Bad Girl and Loverboy

by Michele Jaffe

  Someone who would never make Windy ask herself, “Did he go away because I wasn’t exciting enough?”

  “Mommmm, are you paying attention?” Cate, three years older, wonderful, self-possessed, was demanding now. “You haven’t guessed what!”

  “Okay, what?”

  “The monster trucks are coming to town!”

  “Monster trucks?”

  “Yes they’re big big big! Can we go to see them? Please?”

  “Why do you want to see monster trucks?”

  “Because I haven’t seen them before,” Cate answered, the most obvious thing in the world. “If we get our tickets now we can get a special pass and go and see them up close.”

  “Wow,” Windy answered. “That sounds really great.”

  “That’s what I said,” Brandon pronounced from the doorway. “And with pretty much the same tone.”

  Brandon was, as he would unabashedly and accurately say, the best thing that had happened to Windy and Cate in years. When they had decided that Windy should take the job in Las Vegas, Ella, the woman who had been baby-sitting Cate since she got her first teeth, announced that she couldn’t go with them. But she had a nephew who lived in Vegas who was twenty-six, studying to be a decorator, and great with kids, she assured them, because he was the second oldest of eight. He was a little different from the rest of the family, but he and Windy would get along fine.

  “A little different” had turned out to mean that Brandon was gay. He was also smart, trustworthy, wonderful with Cate, and a good cook. Between design courses he was teaching himself Spanish by watching Mexican soap operas, and was good enough to speak to Windy’s mom on the phone when she called, although Mrs. Thomas was stunned by some of his expressions. For the cost of room, board, and a tiny stipend that was less than a day care center, he was installed in the third bedroom of their house, on call all day and the occasional nights, if Windy asked ahead. He appeared in the doorway now in jeans and a T-shirt covered with a Hello Kitty apron, brandishing a spatula.

  He waved it at Cate. “Come along now, Miss Minx. Someone has to dress for soccer practice and eat her French toast in less than forty-five minutes. And someone else has to get ready to meet her boyfriend at the airport. Or had you forgotten that Bill’s flight arrives in about an hour?”

  Bill. Bill Henderson had turned out to be the someone Windy had been searching for. When she met him she stopped making up stories of how her life could go next, stopped feeling like she was swimming against an impossible current. Her only fear now was that Bill would wake up one day and realize she did not deserve him.

  “I know when his flight gets in,” Windy insisted without conviction. “Eleven fifteen, right?”

  Brandon stood in the doorway, shaking his head. “Ten forty. What you would do without me is anyone’s guess. I hope you remembered to make reservations somewhere good tonight for a little romance because the Minx and I are going out on the town.”

  “Where are we going?” Cate asked.

  “It’s a surprise, honey,” Brandon told her. Looked seriously at Windy. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t—”

  Brandon sighed. “I’ll get you a reservation at Prime. You’ll like it because it looks like an art deco brothel and Bill will like it because everyone will be in business suits. He’ll feel right at home. Now come on, you two, breakfast is ready.”

  “Why can’t we have breakfast in bed, like princesses?” Cate asked, the way she had every Saturday since they arrived in Vegas, and every Saturday morning Brandon explained that princesses did that only because they were lazy, and the two of them started their regular argument. When it came to the part where Windy was supposed to agree with Brandon he looked at her but she didn’t say anything. She seemed to be about a million miles away.

  Brandon said, “Isn’t that right?” prompting her.

  But Windy, whose mind was stuck on the phrase, “breakfast in bed,” said, “You go on. I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  Ash heard the words “Really, go on, honey, I’ll be right there,” when he answered his cell phone, then Windy’s voice saying, “Hello? Ash? Did I wake you?”

  Yes, he wanted to say. Last night about three A.M. a dream about you woke me up. And when I couldn’t get back to sleep I came to the office and have been sitting here reading reports about dead people to try to get you out of my head. Said instead, “No. I’m at my desk. Is something wrong?”

  “I think I may have something. About the Johnsons’ killer.” She hesitated. “I’ll need access to the crime scene, and a technician. With leuco crystal violet and a sprayer.”

  “Leuco crystal what?”

  “Leuco crystal violet. It fluoresces with blood like luminol, but it will work better in this location. I’m sure we’ve got the makings for the mixture in the lab there. Can you arrange it for me? Have that and someone there to open the door in about an hour and a half?”

  “I’ll be there myself. What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Hopefully I’ll know when I get there.”

  Ash picked up on something in her voice. “You sound concerned. If we don’t find anything, that is okay. Likely, even.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not finding anything would be a blessing,” Windy said. “It’s what I think we are going to find that I’m afraid of.”

