by Hugh Dutton
First things first, though. He could call Roni, stay there, but being around her would get him thinking on things and he’d need to find him another bitch. He hated all them whiny kids of hers anyway. Better to go out clubbing tonight, socialize, get up with somebody let him hang at their place. Then maybe go get himself another ponytail girl after all, now that thinking about Roni done fired up the old king cobra. Damn, that last jogger-girl was sweet. Another one just like her.
Pete Cully used his key to let himself into the home of Lexy Burgess, per her instructions, following up on her report of a leaking water heater. Two steps in, he locked up like a rusty chainsaw, shocked into complete immobility. He just stared. And stared. And stared, his brain unwilling to accept what his eyes told him. Beautiful, crazy, and oh so damn young Lexy lay on one hip in front of her fireplace, with her back twisted to where both shoulders touched the floor and her head turned to one side. Nude. A gaping jagged gash torn across her throat, wide enough for tissue and cartilage to show. A bloodied fire poker lay beside her, silently telling its part of the story. And lots and lots and lots of blood.
Flies had found a way in somehow, and when he saw them, Pete Cully’s muscles finally unlocked. He doubled over and vomited violently right in the middle of everything. The realization of what he had just done to the crime scene and the spasm that said he was close to doing it again sent him scurrying outside to pollute the lawn instead.
Lexy, Lexy, Lexy. The powerful sense of loss that hammered at him came as a surprise. She had been absolutely wild and temperamental, self-centered as you could get, and promiscuous to the point of deviancy. But seeing her there ripped open, gone for good, reminded him of a different Lexy. The high-school senior he had met nine years back, full of fire and wanting a piece of the world. Wild even then, but always with a sweet side for Uncle Pete. That teenager was whom he saw in his mind now. He dearly wanted to go back in and cover her up, but he knew that was the wrong move if he wanted the cops to catch her murderer.
He jabbed out 911 on his cell with quivering fingers, and promised to stay where he was. Wonder which boy-toy killed her, he thought as he waited. Macken was the only current one he knew of, but trust Lexy to always keep a string of at least three or four. Rage came boiling up through his sorrow, and he said a quick prayer for a chance to stomp the life out of whichever bastard did this. Such a miserable waste. He coughed, cleared his throat, spat, blew his nose, spat again. Picked the phone back up from where he had dropped it. Time to call boss man.
Maggie Davis set her vodka tonic on the kitchen sink sideboard and flipped her phone around to see the screen. “OMG, did you hear she was naked?” the text read. She closed her eyes and made a gagging motion with her finger.
The news of Lexy’s murder had ripped through Heron Point with the speed and impact of a tidal wave. Not only did everyone know Lexy personally, it seemed impossible for such a tragedy to strike a Burgess. But as usual, no one could retell the story without adding his or her own rumors, theories, and embellishments.
Most of her circle believed it to also be the work of the Peeping Tom, that he had moved up to rape and ultimately murder. They were angry at the police for failing to catch the psycho early on, and even angrier with the security guy, Terence, for what they saw as total incompetence. Maggie disagreed with the popular theory, but that wasn’t the reason behind her disenchantment with her gossip network. It had been coming on since the rape anyway, and she just found the image of Lexy’s death too horrifying to serve as tasteful chitchat material. She couldn’t stomach the undertones of delight in their voices at having such a gruesome topic to chew on. She kept picturing people discussing Kimmy’s death with the same breathless hunger for more lurid details. Her disgust slapped her in the face with the nasty truth that she was one of them, forcing her to realize she did not like the person she had become.
In her opinion, Gerry Terence was on the ball. After years of developing the knack of noticing who was doing what with whom, at least when she was on the early side of her drink count, she recognized the trait in someone else. And that man didn’t miss a thing. Which told her that the murderer, whether the same guy or not, lived in Heron Point. Otherwise, Gerry would have seen him. Which in turn just reinforced her premonition of Heron Point crumbling to pieces, something rotten at the core collapsing. Just like her, rotting from the inside out.
