“So did you speak to him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Good for you. You’ve finally forgiven him then, haven’t you?”
“I guess I have. He was only doing what he thought was right. Time has given me some perspective, as you predicted, so go ahead and gloat. Besides, I’d feel terrible if he used up all of his lives before I let him know I’d forgiven him. He wrecked another car last month,” she added.
“And walked away without a scratch on him, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m glad you aren’t mad at him anymore.”
“I just wish he wouldn’t jump the gun the way he does. He’s so impulsive. I have a couple of dates with a man, and he’s hiring people to investigate him.”
“Excuse me. You had more than a couple of dates with Dennis.”
“Yes, well . . .”
“At least you didn’t let him break your heart. I know for a fact you didn’t love him.”
“How did you know?”
“When you broke up, you didn’t shed a tear. Face it, Regan, you cry at Puppy Chow commercials. If you didn’t cry over Dennis, your heart wasn’t really in it. And just for the record, I’m thrilled you dumped him. He was all wrong for you.”
“At the time I didn’t think he was all wrong. I thought he was close to perfect. We had so much in common. He loved the theater, the ballet, and the opera, and he didn’t mind attending all those fund-raisers. I thought we had the same values—”
“But that wasn’t the real Dennis, was it? He was after your money, Regan, and you’ve got too much going for you to put up with that nonsense.”
“You aren’t going to give me another pep talk about how pretty and smart I am, are you?”
“No, I don’t have time to do the pep talk now. I’ve got to get back to the lab before one of my students blows it up. I’m calling to make sure you got home okay and to ask if you want to have dinner tonight. I’m starting my grapefruit diet tomorrow.”
“I wish I could, but I’m swamped with work. I’m going to be playing catch-up for a week,” she said.
“Okay, then plan on Friday, and I’ll start the diet on Saturday. We both need to have some fun,” Cordie protested. “Last week was awful for me. Monday one of the kids dropped a box of supplies, and every one of the new beakers broke. Then Tuesday I found out my budget for next year has been cut in half. In half,” she stressed. “Oh, and on Wednesday Sophie called and asked me to do an errand for her, and that turned out to be pretty awful too.”
“What was the errand?”
“She made me go to the police station to check on something.”
“What something?”
“You’ll have to wait to hear the gory details. Sophie made me promise not to say anything. She wants to explain it to you.”
“She’s cooking up another scheme, isn’t she?”
“Maybe,” she answered. “Uh-oh. One of my students is frantically waving to me. Gotta go.”
She hung up before Regan could say good-bye. Five mintues later Sophie called. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries.
“I need a favor. A big one.”
“Rome was fine. Thank you for asking. What kind of favor?”
“Say yes first.”
Regan laughed. “I haven’t fallen for that ploy since kindergarten.”
“Then meet me for lunch. Not today,” she hurried to add. “I know you’re probably swamped with work, and I’ve got two meetings back to back I can’t miss. Maybe we could do it tomorrow or the day after. I’ll need a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours for lunch?”
“Lunch and a favor,” she corrected. “We could meet at The Palms at twelve-thirty on Friday. Cordie’s through at noon, and she could join us. Can you do Friday?”
“I’m not sure I—”
“I really need your help.”
She sounded pitiful. Regan knew it was deliberate manipulation, but she decided to let her get away with it.
“If it’s that important . . . ,” she began.
“It is.”
“Okay, I’ll make it work.”
“I knew I could count on you. Oh, by the way, I checked with Henry to make sure your calendar was clear next weekend, and I told him to pencil me in.”
“For the entire weekend? Sophie, what’s going on?”
“I’ll explain it to you at lunch, and you’ll have a whole week to think about it.”
“I can’t—”
“I loved the picture in the newspaper. Your hair looked great.”
“Sophie, I want to know—”
“I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you Friday at twelve-thirty at The Palms.”
Regan wanted to argue, but it was pointless since Sophie had already hung up the phone. She checked the time, then grabbed her PDA and rushed out the door. Paul Greenfield, a senior staff member and a dear friend, was waiting in the lobby. Regan had known Paul since she was a teenager. She’d worked as his intern during the summer months of her junior year in high school, and for those three months she’d been madly in love with him. Paul had known about her infatuation—she’d been ridiculously obvious about what her mother called a bad crush—but he was very sweet about it. Married now with four children of his own who ran him ragged, he always had a ready smile for her. Paul’s hair was graying at the temples and he wore bottle-thick glasses, but Regan still thought he was extremely handsome. He was holding what looked like a five-hundred-page printout in his arms.
“Good morning, Paul. Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
“Good morning,” he replied. “Actually, these are for you.”
“Oh?” she took a step back.
He grinned. “Sorry, but about an hour ago I got an e-mail from your brother Aiden.”
“Yes?” she asked when he hesitated.
“He was wondering why he hasn’t heard from you.”
He tried to hand the stack of papers to her. She took another step back and smiled. “What exactly does Aiden want to hear?”
“Your opinion of his report.”
“He wrote all that? When in heaven’s name did he have time to write a five-hundred-page report?”
“Two hundred and ten pages,” he corrected.
“Okay. When did he have time to write a two-hundred-and-ten-page report?”
“You know your brother doesn’t sleep.”
Or have a life, she thought but didn’t dare say because it would have been disloyal. “Apparently not,” she said. “What kind of report is it?”
Paul smiled. She was looking at the pages as though she expected a jack-in-the-box to jump out at her. “Aiden’s plans for expansion,” he said. “He needs to know what you think before he can go forward. All the numbers are there. Spencer and Walker have already gotten on board.”
“Bet they didn’t have to read the thing.”
“Actually, no, they didn’t.”
She could see the guilty look on his face as he transferred the pages into her arms. She balanced the PDA on top.
“Aiden didn’t even mention this when we were in Rome. He now thinks I should have already read it?”
“There’s obviously been a mix-up. This is the second time I’ve had to have the pages printed for you. The first copy seems to have disappeared. I gave it to Emily,” he said, referring to Aiden’s assistant. “She insists she gave it to Henry to pass on to you.”
“If she had given the report to Henry, he would have given it to me.”
Paul was always diplomatic. “It’s a puzzle, but I don’t believe either one of us should waste time or energy trying to figure it out.”
“Yes, right. A puzzle.” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. “We both know that Emily—”
He didn’t let her continue. “We shouldn’t speculate. However, your brother is waiting to hear from you, hopefully by noon today.”
“Noon?”
“He told me to tell you not to worr
y about the time difference.”
She gritted her teeth. “Okay. I’ll read it this morning.”
His smile indicated he was pleased with her decision. “If you have any questions, I’ll be in my office until eleven. Then I’m on my way to Miami.”
He was walking away when she called out, “You knew I’d cave, didn’t you?”
His laughter was her answer. