No Escape

by Meredith Fletcher

  He locked the door behind him, holstered the pistol, and got down to business. He took off his jacket and threw it on the unmade bed. If maid service was available in the hotel on a daily basis, the sign on the door would keep them out. Maybe. He didn’t like leaving anything to chance.

  His shin still ached from where Lauren Cooper had scraped him with her boot heel. He cursed softly at the discomfort, but he didn’t hold the action against her. He’d deserved everything he’d gotten and probably more.

  In the bathroom, he raised his pant leg and surveyed the long, bruised and bloody scrape down his leg. Lauren hadn’t been messing around. She’d known exactly what she was doing. Good for her.

  He returned to his unpacked suitcases and took out a small medical kit. Methodically, he cared for the scrape. On the island, with all the heat and the potential for disease in some of the areas he was traveling in, there was a good chance of infection.

  He returned the medical kit to his suitcase and took out a small wireless printer. After plugging the unit in to the wall, he took out his phone and brought up the images of Lauren Cooper he’d taken while she’d been grieving over her dead sister.

  At the time he’d taken the pictures, he’d felt like a heel. Now, looking at the woman’s grief-stricken face, he felt even worse. As a police detective, he’d seen more than his share of devastated people, physically and emotionally. He’d been told that in his job as a homicide investigator, he was always meeting people on the worst day of their lives.

  Heath sent the pictures over to the printer and took them as soon as they’d come through the unit. The Lauren Cooper he saw in these shots didn’t mesh with the wildcat who had met him full-on there on the stairs. He tried to think of how many women he knew who would have tried something like that. There weren’t many.

  Janet would have. She’d fought her killer. But in the end it hadn’t done her any good. He’d killed her just the same. In fact, Gibson had probably enjoyed the struggle.

  Realizing the black anger was about to consume him again, Heath pushed it away. He couldn’t let that happen. The anger was raw and vicious, worse than any drug an addict could crave. When the anger was in bloom within him, there wasn’t room for anything more.

  He’d learned that as a kid at Fort Benning, Georgia. His father had been a drill instructor for the army, stationed at the post. Heath had had to take a lot of grief as a teenager, and he hadn’t always chosen wisely. For him, the world was black-and-white. That view of things had led him into the military and into the police department later. He loved being a detective, balancing the scales a little every time he broke a case. He’d learned to put away the anger, but since Janet’s death, it was back with a vengeance.

  He went to the small closet and reached up for the ceiling. Gently, he pushed and popped out the section he’d cut the first night he’d stayed in the room. In the darkness that filled the closet, the cut he’d made couldn’t be seen.

  Reaching up, he took down the roll of canvas he’d bought from an art store on his way to the hotel. Walking over to the wall near the small desk, he unrolled the canvas and tacked it to the irregular surface. The canvas was three feet wide and eight feet long. The dimensions weren’t those of the whiteboard he generally used in the detective bullpen, but the canvas gave him plenty of room to work.

  Photographs from crime scenes and printouts from reports were secured to the canvas with double-stick tape. The seven women stared out at him from their pictures. All of those shots were from before Gibson had finished with them. All of them had a photo of a black card with an embossed white rabbit on them. They’d been sent to the various police departments within days of the discovery of the murders.

  Below them were crime scene photographs. Some of them were bloody. Sometimes, and the profilers attached to the murders didn’t know why, the killer liked to cut his victims. Other times, like with Megan Taylor, he just killed them.

  Muriel Evans, the weather girl in Newark, New Jersey, had been shot through the head.

  Tina Farrell, the masseuse in Los Angeles, had had her neck broken in a manner that suggested Special Forces training.

  The Taylor woman had been the first to get strangled.

  The White Rabbit Killer didn’t seem like a disorganized killer. He was too methodical, too good at what he did. But an organized killer often used the same weapon. Like the knife.

  Janet had been tied up and thrown into a hotel room shower, then had a naked electrical cord dropped in after her. Her death hadn’t been easy. Heath still smelled her burned flesh in his nightmares.

