by Joy Fielding
Sean Wilson had called at least once, and lately, two and even three times each day. So anxious was the so-called “tiny, perfect mayor” to see this case solved and “his” town returned to normal that he was beginning to actively interfere with John’s investigation.
“Just what is it you expect me to do, Sean?” the sheriff had asked him yesterday afternoon when the mayor had cornered him as he was coming out of his office. Anyone watching the confrontation between the two men—and John had noticed several officers and virtually all the support staff secretly glancing in their direction during their sometimes spirited discussion—would have had a hard time suppressing a smile. The men were an almost comical study in contrasts. Sean Wilson was approximately a decade younger, fifty pounds lighter, and a full foot shorter than John Weber. His hair was thick and dark brown in comparison to John’s thinning pate. His olive green suit was neat and stylish in contrast to the sheriff’s old and wrinkled uniform. And while John’s naturally deep voice underlined the almost girlish pitch of the mayor’s excited utterances, the mayor’s barbs were deadly nonetheless, spraying the air like pellets from a BB gun. John struggled to maintain his composure and keep his massive hands from reaching for the mayor’s tiny, perfect throat.
“I expect you to solve this case,” the mayor told him, as if this were something that might not have occurred to John, “and return my town to normal.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“By doing what exactly?”
John dug his fingers into his thighs to keep from throwing a punch at the mayor’s head. To think he’d actually voted for the man. “Well, let’s see,” he began. “We’ve interviewed, and in many cases, reinterviewed, Liana’s family and friends, her ex-boyfriends, her classmates, her neighbors, her teachers, the school principal, Cal Hamilton, Peter Arlington—”
“Yes, what about him?”
“What about him?” John repeated.
“Well, he was her boyfriend. They’d been fighting. Seems like a prime suspect to me.”
“Except that Peter’s father confirms he picked him up from school the afternoon Liana disappeared, that they went to a ball game in Miami, and that they had to leave the game early because Peter was feeling sick to his stomach. His mother says Peter stayed home from school the next day and that she called from work several times to check on his condition. She says she even came home during her lunch break and found him sleeping.”
“I assume you’ve checked the ticket stubs and the phone records?”
“Of course.” John shook his head. Thanks to TV shows like Law & Order and CSI, these days everyone was an expert on police procedural.
“What about Greg Watt and Joey Balfour?”
“They claim they were together at the time Liana went missing.”
“Convenient. Can they prove it?”
“We can’t disprove it.”
“And Cal Hamilton?”
“Says he was making the rounds of his suppliers.”
“And was he?”
“We’re still checking that out.”
“Maybe we should contact the FBI.” Not the first time the mayor had made that suggestion.
Truthfully, John himself had considered calling the FBI several times over the last week, but ultimately dismissed such a call as premature. “I think it’s still a little early to be calling in the troops.”
The mayor lowered his head, as if afraid to look John directly in the eye. “If we could just put our egos aside for a few minutes—”
“This has nothing to do with egos,” John interrupted. At least not mine, he fought to keep from adding.
“Face it,” the mayor continued, “you’re not as young or agile as you used to be. You’ve got problems at home.”
“Problems at …What are you talking about?” Did the whole town know about his battles with Pauline, his worries about Amber, his affair with Kerri Franklin? Probably, he conceded silently. Everyone pretty much knew everyone else’s business in a town like Torrance. But did people think his inability to control his personal life meant he couldn’t do his job?
“You’ve been doing this a long time,” the mayor was saying. “Maybe too long.”
“Some might call that valuable experience.”
“Others might call it burnout.” Sean Wilson paused, as if expecting John to interject, then continued when he didn’t. “Besides, you’re certainly not used to dealing with crimes of this magnitude. Serial killers are a little out of your bailiwick after all.”
“We have no evidence we’re dealing with a serial killer,” John stated firmly. The truth was that, despite the missing girl from Hendry County and the recent false alarm with regard to Brenda Vinton, only one young woman had actually turned up dead. And while it wasn’t his intention to downplay Liana Martin’s grisly murder, that one girl had been killed simply wasn’t enough to warrant calling in federal agents. Still, his gut told him that a serial killer was exactly what they were dealing with, and that it was only a matter of time before the killer struck again.
Maybe even tonight, John thought now, returning to the present as he reached inside the car window to honk the horn, hoping the abrasive sound would be enough to chase away the echo of the miniature mayor’s giant doubts about his capabilities. Was it possible the man was right?
The front door of his house opened. Pauline appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. “What’s the matter with you? I told you she’s coming.”
“So’s Christmas.”
Pauline shook her head, retreated back inside. “Amber,” he heard her call. “Your father’s waiting.”
As if Amber didn’t know. As if he hadn’t been standing here for—he checked his watch again—almost fifteen minutes. As if he had all night.
Which was exactly what he had, he realized. What was the rush? According to the mayor, neither he nor his investigation were going anywhere.
Amber suddenly materialized at her mother’s side. John stared at her in amazement. She looked exactly as she had fifteen minutes earlier when she’d gone to get ready. The same jeans, the same powder-blue sweater, the same white-and-black sneakers. What had he been expecting? That she’d put on a dress? That she’d change her hair or put on makeup? That she’d miraculously put on ten pounds?
