyle Moore,” Sasha said. “Sarah Moore’s father.”

  “Right. You’re sure he wasn’t a client?”

  “I’m sure. Ethan and Sarah knew each other from school. Kyle wasn’t Arnie’s client.”

  Vaughn’s impatience was growing. He felt a sense of urgency, and Sasha’s obstinacy wasn’t helping to hurry things along. “Yes, I understand that—”

  “But Desiree was.”

  Vaughn froze. This was news. He’d been focused on Kyle, but there was no reason Desiree wouldn’t have hired Arnie. He tried to consider the implications. “Had she ever been to the house, Mrs. Feldman?”

  Sasha thought for a moment. “Yes. At least once. To pick up papers and talk to Arnie.” Sasha shrugged. “Maybe more, but I wouldn’t really know.”

  Vaughn thought about this. It meant Desiree would have known the lay-out of the house. She could have even seen Arnie punch the code for the alarm.

  “Was Desiree Moore Arnie’s client until the divorce went through?”

  Sasha laughed. “Are you joking? As far as I know, their divorce was never finalized.”

  More news. He was pretty sure Allison thought they were divorced. Vaughn was starting to see the full picture here—and he didn’t like the shape it was taking.

  The dog barked, and Sasha turned to go back inside. Vaughn put his hand on her arm gently to stop her. He still had one more pressing question and couldn’t lose her now. “Can you remember whether Desiree and Arnie had a falling out? Did they argue? Did she threaten to fire him?”

  Sasha took his hand and moved it off her arm. “I doubt it. No one fired Arnie Feldman. It was like a marriage. Till death do you part. Once Arnie was your attorney, you stuck with him until the end.”

  Thirty—Five

  Sunny agreed to meet Allison at a Starbucks along the Route 30 corridor. Allison arrived first. She parked the Volvo and sprinted inside, her hands shaking. Feeling dazed and slightly feverish—she hoped it wasn’t a cold coming on—she ordered hot tea and then grabbed a table next to the window. She tried on scenarios while she waited for Sunny.

  Maybe Kyle Moore, angry at the two women’s affair, killed Arnie Feldman and framed Maggie, hoping to get revenge on the McBride family. Maybe Arnie had been blackmailing the Moores because of the affair. But how would he have known? Allison wished she knew the Arnie-Kyle connection. She pulled out her cell and checked to see if Vaughn had called. Nothing. She was dying to hear whether Arnie had represented Kyle.

  “Allison?”

  Allison looked up to see Sunny standing over her. Sunny’s hair was twisted into a chignon, and she wore a pink trench coat and sunglasses. A cream-colored scarf had been tied in a neat knot around her slender throat. She looked thin, drawn, and pale—very much the tragic figure.

  Sunny sat down across from Allison and removed the sunglasses. Dark circles shrouded her eyes. “How is my daughter?”

  “As well as can be expected. Why didn’t you go to see her?”

  “Because I doubt she would talk to me.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  Sunny didn’t respond.

  Allison waited through an awkward silence. Finally Allison said, “Is Maggie well represented?”

  “Hank chose the lawyer,” Sunny said with a heavy sigh, as though that explained everything.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police Desiree Moore was at your house the day Udele disappeared?”

  “You don’t
mince words, do you?”

  “Not when a child’s future is at stake.”

  Sunny looked away. “Maggie told you about Desiree?”

  “Yes.”

  Sunny shook her head. Allison felt sure she would deny the allegation, but instead she said, “I didn’t know she knew.”

  Allison looked around, debating what to say next. Near them, two businessmen chatted over coffee. Somewhere behind them, a baby started to cry. Allison could hear the mother’s attempts to comfort it. Allison felt removed from all of them. She’d almost forgotten what normal was. Right now, it was her and Sunny—and Allison wanted answers.

  “What are you hiding, Sunny?”

  When Sunny didn’t respond, Allison said, “Don’t you want to fight for Maggie?”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  “I know she didn’t.”

  “Hank isn’t convinced.”

  “So what? As long as you believe in her, that’s what matters.”