  CHAPTER 6

  As soon as he spotted her, Bill picked Windy up in his arms and swung her around, like a scene from a movie. Everything with Bill was like that, picture perfect. It had been, from the first day they met, stranded at an incredibly dull cocktail party. He had played the part of the gorgeous blond stranger swooping in to rescue her from an excruciating conversation with an oily man who thought he was going to get her to come home with him. Both she and Bill, they discovered after about a minute, had been brought to the party by mutual friends, knew no one else, not even the hosts, and wanted desperately to leave. She reminded him of someone, he’d told her that night over drinks and then dinner, someone he couldn’t quite remember. He spent six months of serious dating trying to place who it was, and then, boom, one day he got it—she reminded him, he said, of the woman he wanted to spend his life with.

  He put her down now, kissed her on her forehead. “You look wonderful, babe.”

  They were standing in front of a bank of chrome and neon elevators between the two luggage carousels, their designated rendezvous place. Bill always told you precisely where to meet him, even if you were just going to the bathroom.

  “You too,” Windy said. He was strikingly handsome, too good looking for her, she thought. When they first started going out, just his smile could make her knees weak. “Sorry you had to wait. I went up to the gate but you were gone.”

  “I thought only passengers got through security these days and I was rushing to see you.”

  She flashed her Metro Police ID. “One of the perks of the office.”

  “I love a woman with a badge,” he said, giving her that smile, one arm covered with his trench coat, the other slipping over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get some breakfast. Something healthy to wash the taste of airplane coffee out of my mouth.” He started walking.

  Windy cleared her throat, and he stopped, instinctively knowing something was wrong.

  “Is Cate okay?” were his first words.

  How could she not love a man who asked about Cate first?

  “Cate is fine. It’s just—”

  “Work,” he finished for her, setting his bag down between them. She watched him struggling with his face. “You have to work today, don’t you?”

  Windy’s mother’s voice ran through her head, scolding, don’t draw attention to yourself, don’t have arguments, smooth out the rough edges, never fight in public. “Only for a little while. I figured you would be tired, want to sleep. You just got off the red-eye.” She reached for his cheek. “You won’t even miss me.”

  He h
eld his hand over hers. “You would not understand how much I’ve been missing you.”

  “I’m sorry. Its just that there is this killer who murdered a whole family and he—”

  He interrupted her with a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Tell me tonight at dinner. The way I see it, the faster you get to work, the faster you’ll be home with me. That’s all I care about.”

  She tried to put all the gratitude she was feeling in her smile. He had every right to be furious with her and he wasn’t. “Thank you.”

  “You’re worth it. Now go on. I’ll take a cab and see you at home later. Hurry.”

  Driving to the Johnson house, Windy wrestled with her guilt over working. Over wanting to work. She thought about how she would phrase her apology that night at dinner, how she would spend the rest of the weekend just with him, and Cate, show him how she could really concentrate on his needs—their needs. Sometimes she focused on the wrong things, got caught up in her job. But not anymore and not this weekend. This weekend would be for them. Once she finished with the Johnsons.

  She had just figured out what she would wear to dinner, the dress Bill bought her for Mother’s Day that she hadn’t worn yet and his favorite underwear, when she pulled up outside the Versaillesesque mansion. Ash was leaning against a chrome sports car eating onion rings and talking to a heavyset man in his mid-fifties with curly dark hair and a dark mustache. Windy had seen him around the criminalistics department, but had not met him yet. She thought his name was Jack, John, something like that.

  “Ned Blight,” he said, holding out a hand.

  Not auspicious. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blight.”

  “Call me Ned, Ms. Thomas. You are, after all, my boss.”

  For a moment Windy wanted to get back in her car and bang her head on the steering wheel. She did not need this, not today, with Bill waiting for her, not the “boss” thing. The way Ned said the word it was a challenge, a test, to see how she reacted, Windy knew. She’d had the luxury of forgetting that being young, female, and in charge made people uncomfortable after the first few months of her three years as sheriff in Virginia, but Vegas was bringing it back. She knew she would eventually win Ned’s respect just by working with him, over the next few months. What she needed today was merely his help. Rather than react she said, “Great, Ned, call me Windy. Did you bring what I asked for?”

  “Detective Laughton said you wanted leuco crystal violet. Are you sure you didn’t mean luminol?” With the tone in his voice he might as well have added “little lady.”

  Windy was determined not to be provoked. “Yes. LCV is easier to use, and comes out better in photographs. I’ll show you. Besides, luminol can fluoresce with traces of bleach, and where we’re going to be using it there’s a high chance that bleach was used as a cleaning product.”

  “You thinking of the laundry room? Off the back door? We ran the whole place, didn’t find anything in there,” Ned told her, a little smug.

  “No. The kitchen.”

  Ned shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because there were no crime scene photos of the kitchen.”

  “Well, yeah,” Ned said, getting defensive now. “We didn’t do the kitchen. There didn’t seem to be any point. There wasn’t any sign that anyone was in there.”

  “That’s what we need the LCV for.”

  Ned’s expression was stubborn and skeptical. “I don’t get it. Why?”

  “Because there was a greasy, animal substance found in Mrs. Johnson’s hair and a few brown crumbs near Doug Junior’s head.”

  Now Ash spoke. “What does that mean?”

  He’d asked Windy, but it was Ned who answered. Ned, in a tone of awe. “Bread and butter.”

