by Anne Baines
Twenty-one
Sam crammed himself into the back of the Mustang GT, silently cursing the department for getting these smaller, new cars. The Mustang was fast, sure, and looked nice, and got a hell of a lot better gas mileage than the old Crown Victorias or even the newer Impalas. He wished that they’d signed out one of the new Impalas anyway; at least those had leg room in the back.
Petty was driving, which didn’t surprise Sam at all. Rocco liked to ride shotgun, handling the radio and dispensing jokes and wisdom in a seemingly endless stream of bullshit. Petty had only just made Detective, but he was a good guy, always had a smile and a willing attitude. Petty might have gone a little further, a little faster, but he was too easy going and too into the practical jokes to play the political games necessary.
Rocco was a few years older than Sam, but hadn’t given him any shit over being a transfer or getting the promotion. Rocco seemed to like his position just the way it was. Plainclothes, without too much responsibility but enough seniority to get the probies and rookies looking up to him. He was on the job and decent at it when it counted, however, and that’s all Sam really cared about.
“What’s the story, boss?” Rocco twisted his head around, giving Sam a good view of his straggling attempt at a beard.
“Waiting on Dispatch to call me back,” Sam said. He sighed. Might as well get this out of the way. “My car was stolen, Em’s got the trace started on it. Head south for now.”
“Your car got stolen? How?” Petty looked back at Sam through the rearview mirror.
Sam clicked his seatbelt on and leaned back into the shadows. “A girl stole my keys off the bar. Just drive, Petty.”
“Damn.” Petty laughed and Rocco beat his fist against his thigh, hooting. “That’s sad.”
“Should have guessed it would involve a woman.” Rocco twisted back around and the whites of his eyes gleamed in the passing headlights as they pulled out onto the freeway.
Sam’s phone buzzed, saving him from finding an appropriate comeback.
“Give me good news, Em.”
“Lojack has the car stationary, at the airport,” Emerelda’s voice rasped through the phone. “I’ve got a patrol car near there, they’ll meet you.”
“Thanks, Em.” Sam hit end and shook his head. “Flip around, Petty. We’re going to Jackson International.”
“What about airport security?” Rocco asked.
“No point. If the car is stationary, she’s gone.” Sam didn’t think she’d take a flight, either. Not with her face plastered on every late-night TV news program in the state. No use involving the Homeland Security guys, he’d just be teased even worse, and possibly get flack later from the Lieutenant. Better to keep this whole mess as quiet as possible.
Rocco looked like he wanted to say more, but the expression on Sam’s face warned him off. The drive to the airport was carried out in relative peace and quiet, only the low-volume bass of the music interrupting Sam’s thoughts.
He checked his watch as they arrived at long-term parking, heading toward the flashing lights of the patrol car. Petty grabbed a ticket, though their badges would get them out for free anyway.
The patrol car had found his Camry sandwiched between two large SUVs. Petty pulled up and Sam climbed out of the Mustang, flashing his badge at the two officers.
He recognized Aldo Vasquez—that belly would identify the quiet, soft-spoken officer anywhere—but couldn’t remember his partner’s name.
“Car’s empty, keys were on the front seat, along with this.” Vasquez handed Sam a receipt with some writing on it.
“She left you a love note, boss.” Rocco hooted and leaned on the hood of the Mustang.
“Stuff a sock in it,” Sam said. “And grab an evidence bag, will you?” He looked down at the shaky writing in the flashing lights. It made his head ache to read this way.
Sam, the note started, I’m sorry. I didn’t hurt anyone. It’s Theodore Whitechapel, has house in Palm Coast. He stabbed me, he’s the killer. He’s after me. Help me.
Sorry.
She was sorry? Sam sighed. There was a smudge on the note, as though a tear had fallen and been wiped away. Jesus. Was he that much of a sucker? And yet, if he let this go without at least a little checking, wouldn’t he be a bad cop?
Sure, and an asshole. He slid the note into the plastic bag Rocco handed him and walked around his car. At first glance nothing seemed to be missing, but the interior was such a dump he wasn’t sure even he’d recognize something out of place. At least his service weapon was locked up at home, though he had his ankle spare on him.