As she skipped down the front walk, he noticed that she had indeed applied a smear of blue shadow to her eyelids and added a rhinestone clasp to her hair, and as she drew closer, he realized she smelled vaguely of lemons, which he assumed was perfume. The scent settled uneasily in his throat. He’d never been particularly fond of perfume. He liked a woman’s natural smell and could never understand why they seemed so intent on covering it up.
“You sure you want to go to this thing?” John asked as he and his daughter climbed inside the car. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“Why would I change my mind?” Amber fastened her seat belt and stared out the front window.
John backed the car out of the driveway, waved at Pauline as he drove down the street. But Pauline was already closing the door and didn’t see him wave. “Pick up a DVD on your way home,” she’d already instructed. “Your choice,” she’d said, although he knew whatever he picked would be wrong. She was already angry he hadn’t wanted to go out to a movie. “You never want to go anywhere anymore.”
“I just think we should be available in case Amber wants us to pick her up early.”
“She won’t.”
“She might.”
She wouldn’t. John could tell that already from the determined cast of his daughter’s surprisingly strong jaw. She was angry at him because he’d insisted he’d pick her up at eleven o’clock, which she thought would make her look like a baby in front of all the other kids, but he wouldn’t agree to her going unless she agreed to his terms, and so now she was mad at him, just as Pauline was mad at him, and had there ever been a time in his life when some woman wasn’t mad at him? The time with Kerri Franklin, he tho
ught, as he spotted Delilah walking alone on the other side of the street. He honked as he angled the car toward her.
“What are you doing?” Amber demanded. “Dad? What are you doing? You’re not stopping, are you?”
“She’s probably going to the vigil. We might as well give her a lift.”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Amber said, rolling her eyes in exasperation as he pulled the police cruiser to a stop and pressed the button to lower the window on the passenger side of the car. Amber flinched noticeably as he leaned his body across hers, pulling in her already concave stomach and holding her breath, the way she used to do when she was a little girl and couldn’t have her way.
“Delilah,” he said in greeting.
“Hello, there, Sheriff,” Delilah said pleasantly. “Hi, Amber. How are you?”
Amber released the air in her lungs and grunted something that sounded vaguely like “Fine,” but offered nothing further.
“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“I’m going to Pearson Park.”
“That’s exactly where we’re heading. Hop in.”
“No, Dad,” Amber hissed underneath her breath.
“Gee, thanks. I was getting a little tired.” Delilah opened the back door of the cruiser and climbed inside. “My mother said she might need the car, and my grandmother said I should walk. But it’s so far,” she continued apologetically.
“How is your grandmother?” John asked, although he really wanted to ask about Kerri. Does she miss me? Does she ever talk about me?
“She’s pretty good for someone her age with a heart condition.”
“She’s a tough one, all right,” John concurred.
Delilah laughed. John watched her in his rearview mirror as she wiped some perspiration from the underside of her double chin. “Oh, by the way, Amber, congratulations,” she said.
John’s head snapped toward his daughter. “Congratulations? What for?”
“She got the part of Bianca in Kiss Me, Kate.”
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told Mom,” Amber said, as if this were explanation enough.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” John said, trying to disguise his hurt. “Isn’t it?”
Amber shrugged. “It’s all right.”
“I think it’s terrific,” Delilah enthused. “I knew you’d get the part the minute I heard you read. You were the best Bianca by far.”
“Well, isn’t that nice to hear?” John said when his daughter failed to say thank you. What was the matter with her? Had she always been so rude? Had she lost her manners along with all those pounds? “What about you, Delilah? Are you going to be in the play?”
“I’m in the chorus,” Delilah said cheerfully. “I wasn’t really right for any of the major roles. And I’ll be helping with painting the scenery and stuff, like I did last year. It was fun.” She made several more attempts at conversation, all of which drew little more than a one-word response from Amber, and after a while Delilah sank back in her seat, letting the silence take over.
As soon as they arrived at the park, Amber unhooked her seat belt, threw open the front door, and stepped outside.
“Be here at eleven o’clock,” John called after her as she headed toward a group of kids gathering under a nearby banyan tree. “Or call if you decide to come home earlier.”
“Thanks so much for the lift, Sheriff Weber,” Delilah said.
“Think nothing of it, Delilah. I’d be happy to give you a ride home later.”
“Thanks, but I probably won’t be staying too long.”
“Well, I don’t recommend walking home alone.”
Delilah leaned over the front seat and smiled, almost gratefully. “I don’t think you have to worry about me, Sheriff.” She opened her door and got out of the car, hurrying to catch up to Amber.
