“You’ve been quite a busy woman over the years, Devra.”
“Have I?” she asked, and turned to look at the chief, to face the coldness in his eyes.
“I had a hard time tracking you down at first, once you changed your name.”
A band tightened around her chest.
“It took me quite a few years to discover how you could be making a living, paying taxes, being an upstanding citizen of a community, when it seemed Devra Miller had dropped off the face of the earth. In fact, you have quite a few secrets, don’t you, Ms. Miller?”
Secrets.
She glanced at Riley and gnawed the corner of her lip. “I—I didn’t kill Tommy. That’s why we’re here. We want to discover the truth.”
“Which truth would that be? That you’re not Devra Morgan? Or that you’re not D. M. Miller? The author who writes stories of gruesome murders, stories that are suspiciously close to murders that have actually taken place.” He sat back in his chair, a Cheshire cat grin splitting his face.
Paralyzing dread grabbed hold and turned her stomach.
“You’re D. M. Miller?” The accusation in Riley’s tone cut her to the quick.
Chief Marshall swiveled his chair around to the bookshelf behind him and pulled down several books, all by D. M. Miller, all books Riley had heard of. In fact, Michelle had been a big fan. He recalled the typed pages he’d found in Devra’s printer describing Michelle’s death. Would his sister-in-law’s last moments end up in Devra’s next book? The thought sickened him.
“Have you read any?” the chief asked.
Riley shook his head. He’d always meant to, just never found the time.
“Fascinating stuff, plots are captivating, compelling. I’m sure it won’t be long before she hits the bestseller list.”
“How’d you find out?” Devra squeaked.
“What do you suppose your publishers would think if they found out your stories were based on actual cases? Or how will your fans feel if they find out you spent five years in a mental institution?”
Riley had heard enough. He dropped Devra’s hand and leaned forward. “I don’t see how any of this is relevant to why we’re here.” He cut in, disgusted by the chief’s smugness, disgusted that the man would throw her time in the institution back in her face, and disgusted with himself for believing all the secrets were out, that there couldn’t possibly be anything else Devra was keeping from him.
“Don’t you?” the chief asked. “Well that’s because you’ve never read one of her books. Here, let me save you the trouble. Book number one—A Time to Die.” He held up the first book. “Our heroine is trying to discover the identity of a serial killer. She doesn’t. Nor does she in books two and three, but that’s okay, there’s plenty of other mischief going on that she does figure out. It’s a great plot device, drawing the readers back, again and again, to discover who the killer can be. But what brings me back are the victims. Here, I’ve made it easy for you.”
He pulled a yellow pad out of the file. “Victim number one, killed in Seattle. Victim number two, killed in Portland. Victim number three, killed in Miami. Ringing any bells yet?”
Riley stiffened, a cold dread working its way through his system.
“All blond, all have long, curly hair, all blue eyes. In fact, the specific details to the real victims in each of those cities are startlingly close, so close one would have to conclude that she’s very good at her research. Except for one small detail.”
Riley frowned.
“Each victim in her stories was left posed with their pinkies intertwined together.”
Riley felt the color drain from his face as the image of Michelle propped against the wall, her hands resting in her lap, her pinkies interlaced came to the forefront of his mind.
“Yep, thought it would sound familiar to you. Just like that young woman killed down there round your parts.”
Riley pushed back his chair and stood. He rubbed a palm across his face and leaned back against the wall.
Devra couldn’t breathe. The chief had her, dead to rights, and soon Riley would look at her the way the chief was looking at her. As if she were a monster. As if everything she’d ever said to him, everything she’d felt for him was a lie.
“It’s a detail that wouldn’t mean very much, except that was the one detail the police hadn’t released to the papers. So, what I’d like to know, little girl—” Marshall leaned forward across his desk and pinned her to the chair with his cold, hard eyes “—is exactly how you gleaned that little bit of information from those crime scenes.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“She’s psychic,” Riley answered bluntly. His hair was spiked back from running his fingers through it, and a defeated look had settled on his face. But he hadn’t given up on her, not yet.