  So far, the White Rabbit Killer hadn’t killed the same kind of victim or in the same city. Not even in the same state. The serial killer was a traveler, but he took some kind of pride or satisfaction in his kills because he always left a calling card behind: a black card embossed with a white rabbit.

  At first, no one in the media or in the homicide squads that were investigating the murders knew what the white rabbit meant. Janet had been the first detective to match the white rabbit to the magician Gibson. She’d been the one who’d discovered Gibson had been in all of the cities of the victims during the time they were killed.

  But there was no evidence linking Gibson to the murders. And now, even with Janet among the victims, there was still no evidence.

  The killer’s pace was picking up, though. Only two weeks had passed since he’d killed Janet. His timetable was picking up speed. Either he was growing more confident, or whatever he got from murdering women wasn’t lasting as long as it had.

  Heath took the pistol out and placed it on the desk. He reached into the small refrigerator near the desk and took out a beer. The air-conditioning in the room was weak and he was already sweating.

  In the center of the canvas, Gibson stared out with those malevolent eyes and that mocking smile.

  Heath sipped his beer and considered his next move. Gibson was on the island. He stayed locked away somewhere up in the hills. No one Heath had met knew for certain where, and the local police force wasn’t being overly helpful in finding the man. They had no reason to interfere with the man’s privacy. Or maybe they didn’t know.

  Gibson wasn’t wanted in Jamaica, and he wasn’t wanted by anyone in the United States, either. At least, not yet.

  Heath’s cell phone buzzed for attention. He took it from his pocket and glared at it. The unit was a throwaway he’d gotten in Atlanta before leaving the city and didn’t have caller ID, but he knew who it was. Only one person had the number.

  Cursing, Heath took the call. “Yeah.”

  “How’s it going down there?” Jackson Portman sounded totally relaxed, but then he always did. An ex-football player and African-American, Jackson’s build and don’t-cross-me demeanor made him look more like a movie heavy than a homicide detective.

  “It’s too hot.”

  “Can’t be no hotter than ’Lanta.”

  “Did you call for a reason? Or are we just gonna talk about the weather?”

  “You busting any heads yet?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Got a call about you.”

  “From the locals?”

  “Nope. I already talked to them. Inspector Myton don’t look like he’s gonna be a fan of your work anytime soon. Said you had no business bein’ up in their business.”

  “I’ve heard Myton talk. He doesn’t sound like that.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m paraphrasing.”

  Heath took another sip of his beer. “If it wasn’t Myton that called, who was it?”

  “A woman. When I first heard her voice a little while ago, I was hopin’ maybe you met somebody.”

  “Overnight?”

  “I ever tell you how I met my first missus?”

  “Too many times.” Heath sat up straighter and looked at Lauren Cooper’s picture. “Let me guess who the woman was.”

  “Sure.”

  “Lauren Cooper.”

  “Shocks me how you know that, bro. I me
an, you should be a detective.”

  “I’m working on it. Myton must have told her about me.” Heath took another sip of beer. Or the coroner told her. He hadn’t cared for Heath, either.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “She knows too much about you. Stuff Myton wouldn’t know.”

  Heath stared at the pretty woman in the picture. He’d missed something about her. “Like what?”

  “Where you lived. About your sister and her kids. About your gym membership. About me. A lot more than I know about you, actually. That’s why I thought maybe you’d hooked up with someone down there and just didn’t tell me. Then I realized it was you I was talking about, and I thought maybe I’d call you, check that out. Now you sound like you ain’t any too happy to hear from her.”

  For a second, Heath felt a faint tickle of fear. His sister and his two nephews lived not far from him in Atlanta. He’d been helping out with them when he could since her husband had left her. “I’m not.”

