She'll Never Live

by Hunter Morgan

  "When we get home, take some ibuprofen. The heating pad's in the hall closet, if you need it."

  "Okay."

  Claire stared at Ashley. She'd been in the car a full two minutes and she'd not argued a single point with her mother. Not made a single Mom, you 're an idiot face.

  "What?" Ashley said.

  "You're being awfully pleasant," Claire intoned suspiciously. "Are you in trouble?"

  "Mom."

  Ashley rolled her eyes, making Claire feel a little better. That was the fifteen-year-old daughter she knew.

  "First you're pissed because you think I'm using the wrong tone of voice," Ashley groaned. "Then, when I try to be nice—"

  "Okay, okay. You're right." Claire started the car and backed out. "But you're still on restriction."

  "I know that."

  Claire pulled onto the street. "I have to pick up my dry cleaning. Then I thought we'd get Chinese take-out for dinner."

  Ashley gazed out the window. "Whatever."

  "So Grandma was there on time to pick you up this morning? You made work on time?"

  "Yup." Ashley continued to gaze out the window. "I heard you found another dead girl."

  Claire glanced at her daughter. Ashley had parted her shoulder-length black hair in a crazy zigzag and then used two black rubber bands to tie it up in what Claire had referred to as doggy ears, back in the days when Ashley's hair was still a beautiful blond and she wore butterfly clips. "Your roots are showing," she said.

  Ashley ran her finger over the top of her head. "Yeah, I know. Need to hit the Miss Clairol aisle at the drugstore."

  "You know, you could bleach it back to blond."

  "Mom," the teen groaned. "I like it this way."

  "Fine." Claire signaled and turned into the parking lot of the strip mall where the dry cleaners was located.

  "You think you're going to have to leave early again in the morning?" Ashley asked as Claire pulled into a parking spot.

  "I hope not. Why?" She cut the engine and reached in the console for her wallet.

  "I don't know. I was just thinking that if you were, I could spend the night at Grandma and Grandpa's tonight." She cut her blue eyes at her mother.

  "You never like to spend the night there. Last week you groused for an hour about having to stay over."

  "I know. They watch stupid stuff on TV like FOX News." She fiddled with the air-conditioning vent on the dash. "But I do get to sleep in because Grandma doesn't have to drive all the way out of town to get me, then drive me all the way to the nursery."

  "I see, so this is about sleep?" Claire hesitated. "I guess we can call and see if they'll take you off my hands."

  "Cool. I'll get your dry cleaning." The teen snatched the twenty dollar bill from her mother's hand and climbed out of the car.

  Claire just sat there shaking her head, thinking she'd never live long enough to understand that child.

  * * *

  The Bloodsucker set his glass of Coke down on the end table beside his favorite chair. On a coaster, of course. He picked up the remote, pointed it, turned the power on the TV and sat down. He liked TV. Now that he lived alone, it kept him company. When Granny had been here, TV had rarely been allowed and then she was either watching soaps or that crazy religious channel that featured women with running black eye makeup and pink hair piled on their heads like cotton candy. He didn't watch soaps or religious shows anymore. He liked movies, especially old ones. This week, TNT had been running all the old, classic black-and-white horror flicks.

  Max laid down on the floor in front of the TV and the Bloodsucker smiled. He used to be lonely, but now that he and Max had settled into a routine, he wasn't lonely anymore. Especially not when he had his women to keep him company.

  He clicked the channel button, surfing for something to watch.

  They had found Brandy this morning. The whole town was talking about it, even Ashley, Claire Bear's daughter.

  He liked Ashley. And he thought Ashley liked him. Some might say he was too old for her, but he didn't think so. And even though he preferred his women blond, he was actually getting used to it black.

  The Bloodsucker had talked to Ashley today about her mother. Pretty clever, he thought. He'd asked how she was doing. Acted all concerned. He asked if she was sleeping at night and the teen had admitted her mother wasn't. That her job was keeping her awake... and making her bitchy. The Bloodsucker had chuckled at the bitchy remark, and Ashley had laughed with him.