Chief Marshall snorted. “And you believe that?”
“Yes, sir, I do. And I also believe the man who killed Michelle…that is, the man who killed the woman in New Orleans, intends to kill Miss Morgan—” he shook his head as if to clear it “—Miss Miller next.”
Chief Marshall leaned back in his chair. “That’s very interesting. Psychic, you say.” He twiddled with the pencil on his desk, while his eyes bored through her.
“I’ve spent the last fifteen years compiling this file. In fact, you could say it’s become my life’s work to know everything there is to know about you, to enter the mind of a female serial killer.”
“I am not a killer.” She stated the fact coolly.
He waved a dismissive hand. “There’s just one thing I’ve never been able to determine, and no matter how many times I’ve asked your folks, they won’t tell me.”
Riley stood in the corner, staring at both of them, not saying a word, his face void of expression.
Devra let out a deep breath. “All right, I’ll play. What?”
“How’d you break your right pinky?”
Confused, she stared at him, then looked down at her hand. “What are you talking about?”
“I have your medical records right here and, apparently, at age thirty-six months, you were brought in to Dr. Carleen to have your right pinky examined. It had been broken and set somewhere else, but Mrs. Miller wanted him to do the follow-up visit. So I’d like to know, how’d you break your pinky?”
“How on earth would I know that? I didn’t even know it had been broken.” She stared again at her hand. All her fingers looked fine. Was he jesting? Trying to trip her up? “I’m sure my parents would have told me if I’d broken my pinky, Chief Marshall. I believe you are mistaken.”
“Nope, says right here. Office visit for examination of broken small finger on patient’s right hand. Couldn’t get your parents to remember anything about it either.”
“Well, obviously, there’s been some mistake, be cause I’m sure my mother would remember if I’d broken my finger.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. Which got me thinking, why would they lie? What are they trying to hide? Then it occurred to me that maybe they’re not your parents after all.”
“What? That’s absurd.” She looked to Riley.
“Is it? There’s no birth certificate on file for Devra Miller anywhere in King County. Yet your parents claimed they moved here with you from Evergreen when you were three. In fact, they moved to town right before your visit to Dr. Carleen. So I decided to do a little investigating, and would you believe no one remembers the Millers in Evergreen giving birth to a baby girl. Not a soul. I sure find that mighty strange.”
“What are you saying?” Disbelief coursed through her. It couldn’t be. Then a smaller voice, a stronger voice asked, “Then why did they send you away? Maybe they didn’t want you. Maybe you aren’t theirs.”
She stood, and grabbed the back of the chair. Sickness churned in her stomach. “I need to use the rest room.”
“Right down the hall to the left.”
Devra opened the door and flew down the hall.
Chief Marshall followed her flight. “She’s not psychic, Mr. MacIntyre. That little girl is a fruitcake, had been when she killed my boy, was when she’d been up there in that institution. What we have here is a sick little serial killer.” His determined tone almost sounded sad.
The weight of a hundred worlds rested on Riley’s shoulders. “I need to make a few calls.”
Chapter Fourteen
Devra stared at herself in the bathroom mirror of the Rosemont Police Department and splashed cold water on her face, trying to fight back the nausea rising in her throat. Chief Marshall was going to send her back to the sanitarium. He was obsessed with her, and he wouldn’t stop until she was locked up for good.
Tears filled her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. Even Riley was beginning to doubt her. She could see it in his eyes, and that, more than anything else, was breaking her heart. How could she live through the abandonment again? Through the loneliness and pain of realizing there was no one out there who cared about her? How could they? She was a monster. But it wasn’t her. Why couldn’t they see that?
The chief’s words played over and over in her mind. No birth certificate on file anywhere in King County. Her parents had always lived in Rosemont, at least, that’s what she’d been led to believe. Apparently, she’d been wrong.