  “You don’t get it, Allison. He will destroy me.”

  “Why, Sunny? What does he have on you that could possibly be worth losing your daughter over?”

  “He owns me, Allison. He rescued me from who I was and gave me a life. Respectability. Money. But the price is too high. I need time to think.” She looked down at her hands. “And paint.”

  Confused, Allison said, “Paint? I thought you’d given that up.”

  Sunny met Allison’s gaze with an intensity that startled her. “I paint under a different name now. I’m good, very good.” Sunny tilted her head up, proudly. “I even have a small following. Hank doesn’t know that.”

  “Does Maggie?”

  Sunny looked confused. “Apparently. You said she saw Desiree at the house.”

  “Maggie said Desiree’s your lover.”

  Sunny threw her head back and let out a despairing laugh. “Desiree Moore is not my lover. She was there to buy a painting. She’d been coming to the house to see the work in progress. I agreed to let her. After everything our family put her through, how could I say no?”

  “Your family?”

  “Maggie. Hank.” Sunny paused. “Hank wasn’t exactly friendly when the Moores came forward with those letters. He was rather...threatening. So how could I refuse Desiree’s request?”

  Allison considered this new bit of news. Maggie, having witnessed her mother’s affairs in the past, assumed Desiree was her lover. It was the reason she didn’t say anything. But there were still holes.

  She said, “If you keep your artistic life separate, how did Desiree know?”

  Sunny looked down at her hands, clasped before her, knuckles white. “I told her. In confidence. We knew each other from the kids’ school.”

  Allison thought of an old saying her father had been fond of: “Trust is the mother of deceit.” She’d always considered it a terrible mantra, but it rang so very true in this instance. “She asked to come to your house?”

  Sunny nodded.

  “Over a period of weeks?”

  “Much longer. It can take a while to get a painting right.”

  “Did she ultimately buy it, Sunny?”

  Sunny nodded. “For her entry hall.”

  Allison had been to the Moore home and hadn’t noticed the painting in the foyer. There could be a logical explanation—the painting was being framed, Desiree had given it away as a gift—but this was one too many coincidences involving that family. She stood.

  Sunny reached out and grabbed Allison’s wrist. “You don’t get it, do you? Hank knows about the child who ran away. Violet somebody-or-other. He knows, and he will use that information to hurt you if things get too out of hand. He wants this behind him. Maggie in a psych hospital...he won’t see that as the worst of all outcomes.” She tightened her grip on Allison’s arm. “Don’t interfere.”

  Too late. At the mention of Violet, Allison’s stomach clenched. She hated that Hank McBride knew about Violet. It felt dirty, wrong—and Allison felt just as violated as she had when she first read that damn article. But it only strengthened Allison’s determination to get to the bottom of this. McBride was a bully, plain and simple. She refused to be intimidated.

  Allison said, “Don’t you see, if Maggie is arrested, we all have more at stake than our reputations. Especially your daughter.”

  Sunny was silent for a moment. “I’m leaving. For a while, at least.”

  Allison was struck dumb. Leaving? “How can you go now? Maggie needs you.”

  “I’m no help to Maggie. I’m no help to anyone.” Tears were streaming down Sunny’s face, pooling in the lines around her mouth. Allison was struck by the ugliness of self-pity. A truly useless emotion.

  Allison said, “Don’t let Maggie take the fall for this. Help me find the real killer.”

  Sunny put her sunglasses back on and stood. “It’s too late for that now.”

  Allison watched her leave. She considered her own family and realized that there were so many ways to be a motherless daughter. Illness. Death. And abandonment. Her. Violet. And now, Maggie. She felt the old raging grief come back to her and swallowed it down. Not now. Now she needed to find Kyle Moore.

  Vaughn arrived home just as Mrs. T and Angela were trading shifts. “What are you here for now, Christopher?” Mrs. T said. “More biscuits?”

  “Jamie awake?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I need Jamie. Is he up?”