“Shit.” Sam kicked a rear tire as he checked the trunk.
“What’s up?” Petty had waved off the uniformed cops and now walked up beside Sam.
“My lock-out kit is missing.” Sam shook his head. He’d been on the verge of letting all this go, willing himself to believe that she’d run for the airport, climbed on a plane, and disappeared.
But she wasn’t getting on a plane with a lock-out kit. The slim jims alone would put the TSA’s panties in a wad. Unless it was a distraction? Was she trying to make him think she wasn’t getting on a plane? He rubbed his temples.
“Better file a report then, yeah?” Petty clapped him on the shoulder and then flushed and backed off.
Sam smiled at him and shook his head. “Yeah. I’ll head back into headquarters. You two can go.”
“You don’t want CSU to dust for prints?” Rocco came forward from where he’d been leaning on the Mustang.
“Look at my car, it isn’t exactly CSU-friendly,” Sam said.
Rocco peered into the car and swallowed a low whistle. If he’d been less tired and annoyed, Sam would have felt even more embarrassed. Denise would never have let him drive a mobile dumpster around. But she was in Daytona Beach and hadn’t been in his life for a while now. Long enough.
“All right, boss. See you later.” Rocco grabbed Petty’s arm and gave him a look. The two of them slipped back into the Mustang and headed out after a quick friendly lights-flash at Sam.
Sam stood in the cool night, alone between two SUVs in the dark parking lot. He held his keys in one hand and the evidence bag with the note in the other and stared into the mess that was his life. This Donna or Lia or whatever her name was, she hadn’t even pegged him for a cop. He’d been a mark. She’d wanted his car, and even stolen his money.
Well, not stolen. He’d handed it right over.
He could pick a career cop out from a crowd a hundred yards off. Most criminals he’d encountered, at least the repeat offenders who were smart or lucky enough to stay out of jail for any amount of time, they could do the same. This woman should have known.
But he’d seen her face when he slammed his badge into the window. She’d had a perfect “oh shit” look in those wide brown eyes.
Sam sat down in the filthy Camry and sank low into the seat. He’d lost it. That edge. That indefinable something. He slammed the car door shut and took a deep breath full of stale coffee, staler cigarettes, and decaying food. He felt as though he’d been sleepwalking, going through the motions. He hadn’t even noticed the smell in his own damn car.
He reached into his coat pocket for the cloves and stopped himself. When had he started smoking so much, anyway? It used to be a weekend thing, a smoke and a drink. Used to be a lot of things, Sam thought.
The dome light clicked off, leaving him in relative darkness. He shoved a couple of mostly empty chip bags and some other debris off the passenger seat and set the note down.
Sam, I’m sorry. Help me.
“Damsel in distress,” Sam murmured. “Fuck me.” He jammed his key into the ignition and backed his car out. Maybe it was time to wake up, start caring a little more. Sam headed toward the parking exit, dragging out his badge. It looked like he had a few more phone calls to make tonight.
Twenty-two
Sam set the note down on his desk and picked up the receiver. It was almost midnight, but he guessed that his fo
rmer supervisor would be up and taking calls. If the news had even half the information right, tonight had been a busy one for Homicide in Daytona Beach.
She picked up on the third ring. “Lieutenant Brown.”
“It’s Sam Arbichaut, Ronnie.” He couldn’t help but smile at the sound of her clipped, serious voice. God, it had been too long. He hadn’t really talked to anyone down in Daytona since the divorce.
“Arby?” She used his old nickname, one of the things he was glad hadn’t transferred up here with him. “You know what time it is? What’s up?”
“Sorry it’s late, but I figured you’d be up.” Sam decided to get right to the point. “That woman on the news? Donna Utley? I think she stole my car.”
A moment of silence, then the sound of something being shuffled. Sam was willing to bet money Ronnie had scrambled for a pen and her notepad.
“Stole your car? Damn. In Jacksonville?”
“Yeah, but it gets better.” He took a deep breath. Donna/Lia wanted his help? Well, he could at least ask, check out her story. Be a good cop. “Does the name Theodore Whitechapel mean anything to you?”
