The woman returned; the child was whining and stomping his foot now. It was past his bedtime and he was tired, poor tyke. She dumped the remainder of her clothes into another basket and called to the little boy. He followed her out, leaving the Bloodsucker alone.
* * *
Marissa turned up the radio, tapping her hand on the dashboard as she waited for the light to turn green. It had ended up taking her longer at the gym than she'd anticipated, then she'd stopped at the health food store for some flax seed and organic peanut butter, and now, by the time she got back to the Laundromat, her clothes were going to be wrinkled. She flew down the street, ignoring the twenty-five mile per hour sign that flashed by, even though she knew very well that she didn't need another speeding ticket.
At a stoplight, she flipped down the visor to check out her face. It looked a lot better than it had a few days ago. The allergist she'd seen after her trip to the ER last week wasn't sure what had triggered the allergic reaction and the rash, but he set up an appointment to do some more testing in two weeks. For now, she'd just stay away from the salad bars. This was proof that just because you thought a salad bar was healthy, it wasn't necessarily true.
The light changed and Marissa turned the corner and zipped into the Laundromat parking lot. She pulled up beside the only other car there. Before she got out, she looked through the large storefront windows to check out who was there. A guy with his back to her, but he was clean-cut and wearing nice clothes. Safe enough.
There was a new Laundromat in town, over by the Big Mart. A lot of the girls liked it there better; they said they felt safer, but she felt secure enough here. The parking lot was well-lit and there was a surveillance camera in the ceiling inside. Besides, loads were twenty-five cents a pop less here than at the new place. Free money, by her calculation.
The man inside turned around and realizing she knew him, she hopped out, leaving her car running. She'd just grab the clothes and head home. She could fold while she watched TV. Her roommate was out of town so she would have the remote all to herself. "Hey," she called, smiling. "Fancy meeting you here."
He smiled back. "Hey."
He was a nice guy; she'd bumped into him every once in a while in town or in a bar. He'd been really nice to her last week with the whole allergic reaction thing.
Marissa strolled to the dryer where she'd left her clothes, but it was empty. She turned to around to say something, then realized they were folded and placed neatly in piles on the counter that ran through the center of the Laundromat. She looked at him slyly. "Did you..."
He grinned bashfully, which she thought was pretty cute.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, a laundry basket in his arms. "I needed the dryer." He shrugged. "I didn't see any problem, but then when I pulled the clothes out and started folding them, I realized it was a little weird, me folding some stranger's panties."
She laughed as she added the meticulously folded clothes to her basket. "So now you see, you weren't folding a stranger's panties. And hey, you do a better job than I do. Feel free to come over every Tuesday night and fold for me. I'm just sorry the other load is already in the car."
He chuckled with her. At the door, he held it open with his back so that she could pass through.
"Been to Calloway's lately?" she asked as they walked to their cars.
"Not lately. It's too crowded."
"I know. Tourists. But, hey, summer's almost over; they'll all go home soon." She slid the basket into the backseat and shut the door.
He had put his basket into his trunk and was now coming around the side of her car. She wondered if maybe he was going to ask her out; he'd seemed pretty interested last week.
"And I guess business isn't what it's been in previous years," she said. "You know, with people being afraid to come to town."
"Right." He approached her, his hands in his shorts pockets. He definitely wanted to ask her out; she could see that look on his face. It was just taking him a minute to get up the nerve.
"So Marissa"—he glanced around, as if he were afraid someone was going to catch him talking to her—"I was wondering..." He lifted his arm as if he were going to put it around her and she turned to face him. But instead, he covered her mouth and nose with his hand... with something.
It took Marissa a split second too long to realize that this man who she thought she knew, was not what he seemed. She tried to scream, but he had both arms around her now, pinning her against him. The thing over her mouth and nose, the rag, it smelled awful.
Her head swam and she suddenly was nauseated. Everything spun out of focus and she felt her knees buckle.