  It was amazing to him how easily people were deceived. How he could be anyone he wanted to be, to anyone, and they would fall for it. It was because he was so smart, because he had scored so high on those IQ tests you could take in the back of magazines. Granny had never realized how smart he was. A cooking show filled the TV screen and he watched for a moment. The chef was making lobster bisque.

  As he watched how the lobster should be cut for soup, he scratched his forearm absently. The fabric of the long sleeve T-shirt was irritating him. His arms itched. Both of them. He set the remote control on his lap so that he could scratch both arms at once.

  "Don't scratch!" Granny had shrieked time and time again, slapping his hands, his face, the back of his head, whatever she could reach. "Don't scratch or you'll get an infection. You'll get gangrene and they they'll have to cut your arms off at the shoulders," she had threatened.

  He scratched harder. He could hear that buzzing in his head that got in there sometimes. That buzzing that was Granny.

  His forearms were suddenly burning now. Like they were on fire. This always happened after he was with a woman.

  He groaned in frustration, in pain, and finally jerked up the sleeve of his shirt so that he could scratch the hideous scars that ran the length of his forearm.

  * * *

  "Puncture wounds?" Claire repeated what the ME said, over the phone, as she scribbled it down on her legal pad. "Made from what?"

  "Something smooth, metal," Martha said in her gravelly voice.

  "Like an ice pick?" Claire jotted it down, circled it and put a big question mark next to it.

  "That's my guess."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" the older woman snorted. "Why do these lunatics do the things they do? Because they're lunatics!"

  Claire sat back in her chair, setting down her pen so that she could think for a minute. "Did he bleed her from the neck wounds? I mean, I saw some blood on the T-shirt, but not a lot."

  "He may have gotten some blood out of the wounds, but not much. If our boy was shooting for the jugular, he needs to go back to Anatomy and Physiology class, because his mark was way off."

  Claire frowned. "And that's all you've got for me?"

  "Sorry, sweetie," Martha said rather tenderly, considering the curmudgeon she could be. "Everything else you know. He's using a scalpel that he could buy anywhere, latex medical gloves. No fingerprints, no bite marks. No fibers on the body, except her own."

  "So the only difference between Brandy's body and the others is the two puncture wounds." Claire reached out and touched the corner of the photo she'd gotten of the wound.

  "Well, and the bloody lip. He did it, I'm sure. Or, at least, it occurred within hours of her death."

  "He hit her."

  "Or she could have fallen. No way to be sure."

  Claire heard the rustle of papers.

  "Oh," the ME continued. "And there's some bruising on her abdomen."

  Claire slid forward in her chair. "Bruising?"

  "She was punched or, again, she fell," Martha said. "Can't say for sure, but my guess is that she was punched. If you think she disappeared Sunday night and I place the time of death between Monday midnight and Tuesday, three A.M., he's the one who hit her."

  "Son of a bitch," Claire muttered.

  "I'm sorry?"

  Claire brushed the hair off the crown of her head. "You know what this means?"

  "He's getting violent. It isn't just enough to kill them now. He has to hurt them," Martha said.
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  "Yes." Claire pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. "It also means that the victim was alive Monday night."

  Two-pack-a-day Martha coughed. "I'm not following."

  Claire propped her elbow on her desk and rested her chin in her hand. "Monday night we had a so-called town meeting. Basically, every local in town filed into the gymnasium to tell me what a lousy job I was doing on this investigation. He had her by then, but he hadn't killed her," she said, thinking aloud.

  "And she was found beside a dumpster behind a school?" the ME asked. "The same school?"

  "Yup."

  "So now he's taunting you."

  Claire had never realized just how old thirty-four could feel some days. "I think so."

  "You think it's something personal against you?"

  "I don't know," Claire groaned. She sat up. "You said you thought she'd been dead over twenty-four hours by the time we found her."

