by Joanna Wayne
LONG SHADOWS from gigantic oak trees danced along the edge of the walk and shaded the sandy area where Timmy and another boy about his size pushed their trucks and made motor noises. His initial burst of energy was finally exhausted from swinging, climbing and zooming down the slide, and he’d settled into quieter play.
Susan turned her eyes from him to the sidewalk where Rebecca, chatting with another pigtailed skater, rolled by.
“Cute kids, but they must keep you running,” Jack admitted, brushing sand from his jeans.
“I told you the park would not be conducive to conversing.”
“You told me.” He took her elbow and guided her to a nearby park bench. “But the kids looked so disappointed. And you look as if you could use a little fun in your life as well.”
“At a time like this, wasting time on fun seems almost inhumane.”
“At times like this, fun may be the only thing that makes sense.”
“That’s a strange philosophy.”
“Not really.” He dropped to the bench and motioned for Susan to sit beside him. “Homicide detectives deal with death every day. Some men give in to the depression. An unfortunate few have been known to eat a bullet. The rest of us fight it. Fun is a major weapon in the battle. Fun, and little things like laughter and smiles on children’s faces.”
A gust of wind swept across Susan’s face, bringing with it the scent of supper cooking in someone’s kitchen. Little things. The things her mother had never lived to give her. The things Carrie could no longer give Rebecca and Timmy. The things Maggie Henderson would never give her children.
A feeling of emptiness welled up inside her. Her gaze scanned the play area and the sidewalk nervously until she spied both of the children. Rebecca waved, and a warmth seeped into the cold, empty crevices of her heart.
“We have to stop this madman, Jack, before he kills again.”
“So tell me about the alibi,” Jack urged, turning to face her.
“If he has one, I couldn’t get it out of him.”
“Then tell me everything. You can start with a name.”
They spent the next half hour discussing Gabriel and the day’s session. Jack took only a few notes, but his gaze was so intense, Susan felt as if he were pulling the facts from her brain.
Finally, emotionally drained, she leaned against the back of the bench and hoped for a reprieve from Jack’s endless questions. She didn’t get it.
“Tell me about the year you worked with your father at the Potter-McKnight Mental Health and Research Center,” he said, leaning closer. “You must have run into some real lulus there.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I can’t play Santa all the time.”
She ignored his attempt at humor. “It’s been six years since I worked at the Center.”
“Psychopaths have long memories.”
Susan shivered, partly from the temperature, which had dropped as the sun sank lower in the sky, and partly from the memories the mention of the Center had awakened in her mind.
“I don’t know how much I remember about individual patients from that time.”
“I’m preparing a memory refresher for you—a computer printout of all the patients who were in the Center the year you were there, their names and diagnoses.”
“And you want to go over that with me?”
“You’ve got it. Like I said, you’ll get awfully tired of having me around if we don’t solve Maggie Henderson’s murder soon. Did you find out if she was ever a patient of yours?”
“She wasn’t. So the connection has to lie somewhere else.”
“Auntie Mom, my wheel’s loose. Can you fix it?” Susan looked up as Rebecca limped toward her, one skate on, the other in her hand.
Jack reached for the skate, turning it upside down and giving the wobbly wheel a spin. “Looks like we’ll need a wrench, Rebecca. Do you have one on you?”
“No.” She giggled and batted her eyes at Jack. “But Santa should know how to fix skates.”
“Not me. What do you think the elves are for?”
She giggled again, and Susan bit back a cutting comment. Jack was only playing, teasing Rebecca and making her laugh. So why did resentment gnaw at her? Maybe it was because he was so natural with them, did so easily what she couldn’t do it all, no matter how hard she tried.
“Why don’t you take your other skate off,” Susan suggested, “and go and play with your brother? We’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
Jack bent and unbuckled it for her. She gave him a hug and ran off. A hug. She’d seen the man twice, and yet she’d hugged him as though he was a favorite uncle.
Rebecca had lived with Susan for months before she’d hugged her like that. And even now hugs were more of a formality than a spontaneous gesture. They were reserved for goodbyes, good-nights and special favors. Not removed skates.
“Auntie Mom. That’s an interesting nickname,” Jack commented, leaning back on the bench and propping his right ankle over his left knee.
“It’s Rebecca’s invention. I’m neither their mother nor their aunt.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“By whom?”
“Rebecca. The first time I met her she explained that you were her guardian. You seem to be doing a wonderful job with them.”
“I try, but I wouldn’t describe my attempts as wonderful,” Susan admitted honestly. “They moved in ten months ago. Their mother was my best friend. She and their father were killed in a head-on collision on a dark, rainy highway. They died instantly. There were no other living relatives.” The memory of the deaths touched her as always, reaching inside her and wringing her heart raw.
She sat quietly for a minute, lost in her own thoughts as the sun rode the horizon. The quiet was short-lived. Timmy grew tired of the toddler play area and started toward the big slide.
“I think it’s zoom time again,” Susan said.