"It's all right," he whispered in her ear as she sank into the spinning darkness. "Don't fight it, hon. That's it. Good girl."
* * *
"Missing since when?" Claire asked, rising out of her chair.
"Not sure yet." Jewel stood in the doorway to Claire's office, holding a slip of paper she had taken notes on. "The call just came in from the mother in Laurel. She said the girl's boss called looking for her at ten. She didn't show up for work this morning at nine. The mother already called her apartment and her cell phone. No answer."
"The mother think she could just be playing hooky?" Claire asked, forcing herself to remain calm even though her heart was pounding in her chest. "How old is she? Twenty-two? It's a nice day out. Maybe she hit the beach?"
"Mother says not."
Claire came out of her chair. "And what was the woman's name again?"
"The young one is Marissa Spicer," Jewel said, reading off the paper in her hand. She cracked her gum. "Her mother is Valerie Spicer. I've got numbers and stuff."
"The mother talk to her roommate?"
"Lucy Carmine. A preschool teacher. She's in Florida with her family."
"Son of a bitch," Claire muttered, coming around her desk. "Son of a bitch." She looked up at Jewel. "I want a car sent to her apartment, and I want Detective Robinson to go see the mother for starters."
"She's already on her way here. She was pretty upset." Pop. "I took the info because I figured, you know, head start."
"No, that's fine. Robinson can talk to her." Claire's mind was racing. Not another one, not another one, was all she could think. "Did you get info on her car?"
"Just that it's a 2001 white Civic. I'll run it through motor V, if you want." Jewel stepped back to let Claire pass. "Where you going?"
"To talk to Robinson. The mother bringing a photo so we know who we're looking for?"
Jewel nodded.
"Okay, well, I'm going to talk to Robinson and then I'm going to the diner."
Jewel's plucked and penciled brows lifted. "The diner? Now?"
"It'll take too long to explain. I want that information on the car now, and get a copy of the driver's license photo. Make copies for everyone out on the road right now." She checked her watch as she hurried down the hallway. First Robinson, then she'd check on Ashley, then she was going to the diner to find out when Marissa had last been there. "I want everyone here in an hour."
"You think he's got her?" Jewel called down the hallway.
Claire didn't respond.
Chapter 11
"The cameras were fake?" Claire exploded. She stood in the parking lot behind the police station. It was almost eleven p.m. and Ashley was lying in the backseat of her patrol car, pillow cradled in her arms as if she'd been to the drive in. She'd just been asleep in the break room.
"I'm afraid so, Chief," Patrolman Savage said. He and McCormick had just finished their shift. McCormick was inside turning in some paperwork; apparently Claire had missed him on her way out.
"How can that be? You can't put fake cameras up in a public place, can you?"
"No law against it. No city ordinance requiring surveillance cameras. According to the owner, some guy in Ohio, the real things cost too much."
"But women go into that Laundromat"—Claire touched her forehead and gestured in frustration—"thinking they're safe because th
ey see the cameras. They see that blinking red light that says they're being filmed."
"Red light runs on a battery. It just blinks. Owners put these fake cameras in as a deterrent against theft and vandalism. Thieves, kids, don't know the cameras aren't for real." Patrolman Savage lifted his shoulder in a shrug. "Owner says it works. Says that at that Laundromat, he had less than a hundred dollars worth of damage done last year and not a single jimmied coin box."
Claire leaned against her car, only half listening to what her officer was saying. She was just unable to believe their bad luck.
Marissa Spicer's white Honda Civic had been located in plain sight in the Laundromat parking lot before noon. Claire and Robinson had been able to trace her steps Tuesday from the time she left work at the sign shop until she finished her errands and ran back by the Laundromat to pick up her clothes she told a clerk in the health food store that she had left drying. Marissa's clothes were found folded neatly in a basket in the back of her unlocked car. The keys were still in the ignition, a couple hundred dollars of CDs in a case on the floor, and her purse was on the passenger's seat with sixty-three dollars in it.