  “Right,” Windy said. “I think our killer had breakfast with the Johnson family.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Ned only brought two respirators, so Ash stayed outside the kitchen while Ned and Windy worked. They started by closing the shade over the window to make the room darker, make it easier to see any signs of fluorescence. Windy sprayed a section with LCV and Ned followed with a camera, ready to get photos of anything they found. If blood had been present, even if the killer had tried to clean it up, it would show up as a purplish violet fluorescence. Working from the hall door into the kitchen they meticulously covered every inch, the sound of the faucet leaking drip drip drip the only thing in the silence. They had gone over about a third of the room before they began to find what they were looking for.

  First they found the handprints, on the handle of the refrigerator, on the door, and on the jam jars inside. Around the center of the jars, on the label, as though he’d grabbed each one and studied the different flavors, trying to decide. Only one jar had any smudges on the lid, indicating he’d taken the top off.

  “Your killer likes strawberry jam,” Windy poked her head out the door to say to Ash in the hallway.

  “I’ll include that in the report.”

  Next they found small traces on the drawer pulls under the countertop. “He was looking for the cutlery tray,” Windy said, narrating. “No, wait—” The Johnsons had two drawers of cutlery, one with plastic handles, for casual dining, and the other silver plated. The killer had opened the drawer with the plastic handled ones but kept looking. “He used one of the sliver plated knives, treating himself right.” A smear of blood showed how his hand had hovered between the butter knives and the steak knives, such a conundrum. Windy looked around and spotted a butter knife in the drying rack next to the sink, alongside a small plate. “He washed up when he was done,” she said, nodding in the direction of the sink with her chin. “How considerate.”

  “Yeah, a real Mr. Clean,” Ned said but any aggressiveness in his tone was for the perp, for being so damn tidy and making his clues hard to find, not for Windy. They were solid colleagues now.

  They followed more drips of blood around the floor, more hand and finger prints—unidentifiable because the killer had been wearing gloves. They had been tracing his path, working their way around the kitchen for four hours, when they got to the white Formica table that sat off to one side in what Cate would call the b-k nook. Windy sprayed the LCV solution on half the table and turned to do the other half.

  That was when Ned Blight started retching and Ash came running into the room.

  “What happened?” he asked. “What—”

  He stopped and stared at the tabletop. There were four purplish-violet circles glowing on the surface of the table.

  “Those are neck marks. He brought their heads down with him,” Windy explained, shooting pictures. “Put them on the table so they could watch him eat.” She lowered the camera and faced Ash. “I think you should put that in your VICAP report. It seems fairly unique.”

  Ash couldn’t speak for a moment, only nod.

  Ned stood up, taking deep breaths. “You knew that was going to be there, didn’t you?” he asked Windy.

  “I had an idea we’d find something like that.”

  “Shit.” Ned shook his head. Took off his respirator and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Shit, I’ve been in this job twenty years and it can still get to me.” He looked at Windy and now there was admiration. “It’s true what they say about you. You are a witch.”

  “I just look at the evidence,” she said, the same response she always gave.

  Ash was observing them, thinking, she sure bewitched Ned. That man would follow her to the end of the earth now.

  “I think the most important thing isn’t that he did this, but that he cleaned it up,” she said. “He left blood all over the house upstairs, but down here it’s spotless.”

  “He didn’t want us to know about it, or at least, not right away,” Ash said.

  “Yes. It was something extra he did, some special secret part of the ritual.”

  “The kind of thing that could help us identify him.”

  “Hopefully.” Windy’s voice was not optimistic. Her eyes fell to her watch and she grimaced. It was six o’cloc
k. Bill was going to kill her. She was surprised he hadn’t called her cell phone a dozen times, then realized she’d left it in her purse in the other room. The way she used to when she was out working in the field. The way that infuriated him.

  She looked around the kitchen, a mess of equipment and chemicals. It would take at least half an hour to clean up. Ash caught her anxiety, said, “Why don’t you take off? We’ll clean this up. You look like a woman with plans.”

  She started to say, “You’re right,” but stopped when Ash’s phone rang.

  He answered it, listened for a few seconds, then said, “Excellent. Great work. I’ll be right there.” When he hung up he looked at the phone for two beats, then at Windy. He said, “They got a man trying to sell Mrs. Johnson’s pearls.”

  “Is he—”

  “It turns out,” going on, smooth, only his tone betraying his excitement, “that he’d spent the last four days with complete access to the Johnson house and property. He is their exterminator.”

  Ned Blight whistled. “Their exterminator. Papers will be joy riding with that one. Won’t even have to make up a nickname.”

  Ash nodded, still looking at Windy. “They wouldn’t have found him if you hadn’t thought to ask Mr. Johnson about any missing jewelry.”

  Both Ash and Ned watched her shrug the compliment away. “That’s my job. Where did they catch him?”

  “Good Life Pawn-n-Go,” Ash told her. “They’ve got him in an interrogation room right now. Do you want to participate?”