He heard the hiss of a sharp intake of breath and then another long moment of silence. Sam was just about to ask if she was still on the line when she spoke.
“How do you have that name, Detective?” Ronnie’s voice was deadpan.
Sam sat up and made sure he had his own pen handy. So, something was up. Something serious. Maybe the pretty thief hadn’t lied about everything.
“I’m looking at it on a note your fugitive left in my car for me. I know I’m not one of your detectives anymore, Ronnie, or hell, even in Homicide, but come on. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Another deep breath from Ronnie and then he could almost hear her cracking that lopsided smile of hers. “Shit, Arby. But this is serious. You can’t hold out on me.”
“I’m not. I won’t. Spill it.”
“You first. How the hell did your car get stolen?”
Sam took a deep breath and then told her the whole humiliating story. He didn’t leave anything too important out, but emphasized how tired Donna had looked, how scared. He read the note aloud.
“Always with the women in need, Arby.” Ronnie sighed. “So you think she could have been injured?”
“Sure. Though she was walking all right, so I don’t know how badly,” Sam said, thinking about how Donna had moved. A little unsteady, her eyes glassy. Pills? How hadn’t he noticed all this at the time? Because he hadn’t wanted to, he could admit that. A pretty girl had hit on him and he’d seen only what he wanted to see.
“So who is this Whitechapel guy?” Sam asked.
“This doesn’t get out, Sam. Big shit is hitting the fan here and we’re trying to keep press out until we can sort the asses from the elbows.”
“I don’t exactly have Fox News on speed-dial, Ronnie.”
“Ok, so Theodore Whitechapel is a lawyer, he’s listed as missing at this time. His wife got home early from a spa thing, came in this evening and found,” Ronnie hesitated and he thought he heard her swallow hard. “She found D.A. Swarski’s daughter’s mutilated corpse displayed on her bed.”
“The Governor’s cousin, Nicholas Swarski?”
“Yeah. So she calls the cops, they show up and find some women’s body parts in the freezer, and more out in the garden shed. There was also blood all over the bathroom, including a trail out the bathroom window and into the garden, though the rain kind of fucked us there. Was another blood trail through the house, too. We don’t know whose blood it is yet, but Whitechapel’s missing, his car is gone, as well as some money and a gun registered to him. We’re getting his credit card and phone records. So far I got fuck all and the damn DA and the whole head cheese breathing down my neck wanting immediate answers and an arrest.”
“Jesus Christ, Ronnie.” This was the kind of case that made or broke a career. Solve it and get a strong collar, set for life. Screw it up and push paperwork in the basement until you either eat a bullet or pension out.
“Yeah. Making things more fun, we got this guy in your girl’s hotel room stabbed to death, maybe even tortured. There’s medical equipment there and some women’s clothing, but it’s a low-brow hotel room. Going to take CSU a couple months to sort through the DNA and prints in that place. Room was registered to Donna Utley, they took a photocopy of her DL.” Ronnie’s voice shifted and changed and Sam could picture her shaking her head and taking a sip of what was probably her tenth cup of coffee. “And now you go and tell me this shit is related? Thanks, Arby.”
“What if it is?” He might not be in Homicide anymore, but Sam was still a detective. Gears dusted themselves off and started grinding in his brain. “You said there was blood going out a window, right?”
“At the Whitechapel scene?” She said it like a question, giving him some room. She was listening, that was good.
Sam just hoped he wasn’t talking out his ass.
“My note says she was stabbed by this guy. Nobody knows about the DA’s kid yet, right? So she didn’t pull this name at random, Ronnie. What if Donna was there? She might have bled while escaping. Theodore comes after her, finds her somehow. Maybe the guy dead in the hotel is a boyfriend or something. Tried to protect her. She runs, has to take my car when something happens to her’s.” Damn. He should have checked the parking lot at the bar. He’d get uniforms out on it as soon as he was done with Ronnie. It was going to be a long night.
“Theodore is a corporate lawyer. He doesn’t have so much as a speeding ticket. But the Captain and Chief both think this is a serial, which means we’re supposed to call the FBI in.”