Claire somehow found it ironic that they lived in a town where you could leave your car unlocked for more than twelve hours and no one would steal your purse, but six women had been murdered here.
From the Laundromat, Marissa's trail had gone cold. Like the other women, she was just gone.
McCormick walked out the back door, joining them in the parking lot. "I can pull another shift if you need me, Chief," he said.
"Not me," Savage groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm beat."
Claire shook her head. "I want you both to go home and get some sleep. It's what I'm going to try to do." She glanced in the backseat of her cruiser. It looked like Ashley was asleep again. "A couple of guys came in on their day off and Robinson is going to stay on through the night."
"We patrolling dumpsters again?" Savage said grimly.
"'Fraid so." She slapped the hood of the car and opened the door. She needed to get Ashley home and in her own bed. This couldn't be good for a fifteen-year-old who was already confused enough—watching her mother slowly sabotage her career as she tried to catch a killer.
"Call us if you need us," McCormick called across the parking lot as he and his partner headed for their personal vehicles.
Claire gave a half wave and closed the door. She gripped the steering wheel, tears filling her eyes. Fighting her emotions, she started the car, wheeled out of the parking lot. She was shaking all over. The girl was dead. She already knew Marissa was dead.
Claire picked up her cell from the car seat and dialed her parents' number. Her father picked up on the first ring. "You still up?" she asked, hoping he couldn't tell she'd been crying.
"Watching the news," he said. "Fire in an apartment house in Baltimore City. They think some kids set it."
She pressed her lips together. "Dad, can I drop Ashley off I... I have some things I need to do."
"'Course you can. I'll sit up. Keep an eye on her." He hesitated. "I really feel bad about—"
"Dad, listen, it wasn't your fault. I don't think she'll be sneaking anywhere tonight. She's already asleep and she hasn't talked to the boyfriend in days. I'll be back to get her before she's up in the morning."
"Something going on?" he intoned.
"I'll be there in a minute." She hung up and turned into her parents' development.
At her grandparents' house, Ashley put up no protest about spending the night. She was so tired, Claire doubted she had the energy.
Five minutes later, Claire was back in her car driving, but not for home.
She pulled into a driveway in front of a nice Cape Cod with cedar shakes only a block from the ocean. She walked up the sidewalk, her stride long and assured to make up for the fact that she wasn't sure about anything right now. She rang the doorbell, half hoping he'd already gone to bed.
The front porch light came on and the door opened.
"Claire."
She looked up at Graham, her lower lip trembling. "I'm sorry, it's late. I just—" She stared at her feet.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. "You want to talk?" he asked in the shadowy front hallway that smelled of cinnamon and clove.
She shook her head.
"Just need another hug?" He wrapped his arms around her.
"I'm thinking I need a little more than that," she heard herself say.
He was smiling when he lowered his mouth over hers. She clung to him, parting her lips, welcoming his tongue and even a moment's reprieve from what was going on beyond the walls of the cozy house.
She slid her hands over his shoulders, kissed him again and again.
"You want to go upstairs?" he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
"Or here," she answered shakily, slipping her hand under his T-shirt. He was dressed entirely different than she ever remembered seeing him. Bare feet, surf shop tee, gym shorts. A Clark Kent who could go casual. It made him even more delicious.
"Come on." He tugged on her hand. "Let's go upstairs."
Claire knew she shouldn't. She knew she only wanted this right now because of what was going on. The killer, her problems with Ashley... poor Marissa who might already be dead and Claire with no idea where to look for her. Claire knew that by morning she would regret this.
But Graham led her up the carpeted stairs and she followed. His bedroom was like the cottage, cozy, masculine. There was a light on beside the bed. He'd been reading a Gore Vidal book when she rang his doorbell.
He pushed the book off the bed, onto the floor.
She unhooked the belt with her pistol holster and hung it on the back of a chair near the door.
"I've never undressed a cop before," he teased as his fingers found the bottoms of her uniform, shirt.
