She'll Never Live

by Hunter Morgan

  Claire barely caught Jewel's last words as she headed down the hall.

  "Need to speak with you later, Chief," Sergeant Marsh said as he passed Claire.

  She turned around, walking backward, sipping her cold coffee while balancing her muffin. "Can you give me a half hour?"

  "You bet."

  Claire was assaulted by a ringing telephone when she walked into her office. The sound of the phone, the sight of her desk covered in mounds of paperwork made her want to turn around and walk right back out the door. It had to be quieter back at the ER.

  The phone continued to ring as she circled her desk and sat down in her chair. It was the line directly from the fishbowl.

  Claire groaned and hit the loudspeaker button. "I'm trying to get my daily allowance of fiber here."

  "Incoming." Jewel popped her gum. "Flak jacket required. Ex on line three."

  Claire groaned. She had completely forgotten about waiting for Tim's call. She hit the line three button, leaving the speakerphone on. He didn't deserve the effort it would take her to pick up the receiver. "Chief Drummond," she said to annoy him. He had always hated the fact that she never took his name when they married. Apparently, subconsciously, she'd known the union was doomed from the start.

  "Claire, how are you?"

  "You read the papers. You know how the hell I am." She bit into the muffin and caught crumbs before they hit her freshly dry-cleaned pants. "I've got a whack job killing women and leaving their bodies in dumpsters . How good could I possibly be?"

  "Actually, that's the reason I wanted to talk to you."

  "The reason you wanted to talk to me?" Claire snapped the tab back on the lid of the coffee cup and took a sip. It was now cold and bitter. "Tim, I called you. About eight times in the last week. You're late on the child support payment. Again."

  "I understand completely—" He started in with that psychologist's singsong tone of his meant to placate, but also to manipulate.

  "Understand completely?" she interrupted before he got on a roll. "Do you understand that fifteen-year-old girls have to eat? They have to have shoes on their feet. There are dental bills, tutoring bills, guitar lessons—"

  "Which is why I wanted to talk to you," he continued in the same irritating tone. "Rochelle and I were wondering if you had given any more thought to Ashley coming out to stay with us for the coming school year."

  "No. No, I haven't, Tim." She tossed the muffin onto her desk, hitting the napkin square in the middle. She'd lost her appetite. "In case you haven't figured it out, I'm a little busy right now."

  "All the more reason why this might be an excellent opportunity for Ashley to come spend some time with her sisters and—"

  "Tim...?" She tried to imitate the voice she knew he must use with his manic, depressed, deranged clients. "Did you mail the check?"

  "No, I didn't—"

  "Tim, we'll be back in court again," she patronized, "and I don't want to do that if I don't have to."

  "Let me tell you what I was thinking," he continued evenly, ignoring the money issue. "Ashley could—"

  "Mail the damned check or I'm calling my lawyer." Claire hit the disconnect button and then stared at the black desktop phone. "Now, wasn't that mature," she muttered.

  The line from the fishbowl immediately blinked red again, buzzing like an angry bee.

  Claire hit the black button above the light. "Yes, Jewel?"

  "Line three again," she sang.

  Claire picked up the phone. "If you don't send that check, I swear, I'll come there and get it out of you myself. Forget lawyers and judges, I'll just pound you into the ground until you starting spitting out child support checks."

  "Ummm..." the masculine voice on the other end of the line intoned. "I'm guessing that wasn't directed at me."

  "Graham?" Claire groaned, recognizing his voice immediately. "Ah, hell. I'm sorry. No, no, of course not. I thought you were my ex-husband. I mean, I didn't think you were my ex, I thought—"

  "Claire, it's okay."

  She closed her eyes and rolled her head back until it touched the headrest of her chair. "I was embarrassed last night, but now I'm truly embarrassed."

  He chuckled. "If that's the worst thing you do today, you should count yourself lucky."

  He made her smile. "What can I do for you, Councilman?"

  "I was wondering if you'd considered what we talked about last night."