  "It's in the report."

  "Well, listen, if you could overnight the autopsy report and photos, I'd greatly appreciate it."

  "You bet," Martha said. "And Claire..."

  "Yeah?"

  "Hang in there."

  "Do I have any other choice?"

  * * *

  At five Claire left the office, headed to her parents for dinner and to pick up Ashley. She just couldn't stand being in the office another minute. She had to get away from the clanging phone, the revolving door in her office, and worst of all the photos of the dead women she was collecting in manila envelopes.

  But instead of going straight to her parents' house, in the same neighborhood where she'd grown up, Claire found herself in the parking lot of Graham's office supply store. She just needed to see him. To say hi. To talk to someone about anything other than dead women, if only for five minutes.

  Claire walked into the store and was greeted by a clerk.

  "Chief Drummond." She was a pretty brunette.

  "Hi, is Graham still in?"

  "Um, yes, he's in his office, I believe." She started to step away from the cash register. "I can get him for—"

  "No, that's quite all right. Down this hall, right?" Claire had already started down the aisle of paper and envelopes.

  "Um, yes," the brunette called after her. "Second door on the left."

  Claire went down the hall past the break room and knocked on the second door on the left.

  "Yes?" Graham called from inside.

  Claire felt foolish all of a sudden. What was she doing here? Was she flattered that Graham was interested in her? Yes. But did she have the time or energy for a relationship right now? No way.

  "Come in," Graham said.

  Claire made herself open the door. "Hi," she said, walking in, closing the door behind her.

  "Claire." He rose from behind a big mahogany desk.

  "I know, what am I doing here?" She opened her hands, still feeling foolish. "Truth is, I don't know. I was just driving by, headed over to my folks' to pick up Ashley and—"

  "You don't need a reason to stop by," he said, coming around the desk. "I'm just glad you did."

  "Yeah, well, I—" She looked away, her eyes suddenly stinging with tears. God, what was wrong with her? She was losing it.

  To her surprise, Graham wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest.

  She pressed her face into his shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut. His arms felt so good around her. Just to be hugged by another person, to have that human contact.

  "Bad day?" he whispered.

  She nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak. All she could do was hang onto him for dear life.

  "Then I'm really glad you came by," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "So, call your parents, tell them you'll be late and to feed the kid and chain her to the couch or something, whatever it takes. You and I will go get some dinner."

  "I can't," she said, sniffling. "I..." She leaned back, her arms still around him, and looked up. "I really can't. I just came by—" She wiped her eyes and laughed.

  "For a hug?" he said quietly.

  She pressed her lips together, not knowing what to say to him. "Graham, right now, I... It's not that I don't want..." She exhaled, giving up trying to say what she wanted to say. Maybe because she didn't know what she wanted to say.

  "Claire, it's all right." He brushed a stray strand of hair off her cheek with his fingertips. "I can wait."

  The way he said it made her smile. She lifted up on her toes and brushed her mouth against his. Just a quick kiss. More of promise than of passion. "I have to go," she said, turning away, walking out of his arms.

  "I'll call you tomorrow. But come by any time. Hugs are us."

  She was still smiling when she reached her patrol car.

  * * *

  The Bloodsucker sat in the diner parking lot slumped down in the seat of his car. He watched the front door to the office supply store wondering what Claire was doing in there. Surely she didn't have to buy her own paper clips, envelopes. There was someone in the police department who did that sort of thing.

  Maybe she was there to see the councilman. The Bloodsucker had heard her job was in danger. Pity. He smiled. Scratched the inside of his arm.

  It was also possible that Claire Bear had begun interviewing possible suspects. There were rumors floating around out there about that, too. She was asking a lot of questions. Where people were, who they'd seen, what they had seen.

  The questions made the Bloodsucker nervous.