In a moment of clarity normally beyond her reach, Maggie knew she was done. Gone, leaving Heron Point. She also came to the startling yet equally decisive insight that, despite their differences, she loved Mark enough to want him to go with her. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t been giving the marriage a chance, making him the scapegoat for her despair at what Maggie Thibideaux had become. And though she had the shameful thought that Lexy’s death could open the door for her with Brady, her rush of clarity included the recognition that Brady’s fine body wouldn’t fix anything either, appetizing as it might be. She had to stop the merry-go-round, and the only way to do it was to leave the carnival. So for her own survival, she had to get out, with or without Mark.
The phone rang. She reached for it like one of Pavlov’s dogs, and then slowly drew her hand back. Done is done. She waited for it to quit ringing and picked up her drink for a swallow. Halfway to her mouth, she stopped. Done is done. And Maggie Davis did something unthinkable up until five minutes before. She leaned across the counter and poured the rest of her drink down the drain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Brady decided to bail out, reaching that conclusion during his morning shower ritual. Not because of the murder of Lexy Burgess, although it had surely knocked any remaining glitter off of life in paradise. His sadness at the news was so complete that his anger toward her vanished in light of the terrible fate she had suffered. He felt haunted by how vibrant and alive she had been. Then zap, all gone. Unplugged. Regardless of how she’d betrayed him, no one deserved that. He had no idea if she had hooked up with a violent boyfriend or something, knew nothing of her personal life, but based on his experience with her he had to wonder if her other business dealings were as treacherous. Could be she crossed someone who had a vicious streak.
No, he was moving out because he had no choice financially if he was to have any defense in a legal battle against Leo Burgess. In the two days since Schlatt cut him loose, he had job-hunted enough to believe he could land one, but found no start-right-away propositions. And he feared the long reach of Burgess would torpedo any background check. With the end of the month looming and too little money to come up with both the rent and the needed replacement check, forfeiting his last month’s rent in lieu of notice stood as his only chance. At least then, he would be able to show that he left no debts hanging.
If he used these last three days to pack up what he could and scoot out under the radar, he might be able to find a place he could get into with what little cash he had. He couldn’t think of anyone to hit for a quick loan, especially when he couldn’t venture the vaguest guess as to when he might be able to repay it. And the butt-kicker was, even if he got the money he stayed on the hook for fraud, the way he understood the law. Nor did blowing out of Heron Point mean he could leave town. Even considering such an action gave him visions of a national fugitive chase, with his picture hanging in the post office captioned, “Have you seen this Filipino?”
The hope came to him, so cold-hearted and self-centered he felt dismay at even thinking of it: maybe he could just get lost in the uproar over Lexy’s death. Maybe no one would care whether Nick had an alibi for the rape. But then the same wise-ass little voice pointed out that as soon as Burgess realized Brady now represented Nick’s only chance at an alibi, things were going to get even uglier.
The coffee finished brewing with a gurgling rush of steam, and he took his cup out on the porch with him. He expected to see Pete out and about early, having pegged him as a guy who would use work as his method of coping with tragedy. Brady wanted to tell Pete of his plans, the guy was his only frie
nd here, but he could not afford for Burgess to know yet. Friend or not, Pete was Burgess’s right-hand man. Brady had no idea how much Pete might know of the squeeze he was in—neither of them had ever brought it up.
He eased out to the porch without slopping his coffee and glanced around, but no Pete. Instead, what he did see was a black BMW parked diagonally across his lawn, its nose crumpled against a palm tree. He set his cup down and came on out to investigate what the hell this deal was. As he neared the car he saw a man inside, slumped back at an angle in the driver’s seat with his head resting against the side window. Oh, that’s just great, he thought, all I need now is a dead guy in my yard.
He tapped lightly on the passenger-side glass, but the man did not move. He knocked harder. Still nothing. Figuring there couldn’t be a law against opening a car in your own yard, he tried the door. It opened, and a dry, raspy snore told him the man was a long way from dead. The foul odor of stale whiskey made it clear how he ended up in Brady’s yard. So what to do now? Was there any such thing as a drunk-removal service? He did not have the heart to call the police on the guy, in light of his own current predicament.