Mutt and Jeff, John thought, as Delilah waddled up to Amber’s side. Amber immediately picked up her pace, clearly embarrassed to be seen with Delilah. Why was it socially acceptable to look skeletal, John wondered, but not well-fed? He watched Amber blend into the group of kids under the banyan’s spreading branches, while Delilah remained on the outside. He heard somebody sing, “Oh, no, it’s Big D! I can tell!” and wondered what that was all about. He saw another group of kids gathered at the far end of the large park and watched the two groups start to drift together. He wondered where they’d settle, and if he should make his presence felt, then decided against it. He’d already assigned several officers to keep an eye on things, make sure nothing got out of hand, and to call him if anything looked even vaguely suspicious.
It would be dark soon, John knew, watching his daughter fade into a silhouette. He hoped she wouldn’t disobey him, that she’d be there waiting for him at eleven o’clock. Why couldn’t she be sensible and leave early, like Delilah?
Although he didn’t like the idea of Delilah walking home in the dark alone. She might be an unlikely victim for attack, but she was still vulnerable. Maybe he’d drop by Kerri’s house on his way to the video store, tell her he didn’t think it was a good idea for her daughter to be out walking alone at night.
Except that wasn’t the real reason he was here, he recognized, as he pulled the car to a halt in front of Kerri’s house some ten minutes later, exiting the vehicle before he changed his mind. He knew he was being foolish, that Kerri had no romantic interest in him anymore, that she probably wasn’t even home. It was Saturday night, as Pauline had already pointed out, and Kerri was undoubtedly out with Ian Crosbie, and John would be stuck talking to that miserable mother of hers. He shouldn’t be doing this, he thought as he walked up the path to her house and knocked loudly on the door.
“He’s here,” John heard Rose shout from inside the house. Had she been watching him from the living room window?
“About time,” Kerri said with a laugh as she pulled open the front door. She was wearing black capris and a pink, V-necked jersey that matched her bright pink lipstick. Her blond hair was half-up, half-down, and John wondered if this was deliberate, or if she hadn’t been able to make up her mind. “John!”
“Kerri.”
“Is something wrong? Has anything happened to Delilah?”
“Delilah’s fine,” he assured her quickly.
“Well, of course, she’s fine,” Kerri’s mother, Rose, said from the sofa in the living room. “She’s a goddamn Sherman tank, for God’s sake. I told you you didn’t have to worry about her. Come on in and sit down for a few minutes, why don’t you, Sheriff?”
“I guess I can do that.” John stepped into the living room and sank into the leather chair across from the tan sofa in which Rose was securely nestled. A lace doily slid from the top of the chair onto his shoulder, and he jumped, as if it were a spider.
“A little jittery, are we, Sheriff?” asked Rose.
John removed the errant doily from his shoulder, setting it onto the glass coffee table in front of him. “I’m fine, Rose. And you?”
“Surviving,” she said wearily, as if the very act of survival required a superhuman effort.
John thought her continuing survival was probably harder on those around her, but didn’t say so. Instead he said, “Glad to hear it.”
“What brings you by?”
John looked toward Kerri, who had remained standing. She was staring at him expectantly. “Well, I saw Delilah earlier,” he began, his voice at odds with his thoughts. What he was thinking was Kerri’s home, and it’s a Saturday night. “Actually, I gave her a lift to the park.” And since it’s Saturday night and she’s not out with Ian Crosbie, maybe that means the good doctor has returned to his wife, which would mean Kerri is once again available. “I offered to pick her up at eleven when I go to get Amber, but she said she probably wouldn’t be staying that late.” And we wouldn’t have to get into anything serious. Just the occasional tryst, the occasional kind word out of those wildly exaggerated lips. “And I
just wanted to warn you that we still have a murderer out there, and it’s probably not such a good idea for Delilah—or you, for that matter—to be out by yourself alone at night until we catch this guy.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Kerri said, “to worry about us.”
“Why are you really here?” said Rose.
“I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t drive over here to warn us about Delilah. The girl’s a Sherman tank,” Rose repeated, obviously enjoying the image.
“Mother, I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
“So why is it you haven’t caught this guy yet?” Rose asked, ignoring her daughter’s admonition. “You can be replaced, you know.” She winked, as if to convey she wasn’t referring only to his job.
John tried not to react, although he wondered briefly if Rose had been talking to the mayor.
“Do you have any leads?” Kerri asked, perching on the arm of the sofa.
“Not really,” John admitted.
“What about Cal Hamilton?”
John was getting a little weary of people second-guessing him. “What about him?” he asked, his professional curiosity overtaking his personal angst.
“Just that there’s something really peculiar about him. I had to run over there last week when Delilah was babysitting his wife—”
“What do you mean, ‘babysitting his wife’?”
“He doesn’t like to leave her alone, claims she has all these phobias, but I don’t buy that for a minute. I think there’s something really creepy going on over there.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that I had to take a glass out of my own cupboard and rush it over there because Delilah accidentally dropped a glass on the floor—”
“A Sherman tank, I tell you,” Rose interjected.
“—and Mrs. Hamilton panicked, and Delilah said she’s obviously terrified of her husband, and she wouldn’t be surprised to discover a bunch of dead bodies buried underneath the house. I told her I don’t want her going over there anymore, but she says that someone has to look out for poor Mrs. Hamilton. Can you do something, John?” Kerri continued, his name sounding almost musical on her tongue.