  Jackson waited a beat. “You want to tell me how Lauren Cooper knows so much about you? Especially if you ain’t all chummy and everything?”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “I’ll call you back.” Heath picked up the .357 and got up. He walked to the door and avoided the peephole. Quietly, he slid the cell phone into his shirt pocket, then dropped a hand onto the door handle and popped it open just enough to see out into the hallway.

  Lauren Cooper stood there with her arms folded. “We need to talk, Detective Sawyer. Now.”

  Chapter 3

  “Are you alone?”

  That wasn’t the response Lauren expected from the man. She’d expected him to be contrite or defensive, or at least surprised, maybe even outraged that she’d found him, but he didn’t seem to be anything more than irritated.

  “What?”

  “Alone? Are you alone? It’s not a hard question to answer.” Heath stepped through the door and glanced out at the courtyard in front of the motel room. He held a gleaming black revolver in his right hand, tucking it close behind his thigh so it couldn’t easily be seen.

  “Yes. I’m alone.” Even as she said that, Lauren wondered if coming here alone was intelligent. Now she was wishing she’d gone to the local police. But she also realized that course of action probably wouldn’t have gotten anything done. Heath Sawyer might have been there on police business, and even if he wasn’t, he hadn’t broken any major laws.

  Heath grabbed her by the elbow and tugged her through the doorway. Lauren set her heels and started pulling back. He glared at her. “You came to see me, lady. I didn’t come knocking on your door. So either leave or come in. This door isn’t staying open.”

  For a moment, Lauren seriously considered turning around and leaving. That seemed to be the path of least resistance. Except that she’d just seen her murdered sister and she wanted some answers that she felt certain the man in front of her had. Inspector Myton hadn’t had many. Then she spotted the canvas spread out on the wall behind Heath.

  On autopilot, Lauren stepped into the room, barely aware of Heath shutting and locking the door behind. She kept walking, taking in the photographs and police reports secured to the canvas thumbtacked onto the wall. Her gaze slid over the images of women who were obviously dead, all of them taken at crime scenes.

  Then her eyes found the photos of Megan. A feeling of vulnerability descended over her. Sharp pain shot through her stomach. She closed her eyes and took a breath.

  Heath crossed over to the canvas and took it down. Despite the speed at which he moved, he was careful with the photos and reports. “I’m sorry, Miss Cooper. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

  She turned to him. “You’re a cop.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Not a cop. I’m a homicide detective. Something like what happened to your sister? I’m a professional. I’m the guy you call when something like this happens.”

  Focus, Lauren. She made herself breathe out and put distance between herself and the pain. “Who called you about my sister?”

  He hesitated. “Nobody.”

  “You were here four days before my sister was murdered.” Lauren had gleaned that from the receipts in his wallet, which she had pilfered during the physical altercation they’d had at the hospital.

  Heath nodded warily, no doubt wondering how she’d known that. “I was.”

  “Why?”

  “I took some personal leave that I had coming. Thought I’d see the sights.”

  “Did you know she was going to be killed?”

  The question rocked him on his heels. Despite his efforts to remain calm, Lauren saw that she’d caught him by surprise.

  “No. How could you think something like that?”

  “It’s a lot easier than you think. Especially since the masquerade in the morgue.”

  “I went there to get information.”

  “About what?”

  “About whoever killed your sister.”

  “I thought you had that figured out.”

  “I believe I do.”

  Lauren pointed at the rolled-up canvas. “Then tell me what’s going on. Explain to me what my sister’s picture is doing on that. Tell me who killed her.”

  He scowled and walked over to a small table surrounded by three chairs. He raised the beer bottle he’d liberated from the small refrigerator in the corner of the room. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No.”

  Heath sat in one chair and put his feet up in another. He sipped from the beer bottle. “I really would like for you to leave. What’s it going to take to make that happen?”

  Folding her arms over her chest, Lauren ignored him, keeping her focus on the rolled canvas. She felt confident he wasn’t going to try to physically remove her from the room. He’d have already done that if he’d wanted to. And she was certain he didn’t want to have anything to do with the local police after the confrontation in the morgue. The actual coroner had been very vocal about Heath’s presence there. “Do you think Gibson killed Megan?”