  The door at the store across the street opened and Claire walked out. The Bloodsucker held perfectly still, watching her through the open window. If anyone saw him, they wouldn't think it was strange. He was just here to grab something to eat on his way home from work.

  The Bloodsucker watched Claire climb into her police car, start the engine and pull through the parking lot, out onto the street He wondered where she was going. He started his engine... eased out of the parking lot. There was only one way to find out.

  Chapter 7

  "Thanks for agreeing to have lunch with me," Graham said, setting his menu aside as the waitress walked away.

  Claire glanced at him across the table. "It's the least I could do after the way I fell apart in your office the other day."

  "You didn't fall apart."

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  He leaned back on the pleather bench seat, stretching out one arm. He was dressed in his usual dark dress slacks, light colored, long sleeved polo and a conservative tie. He looked good, which Claire was trying hard to ignore. She still felt silly about walking into his office, throwing herself into his arms and then walking out. She didn't want to make any promises she didn't know if she could keep and right now, she didn't see how she could make any promises in the personal life department."All you did was come in for a quick squeeze." He gave her that Clark Kent smile.

  "Graham." She leaned forward over the Formica table. "This place is packed. Someone's going to hear you." She leaned back not nearly as annoyed as she wanted him to think. "And what I don't need right now is another reason for my fellow citizens to want to run me out of town."

  "I don't think it's that bad yet."

  "No?" She sipped her coffee. Ordinarily, she didn't drink coffee at lunchtime in August, but she definitely needed the caffeine today. The hours she was keeping were killing her. She had been leaving the house before six in the morning and often not pulling in her driveway until ten at night. She was just thankful her parents were around to help her out.

  All week, Ashley had been staying with them and Grandma was running her back and forth to work. Claire missed seeing her daughter, even if it was just so they could bark at each other, but she was relieved not to have to leave her alone at home so much. Even with the expensive security system, Ashley home alone at night made Claire uneasy.

  Graham laced his long fingers together on the table and leaned forward. "You look beat."

  She raised the eyebrow again. It seemed the only respon
se she could offer.

  "You can't keep this up," he said.

  She set down her coffee cup, exhaling. "I just need to get a hold on this case," she confided quietly as she glanced up to see who was coming in the diner door. It was Madge who had a gift shop on the boardwalk. Claire's gaze shifted to Graham again. "Something changed with Brandy's death, something that should be leading me closer to the killer." She made a fist. "But I just can't see it."

  "You interview your possible suspects?"

  She shrugged. "Nothing official. I didn't drag anyone in and throw them in the interrogation room. I did have a chat with Billy Trotter again out at Calloway's Bar."

  "Patti's ex."

  She nodded. "It's not him. He couldn't work up enough energy to kill anyone." She wavered. She knew she really shouldn't be talking about this with Graham, but who did she have to talk to? In the past, McCormick had always been a good sounding board when they had a tough case. But now she was hesitant. She didn't believe for a minute that Ryan could be the killer, but there was something about him that now made her uneasy. Distrustful. Maybe it was because she feared she couldn't trust herself or her own conclusions anymore. "And I ran into Seth yesterday showing a model home."

  "As a real estate agent, he has access to a lot of properties." Graham kept his voice low. "Some unoccupied. I know the guy isn't killing these women right off the bat. He has to keep them somewhere."

  "I thought of that, which could make Seth a good candidate. He lives alone and he would have the means to hide someone." She reached for her coffee, watching José clear up a stack of dirty dishes off the lunch counter and carry them into the back. "Did you know that José's uncle works at the elementary school as a custodian?"

  Graham's dark brows knitted. "The custodian who found Brandy Thomas's body?"

  "Coincidence, probably," she mused.

  "But you looked into his background, anyway?"

  She cupped her hands around the coffee mug. "Yeah. Other than the one marijuana charge we already knew about, he's clean. Hardworking, model citizen." She lifted her hands and let them fall on the white table speckled with gold flecks. "I'm just grasping at straws here, thinking maybe this is more than I'm seeing."