  "Helping me out or going on a date?" Claire was surprised by the flirtation in her voice. A little shocked, too. There was a girl in the ER who might have been attacked by the serial killer; she might have a clue to lead Claire to him. She didn't have time to be playing footsies under the table, not even with a Clark Kent look-alike.

  Again, the dry chuckle. "Well, eventually both, but I'm a patient man."

  She fiddled with the lid to her coffee cup. "I would say so, considering how long it took you to show up on my doorstep."

  "My help. Would you like it?"

  She hesitated. There was the touchy issue of privacy to consider. It was being battled out in offices similar to her own, in courts, as well. Some might argue that the councilman had no right to view any information that was not available to the public. Then, of course, there was the issue of dead women to consider. Claire knew that this man would kill again, and he would continue to kill until he was caught. Were privacy issues really more important than solving crimes?

  "I want to say yes, but you know I can't—"

  "Don't just say no," he interrupted. "Why don't you come out to my place tonight? I'll make you dinner and we can talk about it?"

  "Can't. I have a fifteen-year-old prisoner to guard. My daughter's on house restriction."

  "For how long?"

  "Until she's thirty-seven," Claire quipped.

  She could tell he was smiling when he spoke again. "Fine. I'll bring dinner and make it for you at your place. You have a grill?"

  "Stainless steel. Double propane tanks. Two additional burners on the side."

  "A serious griller. You eat red meat, right?"

  "Still mooing."

  "See you at seven?"

  "I shouldn't agree to this. I cannot bring a civilian into my investigation, no matter how many Sherlock Holmes novels he's read," she said opening a manila envelope on the desk in front of her.

  "Fine. The dinner invitation still stands."

  She pulled out a stack of crime scene photographs. The top picture was a close up of Anne Hopkins's upper torso. The tiny gold crucifix around her neck caught Claire's eye. She had returned the necklace to Anne's mother and when she had lifted it out of the evidence envelope, the gold had seemed hot to her touch.

  "Thanks, Graham," she said quietly. "I could use a friendly dinner."

  * * *

  Claire picked up her desk phone with a sigh. "Yeah, Jewel?"

  "Detective Robinson on two."

  Claire hit the line two button. "Walt, she ready for our interview?"

  "Actually"—the middle-aged man cleared his throat—"I'm not sure there's going to be much of an interview."

  "What do you mean? What's wrong?" She was shuffling papers on her desk, trying to prioritize, but halted, memos in each hand. "Walt?"

  "Her boyfriend is here, with flowers and big slobbering apologies."

  She let go of both papers and watched them float to the desk. "You have got to be kidding me. The guy who tried to kidnap her was her boyfriend? I thought he beat her up."

  "Yeah, well, you ought to see him. She didn't quite give her girlfriends or me the entire story. Looks like she took a tire iron to his face. Then she got home, started to sober up a little and got pissed. Wanted to get back at him, I guess. Now everything's peachy between them."

  Claire tilted her head to rest it on the back of her chair and closed her eyes. "This was a lover's quarrel?"

  "Apparently he really did try to stuff her into the trunk, but only after they had a knock-down drag-out in the parking lot because she tore her clothe
s off on the dance floor." He gave a dry chuckle. "The boy's missing his front tooth. Apparently she knocked it out in the scuffle."

  Claire's eyes flew open. "This isn't funny, Detective. I was hoping—" She exhaled and started again. She couldn't make this personal. Not if she was going to catch this killer. Becoming emotionally involved would only hamper her investigation. It might even cloud her thinking. "If neither want to press charges against the other, you can let them both go. Then hightail it over to Tuna's and speak with the manager. I don't care what they have to do to keep underage drinkers out of there, but if they don't, I'm closing them down. Kids get killed this way."

  "Right, Chief."

  Claire hung up and lowered her head to her hands. She felt robbed. It hadn't been much, but it had been something.

  She only gave herself a minute to feel sorry for herself and then she picked up her head and reached for a stack of notes on the murders. She'd chart every detail in every case so that she could more easily make comparisons. Surely there was something there she had missed. Something that would lead her closer to the killer.