She laughed. "Just be careful. Dry cleaning's expensive."
And he was. He removed her clothes, piece by piece as carefully as if she were a china doll. He kissed every inch of bare skin he revealed and still managed to hang her shirt and pants on the chair with her gun. When she was down to panties and a bra, he led her to bed, laid down and drew her into his arms.
"We don't have to—"
"I want to," she breathed, rolling over to face him. "I need to have something. Feel something good," she whispered desperately.
He covered her mouth with his and she closed her eyes, moaning as he caressed her breast, first over her bra, then slipping his hand inside.
She pulled off his T-shirt, then slipped off her bra. His hard, muscular chest, his crisp hair felt so good against her breasts.
He kissed her shoulders, her clavicle, slowly working his way downward until he took her nipple in his mouth. Claire moaned. It had been so long... too long.
Her heart pounding, she pushed his shorts down. His fingertips found the waistband of her panties, then moved lower, emitting another groan of pleasure. She was already wet. Already needing him.
"Please," she whispered, moving under him.
"We don't have to hurry."
She squeezed her eyes shut, on the verge of tears again and not even sure why. "I do."
"Ah, Claire," he whispered huskily in her ear as he slid her panties down and lowered himself over her.
Claire parted her thighs, opening up to him, welcoming him. The first sensation of penetration was overwhelmingly sweet.
He kissed her closed eyes, her cheeks, the tip of her nose.
She began to move under him, grinding her hips against his. He matched her motion, lifting her higher... moving faster. For a long moment she felt as if she hung suspended in time, in pleasure. The world, the town, the killer, faded away and there was nothing but she and Graham and their breathing that came faster and faster.
When Claire came in a burst of light and sensation and muscle contractions, she cried out, sinking her nails into Graham's shoulders. She held tightly to him as she rode the last waves of the orgasm. He slowly then picke
d up the pace again. Another three strokes and he groaned, collapsing over her.
Graham kissed her damp skin behind her ear and slid off her, onto his side, drawing her into his arms. Claire clung to him and burst into tears.
* * *
It was close to one in the morning the following night when the Bloodsucker pulled out of his driveway and headed into town, taking Marissa with him. She hadn't been as satisfying as he had hoped and he was disappointed. Agitated. There was something in him tonight that was still unfulfilled. His hands trembled on the steering wheel and he felt chilled despite the hot, humid evening.
He punched a button on the console, cutting the air-conditioning back, and rubbed his tired eyes.
The whole plan had gone so well in the beginning. It had been so satisfying, then. Patti, April, even Phoebe who he had taken mistaking her for her sister. But something wasn't right now. He slapped his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. Nothing seemed right. Not even the blood. Least of all, the blood.
He massaged the back of his neck where the muscles were tight. He was getting a headache, one of those kind that hummed. Buzzed, making room for Granny.
Maybe it was just that he was tired. He was working too many hours, burning the candle at both ends, as Granny used to say.
The Bloodsucker took a back road that cut east to Route One and then headed south. The first thing he noticed after he passed the "Welcome to Albany Beach" sign was a green and tan police car. Then another. Two blocks later, a third cruiser passed him in the right-hand lane. He smiled to himself. You never saw three cars on a weeknight. But, of course, Claire Bear had extra cars on the road. She was looking for him.
The idea made him proud, but at the same time, it concerned him. She seemed to be stepping up the investigation. It probably just had to do with the task force that would be arriving soon, but the Bloodsucker wasn't sure. This was beginning to feel personal. It was as if she felt that each time he took a woman home, it was a personal affront to her. As if it was all about her. Not about him.
Granny had been like that.
He pulled into an all-night mini-mart with gas pumps and used his credit card to fill up. He leaned on the trunk as he listened to the gas go into the tank and breathed in the fumes. He stroked the warm, smooth metal of the trunk, thinking about who was inside. Contemplating where he would leave her.
She'll Never Live Page 14