  After a brief hesitation, Heath looked at her. “Do you want me to lie to you? Because what I think doesn’t matter.” The note of sarcasm in his voice surprised her. At first she thought it was directed at her, then realized it was more personal than that.

  “I want you to be honest with me. If you can.”

  “I can. And I think Gibson killed your sister. Getting someone else to believe that can be difficult. I know. I’ve tried.” He frowned. “A lot of people, evidently, aren’t prepared for that kind of honesty.”

  Even though she’d asked for the answer, the words hurt. Lauren wasn’t as ready to hear them as she’d thought she would be. Still, she kept her composure. Being weak in foster homes wasn’t something that let a kid survive. She’d learned to keep her emotions inside and present that hard shell to the world.

  “I’m sorry.” Heath blew out a breath.

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, no it’s not. A person shouldn’t have someone taken away from them like that.”

  Lauren heard the note of wistful hurt in his words, and she knew that she wasn’t alone in her pain and misery. As a foster child, she’d learned to read tones and expressions and body language at an early age. That was part of the self-preservation tool set. “Who did you lose?”

  The wince and the slight hunching of his shoulders, like a boxer who had just taken a blow, let her know her instincts had been dead-on. This wasn’t just a case to the detective. “A friend.”

  Lauren nodded toward the canvas. “Is she on there, too?”

  He ran a big hand across his stubbled jaw and took a breath. He didn’t bother looking at the canvas. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s a visual victimology. My friend doesn’t belong with those others. When Gibson killed her, it was different.”

  “What was different?”

  “The motive for the murder. Gibson made Janet’s deat
h personal because she’d made her pursuit of him personal.”

  “How did he make it personal?”

  Heath leaned back against the wall. Green flakes stirred restlessly in those gold eyes, but he looked tired. She hadn’t noticed that earlier in the coroner’s office. Looking at him now, seeing him better, he looked slightly pale beneath the new redness from the sun.

  “We worked a homicide in Atlanta. A real-estate agent. Thirty-two-year-old mother of three.”

  “‘We?’”

  Heath drained the rest of the bottle and set it on the window ledge. “Yeah. Janet and me.”

  “She was a police officer.”

  “Detective. Like me. She was working as lead on the Celeste Morrow murder, working the case with her partner. She used me as a sounding board. We did that for each other when we caught cases where we got stuck and needed an outside opinion. Janet let me have a look at the case.” He stared at the wall, but Lauren knew he wasn’t seeing it. “We both knew the serial killer was a sociopath. All the traits were there. Random killings. Nothing tying the victims together. But the killings were usually savage.”

  Memory of the crime scene photos on the canvas played inside Lauren’s mind. There had been so much blood. “My sister was drowned. She didn’t die like those others.”

  “No. She didn’t. But I learned that Gibson’s name came up in the investigation.”

  “He was identified by the picture she took with him.”

  Heath nodded. “I’ve been monitoring Gibson, trying to stay up with him, but he vanishes whenever he wants to.”

  “Inspector Myton doesn’t think Gibson had anything to do with Megan’s murder.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked him. He didn’t come out and say it, but he let me know he thinks you’re obsessed and perhaps not in your right mind.”

  Heath smiled disparagingly. “Inspector Myton isn’t interested in ruffling any feathers, Miss Cooper. People die down here all the time. Sometimes they’re Americans. Myton accepts that. Part of the cost of doing business. Eventually all of that goes away. If Myton can catch someone red-handed, if that someone isn’t so connected that they’re practically untouchable, he’ll put that someone behind bars. I’m convinced that’s the truth.” Heath looked at her. “The problem down here is that money plays. That’s the name of the game. If someone has enough money, they can get away with murder. And a guy like Gibson has plenty of money.” He paused. “He’s clever, too. Otherwise he’d never have gotten to Janet.”