He looked the sleeping man over. Probably a neighbor in paradise, but he was a stranger to Brady. A few years older than himself, dressed in crumpled business attire, he looked like he would be the pretty-boy type when not passed out on someone’s lawn. Brady’s stint as a bartender had taught him never to wake a drunk sleeping in his car. Some of them wake up mean and you never know which one is armed.
Before he came to any decision the guy’s eyes popped open, milky and bloodshot. He peered at Brady, looked around the car, moved a sticky-sounding tongue around in his mouth, and peered at Brady again.
“Hey, man, what’re you doing in my yard?” the guy asked. It all ran together as one word, meaning forget hangover, he was still bombed. Late night or lots of booze. Probably both.
“Sorry for the confusion, friend,” Brady said in his best bartender style. “But this is actually my yard. Where do you live?”
The guy closed one eye and shook a finger at him. “Are you screwing my wife? Trying to sneak out?”
Uh-oh, hope he isn’t one of the armed kind. “Buddy, I don’t even know who your wife is. Maybe we can call her. We gotta get you home.”
“ ’Cause if you are, I don’t blame you. She’s still pretty hot. And I’m done with her.”
“Trust me, I’m not. What’s your name, friend?”
“Jefferson Davis Macken,” he said proudly. He pounded his chest, setting off a coughing fit. When it subsided, he said, “I go by J.D., though. Don’t want everybody thinking I’m a diehard racist like my parents.” His eyes watered up. “Can you believe they could do that to a little boy? Name him that?”
“Sounds terrible,” Brady agreed. Crying drunks were better than shooting drunks, but not exactly fun either. “Look, J.D., I’m Brady, it’s nice to meet you. Where do you live, partner?”
“Are you sure you aren’t screwing my wife?” The tears started rolling now. “ ’Cause it’s okay if you are. She deserves better than me anyway.”
“I’m sure. What’s her name, let’s call her.”
“Then what the hell are you doing in my yard?” J.D. demanded belligerently, his tears shutting off like a tap.
“J.D., we covered this, it’s not your yard. Here, get out and look for yourself.” And walk some of this off so you can get out of my life.
J.D. nodded solemnly and clambered out without quite falling flat. He cast a suspicious glare around, blinking against the morning sun. “Well, no damned wonder I parked in the yard. Somebody moved the driveway to the wrong side of the house. And holy shit, what happened to my car?”
He attempted a quick move toward the front of the BMW, promptly stopped, and threw up on the lawn.
Brady sighed, turning away from the nauseating smell. “Gee, thanks, dude. That’s really going to help the grass.” He took advantage of the break in the comedy to paw through the dash compartment. Here we go: J.D. Macken, thirty-nine Cypress Lane. Just one street over and one block off. Heck, he could walk back.
Hearing that the worst of the retching had stopped, he walked to his Jeep, grabbed a bottle of water, and handed it to his wobbly nuisance, holding his breath as he did so. Pee-yew.
“Here, J.D., try some of this. Then when you’re up to it, hop in and we’ll go find where they put your driveway. Car looks okay to drive.”
He expected argument, but J.D. just folded himself shakily into the passenger seat. Brady felt like cheering when the car started and pulled free of the palm. He eased it over the curb without banging the bottom, and they were off.
During the short drive, J.D. turned all weepy again, mumbling repeatedly about his “sweet Lexy girl” and “life wasn’t worth it without her.” Brady realized with a start that this guy had been having an affair with Lexy. The thought made him look over at J.D. again, wondering if she ever saw him in this condition. The massive binge made sense now; Brady might go on one himself if someone murdered his lover. J.D. had a wife he had cried about too. What a mess that sounded like. Maybe he killed Lexy. Sure acted tore up about her death, but maybe that was how murderers were. Brady had no idea, never met a murderer that he knew of.
He got the guy home and up to his door, then beat feet out of there. Enough Samaritan routine for the day.
