by Linda Barlow
After her talk with Darcy, who had passionately denied the charges and insisted that this was the first she’d heard of any complaints about the cathedral’s design, Annie returned to the office. She let herself in with her key and identified herself to the night security guard. Everybody else had gone home.
She first looked at the CAD file for the cathedral, which was stored on her computer, then she got out the blueprints generated by the CAD software. She took these to the conference room, and spread them out on the table.
Giuseppe had asked to have a look at the architectural plans for the building. He had, in fact, asked for the originals. He’d never had a chance to examine them. He’d been murdered first.
She hadn’t thought much about it at the time. But now…
Dammit, she wished she had more training in such matters as structural stress and load. Although she understood the technical issues involved, she didn’t feel competent to assess whether there were any mistakes in the specifications.
Annie heard footsteps in the corridor outside the conference room. She raised her head guiltily. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be examining the plans, but even so—
The door opened. It was Sam. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Saw the light and wondered who was working so diligently at this hour.”
Go away,
“What are you up to?” he asked, coming farther into the room. “Those are the cathedral drawings, aren’t they?”
“Yes. I was just having another look.”
His eyes slid from her face to the blueprints and back. Annie felt herself flushing.
Sam sat down opposite her. “This is about Foster’s theory, isn’t it? Annie, I told you I’d checked the drawings myself.” He frowned, and there was a reproachful look in his eyes. “What are you afraid of?”
She started to protest that she wasn’t afraid, but the words jammed at the back of her throat. The truth was, in recent days she had begun to feel that everything in her life was shifting. She was in San Francisco, city of earthquakes, and the ground was moving beneath her feet. The accusations against Vico and Matt just hadn’t rung true to her. But there was something about this idea of construction fraud that made her very uneasy.
“Look,” Sam went on, “I’ve been following up on that discussion we had the other day. I’ve talked to the detectives and assured them that Sidney Canin is a troublemaker and a liar who bears the firm a monumental grudge. And I gave Darcy my backing, one hundred percent.”
“Darcy’s certainly not a killer. At least, I don’t think she is.”
“Thanks, Sam. I agree with you about Sidney, by the way.”
“From what I understand about routine murder investigations, they have to explore all the angles. But I don’t think that necessarily means that they take any one theory too seriously—at least not until they have some solid evidence.” He paused. “For example, another angle that they ran by me is that Giuseppe’s murder had something to do with the death of Francesca Carlyle.”
Terrific. Notthisagain.
“It seems the police have a theory that Giuseppe may have been Francesca’s lover. If so…” A moment later he added, “Annie, is it true that you’ve been seeing Matt on a personal basis?”
When she hesitated to reply, Sam quickly added, “I don’t mean to pry into your private life. It’s just that Matt has had a lot of trouble with the police, and if they’re going to be investigating him again and you’re involved with him, it will affect your life too.”
“Sam, I thought Matt Carlyle was a good friend of yours!”
“He is, Annie. We’ve known each other for over twenty years.”
“Well then, how can you possibly still think that he killed his wife, or that he’d be capable of murdering Giuseppe—”
“Annie,” he said slowly, cutting her off, “we’re not talking about my personal thoughts on the matter. It’s the police who think he’s the killer who got away. They couldn’t nail him for the first murder, so they’re hot to get him for this one.”
“But they don’t have any evidence! Sidney probably made up that story about Giuseppe and Francesca being lovers to cover up the fact that he and Francesca were lovers.”
Sam shook his head. “Sidney and Francesca? Nah. Sid may have been hot for her—in fact, I know he was. Francesca was pretty amused by him, too, heartless flirt that she was. But he wasn’t the one.”
“You say that as if you know who was.”
“I do. Francesca and I were friends for years, remember. Hell, I knew her even longer than I’ve known Matt. She never actually admitted it to me, but I knew all along that she and Giuseppe were involved. I saw them locked in a passionate embrace one day in the old church.”
“My God, Sam!”
“I kept it to myself during Matthew’s trial. I knew Giuseppe had left the country, so of course he couldn’t have been the killer. But how could I come forward and admit what I’d seen? It wouldn’t help Matt; it could only hurt him for that testimony to come out.
“So I kept silent. God, Annie, it’s bothered me a lot, but Matt’s my friend and I figured I owed him that much loyalty.
“Now, though, with Giuseppe dead… He was killed on the same day that Matthew visited the cathedral and saw that he was back in the country. Then the cops find Matt’s fingerprints on the scaffolding.” He shook his head fretfully. “What am I supposed to think?”
“You know as well as I do how his fingerprints got there! I was with him. Matt didn’t kill anyone.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself. Matt’s just not the type to do something like this. There has to be some other explanation. It’s been driving me crazy, trying to figure it out.”
“Sam, you’re not going to the police with this, are you?”
“No. No, of course not. I just wish they’d catch the guy. It’s agonizing to have this suspicion on my conscience as one murder after another takes place.”