  * * *

  That evening, Claire knocked on Ashley's bedroom door, then walked in.

  "I thought you weren't supposed to just barge in." Ashley peered over the top of the magazine she'd been reading. She was stretched out on her bed, head propped on a pile of pillows. She wore large headphones, which she now slid back to let them hang around her neck.

  "I knocked." Claire stepped over a huge pile of clothes in the middle of the floor to carry the TV tray to the bed. "Guess you couldn't hear with the loud music deafening you. I brought you dinner." She set the tray on the edge of the nightstand.

  "Bread and water?"

  "Close. Rosemary potatoes, field greens salad with ranch dressing, and fresh pineapple."

  Ashley glanced at the tray. "That's it? That's dinner?"

  "Graham brought New York strips. I'm sure he'd be happy to throw one on the grill for you."

  Ashley turned up her nose. "I'm no longer eating red meat. Do you realize how those poor animals suffer before they're slaughtered?"

  "I brought you cranberry apple juice, too." Claire backed toward the door, circumnavigating the clothes pile. "You need anything else, you can get it yourself, Miss Sourpuss. And maybe you could wash some of these clothes?"

  "They're not dirty."

  Claire started to say something, then bit her tongue.

  The teen flipped a page in the magazine, her eyes downcast. "You dating that guy out there? The city councilman?"

  "No."

  "So he's just here to..." Ashley glanced up. "Make you a gourmet dinner?"

  "I guess." She lifted her hand lamely. "It's hard to explain. It's just dinner." She glanced away, then back at her daughter. "Did Chain tell you he and I spoke today?"

  Ashley worked her jaw, staring at a page in the magazine. "Those weren't exactly his words."

  Claire sighed. "I don't expect you to understand, you're just going to have to believe me when I tell you, I'm just trying to protect you. Keep you safe."

  "Think what you want. You will anyway."

  Ashley's tone was bordering on disrespectful, but Claire didn't say anything. She tried to pick her fights. "I'm going to clean up." She stopped at the door, glancing in the direction of the window. Was that the faint hint of cigarette smoke she smelled again? She and Ashley had had a go-round about this a few weeks ago. "I'm assuming you're not smoking in here anymore and that that window is locked."

  "That would be the correct assumption." Ashley flipped another page.

  There was that tone thing again. Biting her tongue, Claire closed the bedroom door behind her. She found Graham at the sink rinsing off the dirty dishes and loading them into the dishwasher.

  "So tell me who your suspects are and why," Graham said. "I'll clean up. You take notes."

  "I can't tell you who my suspects are." She thrust a small container of potatoes into the fridge. They'd make a perfect lunch at work. "And I told you on the phone, I can't accept your help. The agreement was just dinner."

  He glanced at her, then back at the plate he was rinsing off. "So, let's see. Ralph the dishwasher would have been at the top of the list. He had contact with all the women, had a record of abusing women."

  Graham slid a plate into the dishwasher rack. He was dressed in a pair of khakis and a white oxford shirt, but he'd ditched the tie and rolled up his sleeves. He looked good in the fading light of the kitchen. "But you had to cross him off the list because Kristen was murdered while he was behind bars."

  "Lucky guess." She stuck the steak sauce in the refrigerator door and walked to the sink to wash her hands.

  "But I like your idea that our guy is using the diner as his jumping off place." Graham handed her a towel. "It's clever on his part, and yours."

  She glanced at him, slowly rubbing her hands with the terry towel. "How did you know I was looking at the diner?"

  He closed up the dishwasher and started it Claire liked a man who could run a dishwasher.

  "You've been there at least once, sometimes two and three times a day for the last week. Lingering over lunch, having that second cup of coffee." He leaned against the counter, taking the towel from her to dry his own hands. "Scribbling notes in that little notebook of yours."

  "And how'd you know that? Loretta say something to you?"

  "Nope." He hung the damp dish towel on a drawer pull. "ESP... That and the fact that I can see the diner parking lot from my office doesn't hurt."