Turning the last corner to his soon-to-be-former house, he spotted Pete squatting down in the yard, inspecting the scarred tree and explanatory tire tracks while talking on his cell phone. Brady waited at the corner to describe the accident, not wishing to interrupt the phone call.
“No, no, I’m not saying that,” Pete said into the phone. “I don’t think he could do that to his sister. Hell, he wouldn’t have stood a chance against her anyway . . .
“Gerry doesn’t believe it’s the same guy and said the cops won’t either, that’s why . . .
“No, I don’t want to bother you with this right now. You called me, remember . . .
“I haven’t said a thing, and I won’t unless we get a better picture of things, I promise . . .
“I’ll get on it soon as I knock out what I’ve got here . . . Okay, boss.” He punched off and half-turned to stuff the phone in his back pocket, eyes widening as he faced Brady. “You make a habit out of listening in on other people’s calls?”
“No, I don’t. And I didn’t pay any attention to yours,” Brady lied. He walked up and punched Pete’s arm. “I didn’t hear a word of you explaining to your girlfriend that you had a vasectomy so it couldn’t be you.”
Pete grinned. “You’re all right, Spain, you know that? Least for a Carolina boy.” He cocked his head, looking at Brady sideways. “They find me in a ditch someday, you remember everything you didn’t pay attention to, you hear?”
They stood there in a freeze-frame, Pete’s grin a little strained, Brady not sure if he was serious. Pete broke off eye contact and waved at the tree. “The hell happened here?”
Brady laughed, more of a nervous release of pressure from the weird tableau than any real amusement. He described his morning with J.D. and went on to point out the gunk Pete should avoid stepping in.
“Well, old tree’s gonna be okay, don’t know about J.D.,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Can’t help but kind of feel for the guy. Even give him sort of a pass on being married. Guy like him didn’t have a chance of resisting Lexy, God rest her, once she set her mind on him. Unless he did it, then I’m gonna do something ugly and Stone Age to him.”
He paused, kicking the ridges of dirt down into the tire marks and smoothing it with the sole of his boot. Then he looked back up and said, “Look, Brady, I don’t want to be minding your business, but you need to understand there’s some things I can’t control. And you need to know there’s some things you can’t control. Hell, there’s stuff nobody can control. You find yourself in a spot like that, Gerry Terence is a good man at sorting things out fair.”
Anna Burgess liste
ned until she heard her husband hang up the receiver, then soft-footed back to the den for a rest. She felt completely bloated, her body swollen with grief. Her baby had been cruelly snatched away by the forces of evil. Little Lexy, so called because it was as close as Alexandra could come to saying her own name as a toddler. Anna crossed to the dimmest corner of the den to lie down. Even with the shades drawn she still needed to cover her eyes with a towel, as any light at all made her head throb.
The police would not let her have her little girl’s earthly remains yet, disturbing Anna’s deepest convictions. She had grown up in an immigrant Ukrainian family to whom funerals were sacred and ritualized events. More evil delivered unto her. And she feared she was going to break in half from the additional agony caused by her certainty that those same dark forces were after Nicky, now her only baby. Anna had always wished for many more children, the big family Leo promised during their courtship, but her body had not been blessed with the capability.
Imagining a houseful of kids and remembering Lexy’s infancy evoked memories of her own childhood. When she would spend her afternoons at her father’s Esso station to escape the chaos of life in a family of twelve. Hanging around, watching him work and generally making a pest of herself. An irreversible resolution rose in her heart. Those memories surfacing at this very moment could not be coincidence. It was a message to her, telling her what must be done. She knew whom Leo had been talking to in there, heard what he said. She now had to hope that God would forgive her for taking the only path she could see clearly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Gerry Terence had been surprised when Pete called and asked to meet at his office, but he instantly guessed the why. Pete asked to meet at five, which was about the time Gerry started his rounds at Heron Point. So he expected to be pulled off the job. Probably for the best anyhow, since he felt uneasy about attempting to continue his pervert chase in the middle of a homicide investigation, and all of Heron Point would soon be under that spotlight. Too, getting canned would give him a free hand to push the hot-potato questions he had for Pete.