She reached forward and gripped his hands in hers. “He didn’t do it. Please believe that. He needs his friends now. Please don’t turn on him now that things are once again looking black.”
“He’s very lucky to have found you, Annie,” Sam said. “Don’t worry. Matt’s always been able to count on me.”
Chapter Thirty-two
After leaving the office that evening, Annie drove back to the construction site. Her thoughts were whirling. The possibility that Matt had indeed had a solid motive to kill both his wife and Giuseppe made her all the more determined to prove his innocence. This time, she noted, the lights were off in Fletcher’s trailer.
Without giving herself time to hesitate or think much about it, Annie drove two blocks past the cathedral, parked, and took her flashlight and her tools out of the glove compartment. Then she darted back up the street to the trailer.
Checking carefully to make certain nobody was around, she pressed herself against the door of Fletcher’s trailer and knocked. With her ear to the door, she listened for any sound from within. She heard nothing.
She pulled out her tools and deftly set to work. She was amazed at how quickly and easily her fingers remembered. In less than a minute, she was in.
*
At his place in the Castro district that night, Fletcher was reminded of all the reasons why he hated his apartment. Location, location, location. The Castro was full of gays.
It was a nice neighborhood, clean and safe, but just down the hill was a commercial area packed with small shops—health foods stores, pharmacies, bookstores, hairdressers, and more. It was always crowded with weirdos who gave Fletcher the creeps. Men holding hands, sometimes hugging and kissing. Women dressed in tight leather miniskirts walking arm and arm with other women. Guys with brightly colored tattoos all over their bare chests and backs, girls with rings through their nostrils.
And the gym he worked out in—most of them in there were gay as well. Christ, he hated this city.
Hell, he’d like to leave, but Annie was here.
> And all he seemed to think about these days was Annie.
He was mainly thinking that none of his tactics were working. He’d set out to scare her and bring her closer into his orbit, but what were a few anonymous letters compared to a murder? He’d tried to make those poison-pen letters sound really weird—like some nut with a God complex or something—but no one seemed to care much about them. The killer had stolen his thunder.
Maybe he needed to alter the game a bit. Or at least play by different rules. He’d planned to have Annie at least partially willing because things were less of a hassle that way, especially afterward. But the fact was, he wanted to possess and control her—to own her—so it didn’t really matter whether she was willing. If she knew what was good for her, she’d submit, abjectly and fearfully. She’d bow to his will while he did anything and everything he wanted to her.
But in order for that to happen, he had to show her who was boss.
The thought aroused him.
He felt pumped, hot.
Ready to act. He needed to act. The pressures inside him were building up too strong.
The first time, though, would have to be by guile. She was a little nervous now; hell, she had to be. He remembered the terror in her voice when she’d found herself trapped in the night-black basement. The cathedral must be a scary place to her now.
So she was all the more in need of a man to rescue her. Save her from the dark demons of superstition that had come to haunt the place.
He had to get her back there, and it had to be night. That’s when the claiming of Annie would take place.
And after that, well, then he could bring her to his apartment. The one good thing about the Castro district was that people minded their own business. Hell, he’d seen people walking in the streets with their hands secured behind their backs in leather wrist cuffs, guided along by their “masters.” People were into some weird shit. He could probably lead Annie along the street with a dog collar and leash and nobody would even raise a single pierced eyebrow.
Yeah, he liked the idea. He’d claim her at the construction site and then he’d bring her here.
Despite the cutesy-cutesy atmosphere out on the street, Fletcher’s apartment was all man. He subscribed to several survivalist magazines, and every now and then he bought some of their mail order stuff. Some of the things you could buy through the mail were amazing. Of course, it wasn’t always legal to own it. Fletcher had a couple of handguns and even an Uzi down in his basement, its various pieces carefully disassembled and stored in different cartons. He could assemble the thing in under two minutes flat if he had to, but its presence wouldn’t be obvious to anybody poking through his things.
His favorite new piece of gear was his Desert Commando knife. He’d ordered it just a few weeks ago, and it had come in a plain brown cardboard package with some kind of computer software logo on it.
But the knife wasn’t software. No, it was hardware of the most impressive kind. The blade was sixteen inches long and four inches across at its widest point. It was slightly curved, and sharp on both the top and the bottom edges.
It was the mother of all knives.
Fletcher pulled out the knife and looked at it, hefted it. He felt restless, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping so good lately. His brain was too busy plotting and planning; his head was full of fantasies.
Somehow he had to get Annie to come to the cathedral at night. That was the key. There had to be a way to do it. He had to find a way.
Fletcher put down his knife and grabbed his jacket. He’d come home tonight because he’d thought he might sleep better, but now he knew it wasn’t going to happen. He needed to be at the site. He could plan better there. Besides, at the site, he felt much closer to Annie, even though-it was several hours before he’d see her there.
He grabbed his knife as he was going out the door.
You never knew when a good knife would come in handy.