They’re not your parents. That’s why they gave you up. That’s why they don’t care. The thoughts ran through her mind, twisting, turning, torturing her until she thought she’d scream. Who was she?
She wasn’t a killer, she knew that. And nothing could convince her she had killed Tommy or anyone else. Her parents, or whoever they were, had a lot of questions to answer and this time she wouldn’t let them off so easy.
She stepped into the hall and glanced into the chief’s office. No one was there. Where had they gone? To prepare her a padded cell? Not this time. Not ever again.
She spotted Riley’s jacket and holster hanging inside the door. She grabbed his keys out of his pocket and, after a second’s hesitation, took his gun. She could no longer count on him to protect her. He had his doubts, she could read them clearly in his eyes, and those doubts could get them killed. From here on out, she was on her own.
She slipped the gun into the pocket of her skirt, then shifted the waistband so it wouldn’t show as the gun’s weight pulled on the loose fabric. She heard the chief’s voice down the hall, turned, and quickly walked toward the reception area.
“Are you leaving, Miss Miller?” Mandy asked from behind the counter of the receptionist’s station.
Devra forced a wide, friendly smile onto her face. “Just for a minute, I left something back at the hotel I’d like the chief to see. I’ll be right back.”
Mandy nodded, picked up her coffee cup and waved it at her. “All righty then, see you soon,” she said and headed down the hall.
Expelling a relieved sigh, Devra forced herself to act casual and walk slowly out the door.
RILEY SAT in the conference room and stared at his phone. How much of a coincidence was it that all the victims had their pinkies interlaced and Devra had had hers broken? Where was his gut instinct? Why didn’t he just know what the truth was? He turned on his phone and called Mac, wanting to check in at home to see if anything else had happened while he’d been gone.
“Where have you been?” his brother, Mac, asked after answering the phone. He still sounded mad and Riley supposed he would be for a long time.
“I’ve been out of town, dealing with a few things.”
“You missed Michelle’s funeral.”
Pain and dread squeezed Riley’s heart, making him gasp. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I…” What could he possibly say? That he’d forgotten? It had slipped his mind? He’d been too busy chasing phantom demons and falling in love?
“I thought Michelle meant something to you,” Mac said, emotion straining his voice.
Riley rubbed his face. “I know you want to blame me. Do it, blame me. If it will make you feel better. I should have paid more attention. I should have watched her better. If only I’d been more—”
“Protective?”
Riley gave a bitter laugh. “Yes, protective. She needed it, Mom needed it and now Devra needs it, and I seem to be letting them all down. And for that, we’ve all been paying the price.”
“Do you think you could be any more arrogant? My happiness, Michelle’s happiness, did not weigh on your shoulders. We would have been perfectly fine, perfectly happy without you. In fact—”
“In fact, if I weren’t around, Mom wouldn’t have gone looking for me at the park and gotten killed, and I wouldn’t have become a cop, and Michelle wouldn’t have followed me onto the force….” Riley couldn’t say another word, his throat was blocked with emotion.
“I was going to say in fact, we are all responsible for the decisions we make, good or bad. Don’t take that away from us, too. And if you still don’t get it, then there really isn’t anything that can be said.” Mac paused. “Why is there a drawing of John Miller in your kitchen?”
Riley tightened his grasp on the phone. “The police sketch? You know him?”
“He’s a friend from work. Michelle and I had him over for dinner a few weeks ago. What’s this all about?”
Did he know about me? About Mom? That would explain the picture in the tree house. The killer was playing with him, playing with them all. “Mac, do me a favor and take the sketch to Tony. Tell him about this guy, this John—”
“Miller,” Mac supplied.
“Miller.” As he said the name, he knew it couldn’t be yet another coincidence. This man had to be connected to Devra.
“Tell him he knew Michelle.”