“You got what? Two, three dead women and an ‘upstanding’ citizen missing? Sounds serial to me.”
“And your car thief might be the only one who knows what happened. If these scenes are related.”
“You got blood and fingerprints at both, right? Run them.” Sam tapped his pen against the pad of paper. Donna really was in trouble. No wonder she’d seemed so scared. This guy had killed at least four people and probably was after the woman who had run away from him. Sam’s fantasy scenario made sense. He wanted, no, needed to find Donna first. Whoever this girl was, whatever she had done, she needed help.
Sam, I’m sorry. Help me. He pictured her saying it in that low, soft voice. Big brown eyes brimming with tears. Help me, Sam.
Ronnie’s voice dragged him back to his office. “Sam? You paying attention?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Look, I’ll follow up on your theory, but it’s going to take at least a week or two to get this stuff pushed through. Even with the DA pressure, I’m not sure how fast our lab can handle this. I guess if we bring the Feebs in, maybe.” She sighed again. “I hate to see this lead go cold. I wish you’d caught her.”
“Me too.” She had no idea how much he meant it. “Maybe you should fax her face around up north, hit the major cities. I think she’s driving, so the Staties can keep an eye out for her.”
“I’ll do it. Thanks for the call, Sam.”
She was winding the call down, pushing him out. But Sam wasn’t done.
Now the delicate part. “Ronnie, you said you got lots of blood out of the scenes, right?”
“Yeah?” He felt her impatience like a hot breath through the phone.
“I’ve got a friend who owes me a favor or two down in Miami. I know you hate the idea of the FBI snagging your case, but they’ll be coming in anyway, we both know that. It’s a serial.”
“If. If it’s a serial. What are you getting at, Arby?”
“Can you overnight blood samples from the house and the hotel crime scenes to Mike Davidson at the Miami lab? I’ll fax over the address and details.”
“The Miami FBI lab?”
“He owes me; he can get the matching done fast. Hours maybe.” Sam chewed on his lip and forced himself to set the pen down. He was going to find Donna, help her, and maybe stop a killer, too. Excitement shiv
ered through him. He was a cop. He could do this.
“Okay. Okay.” Ronnie repeated it as though she were trying to convince herself she meant it. “I’ll get my CSU guys to put together some blood samples and some DNA from the victim and Mr. Whitechapel. You think this Donna’s DNA is in the system?”
“Yeah, ’cause we could be that lucky. But we’ll see. Thanks for trusting me on this, Ronnie.”
“You had good instincts when you worked for me, Sam.” She didn’t say the “except when it came to women” part, but Sam heard it in her tone.
“I’ll fax stuff over. And a copy of the note. Night, Ronnie.”
“Night, Arby.”
He stared down at the note, one hand resting on his phone. It was too late to call Mike, so he shoved the note aside and logged onto the computer. Mike always got in early; he’d get an email in time. Hopefully.
A couple of calls later, Sam had done all he could think to for now. It was nearly one in the morning but he didn’t feel tired yet. He was more awake than he could recall being in a while. A quick Google search gave him the location of the nearest self-service car wash.
It was time to clean up his life.
Twenty-three
Ted’s first stop in Atlanta was a twenty-four hour Walmart. He needed to rebuild his hunting kit. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared for his grand meeting with his little Delilah.
Ted was amused that for the second time in twenty-four hours he found himself buying rope, duct tape, a couple of nice chef’s knives, and other sundry items all at once. The old Ted, the careful, mask-wearing Ted, squirmed deep within, screaming warnings.
But he didn’t listen. He paid with cash and went back out to the rental car, tossing the duffle bag into the front seat. He plugged Delilah’s address into his phone, asking for directions. Ted smoothed his thumb over the tiny picture. Delilah. Soon.
The directions guided him across Atlanta, to a homey, quiet suburb off of I-85. Ted turned his phone off as he pulled up along the semi-dark street. He didn’t think anyone would be after him yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to be a little careful and keep them from tracing his phone to Georgia just in case. The phone was part of his old life, part of secret Ted. It would go, as soon as he was done here.