Annie did not feel good about herself as she snooped through the contents of Jack Fletcher’s trailer. She told herself that she was doing this for a good cause—Matt’s freedom—but still she felt sleazy.
Fletcher’s home away from home was neat and orderly. He had a narrow cot, a small refrigerator, and a microwave oven. He also had a computer, which was sitting on a countertop that had been converted to a makeshift desk. Annie switched it on as she opened drawers and looked for papers, receipts, and correspondence. She didn’t want to turn on the lights in the trailer, but the computer screen gave her a little glow.
In the drawer under the computer she found a set of handwritten supervisory forms on McEnerney Construction letterhead. Fletcher had been filling in the forms daily, detailing the activities of the various subcontractors and their schedules along with comments about their work.
There might be something here, she decided, sitting down in front of the computer to study the forms with the aid of her flashlight. She wished she had a Xerox machine handy. There were a lot of papers.
Fletcher was so intent on his fantasies that he drove right by the construction site without noticing. He went four blocks too far before he realized what he’d done.
It happened a lot while he was driving. He put himself on automatic pilot and just let his mind drift. Images were coming back to him. Memories were being unearthed—things so far in the past that he’d thought they were buried forever.
He’d always been good at blocking out the bad memories. His mother, stripping him naked and beating him with a metal curtain rod—his mind still shied away from those images, thank God. When she’d died of cancer, he’d actually been glad. He’d never gotten even with her because the cancer had finished her, and he resented that. Sometimes he thought the cancer had been too good for her.
But Annie inspired the good memories. Sometimes when he thought about her, his brain hyperlinked to other moments in time, and he found himself envisioning another girl… another blond-haired lady with buff-colored fingernails and some sweet perfume that smelled like summer wildflowers.
When he thought of her—that long-ago, long-buried girl, he felt it starting all over again. Those wicked, delicious feelings that he thought he’d conquered. Those feelings his counselor in prison had urged him to bury, bury deep. Bury them with the girl, the girl he’d kidnapped, the girl he’d mastered, the girl he’d loved day after day in the dark secret basement where he’d kept her, the girl he’d oh-so-adoringly choked because he’d read that the less oxygen she breathed while fucking, the deeper her sexual ecstasy would be…
He hadn’t meant to choke her too hard. He’d cried and mourned and felt completely lost for weeks after her death.
They’d never gotten him for that.
They’d gotten him for the rape.
Anyhow, he wasn’t sure he’d killed her. He wasn’t sure if it had been real, or a dream, or a nightmare fantasy. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever known her, ever touched her—if she’d even been real.
But Annie—she was real.
She was real, and she was his.
Annie’s fingers froze as she heard the crunch of gravel under tires. She doused her flashlight and shut down the computer.
It had to be Fletcher, she thought. Who else would come there in the middle of the night?
She slipped the forms she’d been studying back into the drawer where she’d found them, then rushed to the door and cracked it open. She could see the sweep of headlights coming toward her. There was no place to hide in the trailer, she realized. She had to get out or she would be caught. But with the headlights shining directly at the trailer, she didn’t dare open the door any wider. He would see her; he would know.
The headlights angled and turned, and she figured he was looking for a place to park where his tires wouldn’t get stuck in the mud. The front of the trailer was dark now and she didn’t think he could see her. But if he was parking so close, he’d be upon her any second.
Go! Go! she ordered her
self. She eased the door open—it didn’t squeak, thank God—and slipped out, forcing herself to move carefully, silently. She darted along the side of the trailer, keeping in the shadow of its dark hulk as she glanced uneasily at the bright moon. She heard a car door close at the far end of the trailer, and she slipped around the corner at the back just as his heavy footsteps approached the door where, seconds ago, she’d been standing.
The lock. She hadn’t had time to relock the door behind her. Dammit, she had to get away from here now!
There was another trailer to the rear of Fletcher’s, and she ran silently for it, taking refuge on its far side. The latch had been flimsy, and perhaps he’d simply think he hadn’t locked it properly when he’d left. It happened. She occasionally made the same mistake with her own locks.
Beyond the next trailer was a dumpster, which she also put between herself and Jack Fletcher. Only a little bit farther and she would gain the street.
She glanced back and saw the lights in Fletcher’s trailer come on. She hoped he wasn’t fretting about the lock. She tried to remember if she’d disturbed anything. Would he notice that someone had been there? She thought she’d been very careful, but it had been years since she’d done this sort of thing.
And, given the way her heart was pounding, she was never going to do it again.
Fletcher was a little put out when he discovered that he hadn’t locked the door. Shit! He was getting careless. It seemed like all he could think about was Annie, and thinking about Annie was messing up his mind. He had to stop thinking and start acting.
But as he lay down on his narrow bed, he felt that Annie was very close to him. He even imagined he could smell her scent. When he closed his eyes, she was all around him— the heady fragrance of her body making him hot and dizzy and weak.
He had to have her. He’d go mad if he didn’t take her soon.
He opened his jeans and took himself in his hand as he let his dark fantasies unfurl.