  She glanced away, feeling foolish that she hadn't remembered that his store was on the same street as the diner. "I'm a hell of a detective, huh? It's a wonder I can catch a cold."

  "You're being too hard on yourself. Let me pour us both another glass of merlot and you get your notes, which I know, full well, you bring home with you." He reached for the half empty wine bottle. "You're probably one of those who sits up all night thinking about cases, going over and over them in your mind, trying to find some clue you think you might have missed before."

  "You are not helping me with this case, Graham." She walked into the living room. "And as for taking my work home, sorry. That's what good cops do."

  He met her at the couch. "I know, and you're a good cop." He offered her one of the glasses and then took the same chair he had sat in the other night. "Now, on to your suspects. It's a man. Someone we know. Someone who frequents the diner. Someone who probably knew the dead women pretty well, at least the local ones. Possibly a man with a record for battery, a minor sex crime, maybe." He sipped his wine, glancing over the rim. "You start interviewing our fellow citizens with criminal records?"

  Seated on the end of the couch, Claire propped her feet on the birch twig coffee table. "Not that it's any of your business, but I haven't started interviews yet. In a small town like this, I have to be careful who I interview, how and why. People talk. Innocent people's reputations can be ruined."

  "If I were going to chat with some people, it would be those men with records first: Billy Trotter, José Lopez, the mayor."

  Claire looked up. "How did you—"

  "Did I tell you my sister's a cop? Actually, she's an FBI agent at Quantico. A computer geek." He shook his head. "You'd be shocked what's available on the Internet."

  "You can't get your sister to use her connections to—"

  "Claire, I'm talking about public access to records, here. You just have to know where to look."

  She eyed him. "Which is where your sister, the FBI agent slash computer geek, comes in handy."

  He pointed. "Exactly."

  She studied him for a moment. "Graham, I've known you for years. Spoken to you hundreds of times." She tipped her wineglass, watching the rich red liquid swirl. "I never realized you were so—"

  "Witty. Charming?"

  "Devious, is what I was going to say." She flashed a smile. "You mentioned José, who works for Loretta. I didn't know he'd been in trouble. I don't even think he started working a
t the diner until July."

  "But he was around. He probably ate there."

  She sipped her wine. "Out of curiosity, what was he arrested for?"

  "Minor drug charge a few years back. Went through a first offenders program."

  She stared into space for minute. "I don't see the killer as a druggy. This guy is too controlled. Too... meticulous."

  "You still need to consider José. He works at the diner, for God's sake."

  "Who else do you think I should look at?" She lifted one shoulder. "You know, just out of curiosity. Seth Watkins?"

  "Seth? You're kidding." He grimaced. "I hadn't caught that one yet. Talk about someone who will creep you out." He shuddered.

  "Tell me about it. And his was actually a sex offense, of sorts." She studied a photograph taken of her and Ashley the previous summer, camping in the Appalachian Mountains. There had been no vacation this summer. She thought about Seth and the pen in the evidence envelope back at the station. About the pen he'd given her the day before.

  She looked back at Graham. "And what about yourself? You have a record? Should I be checking? You eat at the diner all the time. Tuna on whole wheat, hold the chips, an extra pickle."

  "I don't have a record."

  "Actually"—she wrinkled her nose playfully—"I know that."

  He lifted a brow. "You ran my record?"

  "I've been trying to keep a list of every man who walks through Loretta's door. I run everyone's record on the list. I don't know how I missed José." She set down her glass and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them.

  "You make a good point there, though."

  "What's that?"

  "You can't limit your suspects to only men who have records. As you said , your killer is clever." He stroked his chin. "Maybe he's been clever enough not to get caught at anything, so far."

  "You're serious? You want me to put your name down as a possible suspect?"

  "Nah, because I'm not the killer." He leaned back in the leather chair, resting one ankle on his knee. "You're not going to like this, but I think you need to add McCormick to your list."

  She'd been rubbing a smudge beside her on the leather couch, but she looked up. "Ryan McCormick? You've got to be kidding me. He's a police officer. One of the good guys."