  She nodded, looking concerned. Vaughn sprinted into Jamie’s room. His twin looked up, surprised to see him.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  He didn’t wait for Jamie to say anything on the monitor. He grabbed a piece of paper and a notebook and wrote something quickly. He put it on Jamie’s bed, next to his hip, where Jamie could read it.

  “That’s the number for Lieutenant Helms. He’s investigating the Feldman murder.”

  Jamie raised his eyebrows, questioningly.

  “Jason called back. The pentagram at the scene was inverted, like you said. It was all stereotypical Satan stuff. The chalice. The markings. The blood. The inverted cross.”

  DONE BY SOMEONE WHO HAD READ THE RIGHT BOOKS.

  They stared at each other, and Vaughn was sure they’d reached the same conclusion. “We’ve been asking a lot of people a lot of questions. If things get freaky, use that number for Helms. You can help Angela explain what we think has gone down.”

  BE CAREFUL.

  “I will.”

  I LOVE YOU, YOU KNOW.

  Vaughn said, “I love you, too,” and left.

  On the way to the Moores’ house, Vaughn listened to Allison’s messages. Clearly she had something to tell him, but she didn’t say what. He tried her cell three times. No answer. He called her home phone and her office phone. Nothing. Where was she?

  He half-expected to see her car at Desiree’s house. But not only wasn’t she there, neither was Desiree. Vaughn decided to head to Allison’s house, then to First Impressions.

  And if Allison was still M.I.A, he’d call Helms himself.

  Allison pulled up to the address for Kyle Moore’s business that she’d gotten off the Internet and stared at the street in front of her. Something wasn’t right. She was familiar with Center City Philly, but this was not the business district, much less the neighborhood she’d expect for a burgeoning tech company.

  Rundown row houses, their windows barred and stone stoops crumbling, stretched along one side of the street. Along the other side, the row houses were punctuated by an old church, its window sills blackened by a long-ago fire, a check-cashing shop, a boarded-up falafel takeout joint, and a windowless bar, its neon sign illuminating only the letters B and R. No sign advertised Kyle Moore’s business, TECHNO, Inc.

  The sky, the color of fr
esh bruises, was steadily darkening. Soon it would be night. The thought of being in this abandoned stretch of Philadelphia, alone, was unsettling. Allison double-checked the address against the black letters on one of the row houses. They matched. This was the official Philadelphia address for TECHNO, but how could that be? Allison wanted to ask someone, but the street was empty of cars and people. Only the pulsing sign for the bar showed any sign of life.

  Her head was pounding and her nose was beginning to run. She searched for her migraine medicine. Finding none, she dry-swallowed two Excedrin, grabbed a handful of tissues and hoped for the best. Then she got out of the car. Thinking better of it, she crawled back into the front seat and opened the glove compartment. She pulled out two things Jason had bought for her long ago: a pocket knife and a can of pepper spray. “You never know who’s lurking the streets,” he’d said when he stored them in her car. “And you never know when you’ll have an emergency.” She sent a silent prayer of thanks for the small comfort these items gave her and tucked them both in her coat pocket.

  Outside, a bitter wind was picking up. Litter swirled in tiny cyclones along the pocked pavement. Allison took a quick look around and walked to the building marked 2413—where the TECHNO office was supposed to be. Like the other buildings along the row, this one had barred windows. She climbed the three steps to the front door and tried to see inside. No lights were on, though she could make out a short entry hall and steps leading to a second floor. The house appeared empty.

  She rang the bell. Broken. She knocked. No answer. She tried the knob. Locked. Frustrated, she looked around for another entrance. She’d known it was unlikely Moore would be here, but she at least expected a secretary or a maintenance crew—someone who could help her get in touch with him. She didn’t want to go through Desiree. She’d already shown too much of her hand to that woman. Direct confrontation was best, but Allison didn’t have time to drive to the company’s corporate headquarters in Virginia. She needed Moore’s cell or home number or direct work line.

  She eyed the bar two doors down. Maybe someone there could tell her something. Reassuring herself that she still had the knife and the spray, she hurried down the street and opened the bar’s heavy front door. Once inside, she slid into the shadows.