Jack beat her to her feet and headed toward Timmy. Susan followed him, but she might as well have stayed seated for all she was needed. Timmy scrambled up the ladder like an expert and Jack caught him at the bottom of the slide. If she had to bet on who was having the most fun, she’d have put her money on the big kid in the Santa hat.
A boy at heart, a cop by choice. And judging from this afternoon, he was very good at both. She just hoped he was good enough at the latter. Someone’s life depended on it.
9:30 p.m.
“YOU WILL BE BEGGING for mercy before Christmas.” Jack bounced the quote around on his tongue. It mixed with the taste of beer and pizza and came out tasting no better.
“So what do you think, Casanova?” He stared at his fellow detective across the top of the two half-empty beer bottles that sat between them. “Do you think we have a hoax? Someone trying to kill Maggie Henderson and lay the suspicions elsewhere? Or do we have a genuine serial killer who’s got it in for the doctor?”
“There’s a chance, albeit an outside one, that the note and the murder are unrelated. It’s not the first time we’ve found bodies in that particular area.”
“A coincidence would be way outside. But that’s the reason we’re keeping the details of the strangling away from the media. If we get another note and it happens to mention a silk scarf, we know he’s likely our man.”
“The reporters will go ballistic if they find out there really is a serial killer and you knocked them out of a big story. Of course, they’ll claim they’re only protecting the rights of the citizens.”
“Yeah, so what’s new?”
“I’d say that for the time being, you’re stuck with the dragon lady.”
“Yeah.” Jack nodded and took a long swallow of the cold brew. “She’s not quite as formidable as I took her for at first, but she’s no bundle of laughs. I promise you that. And she guards the secrets of her upscale patients like she was the mother bear and those were injured cubs.”
“Do you think she’s hiding something?”<
br />
“Not intentionally. But I think the answer to this guy’s identity is hidden in those locked folders she has in her office.”
“Get a search warrant.” Casanova leaned back and watched as a tall, slender blond woman walked through the door. “And speaking of searches, I’d like to pat down that one.”
“Don’t you ever think of anything besides getting a woman in the sack?”
“When I have to.” He turned his attention back to Jack. “So, about the search warrant?”
“Not a chance. No judge is going to force McKnight to release every record, not when the good doctor claims she’s working with me on this.” Jack used his finger to scoop a pile of pepperoni and cheese that had fallen from his pizza. He deposited it on top of the one remaining bite of crust and popped it into his mouth.
“Then what’s your game plan?”
Jack chewed and swallowed. “I’ve just got to convince her to trust me.”
“It’ll never happen.”
“And why not?”
Casanova downed the last of his beer. “Because you told me the woman was smart.” He laughed at his own joke and turned away long enough to flash the blonde at the bar a smile. “One other question,” he said, “before I move on to more interesting company.”
“Shoot.”
“How was Maggie Henderson connected to Susan McKnight?”
“That’s still part of the puzzle. Maggie was an up-and-coming professional, younger than Susan, but she bore a striking resemblance to her. It could be this guy’s anger is directed toward Susan McKnight and that he plans to choose victims who represent her in his mind. You know, professional women, attractive, maybe even intimidating the way Dr. McKnight is.”
“So she intimidates you, does she?”
Casanova was smiling, in spite of the seriousness of the subject under discussion. Jack wasn’t bothered by it. As he’d told Susan, if cops didn’t keep their sense of humor, they’d drown in the mire.
“Dr. Susan McKnight would intimidate a Louisiana alligator,” he admitted. “But I’m not worried. She likes me.” He got up and slapped a couple of bills on the table. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”
“You’re not getting hooked on this woman, are you?”
“Me? Hooked on the dragon lady? You’ve got to be kidding. She’d be more trouble than running out of beer on Mardi Gras.”
“I’d never let a little thing like trouble keep me from a beautiful woman.”
“And that’s the difference between a smart man and a fool.”
A quick goodbye and Jack was out the door, jogging the half block to his car in a steady drizzle.
He’d wanted to meet with Susan again tonight, question her about any possible links between her patients and the note. But she’d put him off until tomorrow morning when she could get a sitter for her young charges. He suspected it was because she needed more time to decide how little information she could get away with giving him.
The motor of his car purred at the twist of his key. He should have turned left off St. Charles Avenue, but he took a right instead. He’d like another look at Susan’s office. This time he’d see it in the dark, the way the killer had two nights ago when he’d stepped onto her porch and slipped the note under her mat.
An evening rain shower delivered its first drops of moisture as Jack pulled up to the curb and stopped, two houses down from Susan’s office. Large oak trees spread their near-leafless branches, creating a shadowy arch over the street. It was only a few minutes past ten, but already most of the houses on the block were dark, the only light on the street emanating from the watery glow of streetlights.
And the porch of Susan’s office was the darkest on the block. No wonder. The streetlight in front of her place was out. Had that been a lucky break for the killer, the night he’d delivered the note, or had he made sure it was out? Jack put the car in gear and let it roll slowly forward, a thousand questions plaguing his mind. It wasn’t until he was past Susan’s place that he saw the light creeping under the blinds in the back room of her office.