“Riley, if you’re right and John did…” Mac’s voice broke. “I’ll kill him, Riley. I swear on everything I have, I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
“Not if I get to him first,” Riley muttered.
No sound reached him from the other end of the line.
“Thanks, Mac. You’ve really helped.”
“Riley, there’s something else.”
Riley’s heartbeat stilled at the serious tone of Mac’s voice.
“I don’t blame you for what happened to Mom.”
“Mac…”
“I told her where you were.”
Riley didn’t speak, just tried to process the meaning behind Mac’s words. All these years and he’d never said a thing.
“She wouldn’t have gone to the park if I hadn’t told her where to find you. She died because of me.”
Riley’s throat squeezed shut and he could barely get the words out. “No, Mac. She died because of a doped-up kid. I think the two of us have been playing what-ifs for too many years and it hasn’t done either of us any good.”
Mac paused, then said, “I just wanted you to know that I don’t blame you.”
Riley took a deep breath as years of pent-up guilt broke free in his chest. “Thanks, Bro. You don’t know how good it feels to hear you say that.”
“Riley?”
“Yeah?”
“Go nail the SOB who killed my wife.”
As Riley hung up the phone, he felt as if he could touch the moon. Finally they were getting somewhere. He dialed Tony’s number, deciding to beat Mac to the punch. After he hung up he raced back to the chief’s office. But the room was empty. “Chief Marshall!” he yelled down the hallway.
“What is it?” the chief asked as he came out of a room carrying a fresh cup of coffee.
“We’ve got a lead, a real good one.”
“Lead in what?”
“In who killed your son.”
“I know who killed my son.” Chief Marshall passed him and walked into his office.
“You’re wrong.”
“And what about all this?” He pointed to Devra’s file, to the books lying on his desk.
“I told you, she’s psychic. Somehow, she’s connected with the killer. She sees what he sees. That’s how she knows so many details. That’s why her parents think she
’s insane.”
“Sounds insane to me.”
“Hear me out for a minute,” Riley insisted.
The chief leaned back in his chair. “Why not? I’ve been waiting fifteen years for this opportunity, and now you’ve brought her back to me. I can afford to give you a couple minutes.”
Riley sat down and leaned across the desk. “We have a sketch of a suspect we believe could have killed Officer MacIntyre.”
“MacIntyre, huh? Any relation?”
“My sister-in-law.”
Surprise crossed the chief’s face.
“Believe me,” Riley said. “I want her killer found and convicted as much as you want Tommy’s.”
The chief nodded. “I’m listening.”
“When Devra saw the sketch, she identified the man as the same person who killed your son.”
“Mighty convenient if you ask me.”
“Perhaps, but my brother also saw the sketch. He’s identified him as a man he works with, a Mr. John Miller. Do you know anyone by that name?”
The chief shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
Mandy poked her head in the doorway. “Chief, sorry to interrupt, but this just came through on the fax machine. It’s from a detective Tony Tortorici at the New Orleans Police Department.” She walked into the room and handed him the sketch of John Miller.
“Tony’s my partner. I just filled him in on the details and asked him to fax over the sketch. Have you ever seen that man before? Is there any chance he’s related to Devra?”
“I’ve never heard of a John Miller around these parts.” The chief looked thoughtful for a moment, then placed his mug and the sketch on his desk and started rifling through Devra’s file. He pulled out an old sketch yellowed with age and not nearly as detailed, but they were obviously both of the same man.
The Chief stared at the two sketches, deep lines furrowing his brow. Then he looked up and said, “Fifteen years ago, Devra was so insistent that a man killed my boy that we brought a sketch artist down from Seattle to work with her.” He laid the two sketches side by side and pointed to the aged paper. “This is the man she said killed my boy.”
Riley looked at the sketches, a sense of foreboding racing down his spine. Even in graphite, the eyes were dark enough to make his blood run cold. They held the same evil stare as the eyes depicted in the sketch of John Miller.
Shiver Page 16