He braked to a stop as a shadow moved inside, silhouetted against her window blind. As he watched, the dark shape crossed the window again. One thing for certain, the tall, broad-shouldered figure was not Susan. And he could think of no reason why anyone else would be rambling around her office at this time of night, unless the guest was up to no good.
Jack parked the car a few yards from the house. Gun drawn, he moved silently through the night, hoping that the man prowling through Susan’s office was the man who’d strangled the life from Maggie Henderson.
If he was, they could turn out the lights. The killing party would be over.
Chapter Four
Jack wiggled the knob on the front door. Unlocked. His brain switched to automatic, as he checked for signs the lock had been jimmied. There were none. Silently, he pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The light was off in the foyer and front room of the office, but the door leading to the next room was open a crack. The light spilled out over the carpet and glistened across the top of a well-polished desk.
He moved cautiously, scanning the shadows of the semi-darkened room. No side doors, no surprises. That was one of the nice things about these old shotgun houses, especially if you were a cop. They went straight back. A bullet entering the front door could exit the back, or so it was said. That was how the house design had gotten its name.
Jack crossed the reception area, stopping where he could peer through the crack and into the lighted room. A male, Caucasian, over six feet tall, average build. His mind took in the details. The suspect sat at a large mahogany desk, reading intently from pages that rested inside a legal-sized manila folder.
So Jack was not the only one interested in the contents of those forbidden files. Adrenaline shot through him as possibilities rushed his brain. And none of the possibilities were that Susan had given permission for the man in the tailored sports shirt and chino slacks to enter her office at night and read her precious confidential records.
Hand poised at the butt of his gun, Jack kicked the door, sending it crashing against the wall. “Police. Put your hands up and keep them there.”
“Don’t shoot!” The man jumped into the air, his eyes so wide they bumped into his brows. “Please, don’t shoot.”
“Give me one good reason not to.” Jack flashed his badge and sized up the young man who had turned a ghostly shade of white.
“I work here,” he said, his voice shaky, guilt plastered on his drawn face.
“At this time of the night?”
“I had to leave early today so I came in to catch up on a few things. I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Just a dedicated worker. But in case you’re lying to me, spread your legs and put your hands on the wall behind you.”
The man complied, and the pat-down revealed nothing except that the man had a smell of beer on his breath.
Hands outstretched, the suspect backed away from the wall and turned toward Jack, the color slowly returning to his face. “I can explain everything.”
“So start talking,” Jack said, his gaze scanning the room for anything unusual. Everything was in order except the third drawer of the file cabinet. It was open.
“My name is Bobby Chambers. I’m Dr. McKnight’s secretary. Call her if you don’t believe me.”
Jack tumbled from his short-lived high. This guy probably did work here and was no more a killer than Jack was. Still, the man had some explaining to do. Sitting at the boss’s desk reading private files on a Friday night didn’t give the man a lot of credibility.
Jack reached for the phone.
“Wait.” The man shuffled in place, his hands digging into his pockets and rattling his keys.
“Either you work for Dr. McKnight or you don’t.” Jack stepped closer. “Make up your mind, and make it up fast. I’m not a patient man. Besides, we have a couple of empty cells tonight and the chief hates wasting the space.”
“I work for her, but I…uh…I’d hate for you to wake her. She goes to bed early. Besides, I have identification on me and I have a key to the office.” He pulled his key ring from his pocket and chose one from the dangling assortment, poking it at Jack. “And I have a plaque on my desk with my name on it. I’ll show it to you.” He turned and took a step toward the front office.
“Not so fast. I’ll take a look at that identification first.”
Bobby pulled out a leather wallet and handed it to Jack. “My driver’s license is on top, and my gym card’s right underneath it. Both of them have my picture.”
Jack gave them a fast once-over, satisfying himself that the man was who he said he was. And he didn’t need to see the plaque on the man’s desk to know that Bobby Chambers worked for Dr. McKnight.
He’d already checked him out, and his record was squeaky clean. All part of a good cop’s job. But Mr. Chambers’s late-night office hours were still suspect.
Jack returned the wallet and picked up the two files that were spread open on the desk. Gabriel Hornsby and Carolina Taylor. A low whistle escaped Jack’s lips. Speak of the devil. The very suspect Susan had discussed with him, but she’d been stingy on facts. Now they were all in his hands.
Jack’s conscience stabbed him in the gut. He ignored it. Snooping might be unethical in Susan McKnight’s book, but somewhere on the streets tonight was a man who’d killed before and had vowed he’d do it again. The next victim’s life might be measured in hours. Or seconds.
Jack dropped Gabriel Hornsby’s file to the desk.
“Those records are confidential,” Bobby said timidly.
“So what were you doing with them?”
“Databasing. To tell you the truth, I had a fight with my girlfriend tonight. I didn’t want to go home alone, so I decided to work a while, catch up on a few things. I’m working on a project for Dr. McKnight, getting old records together.”
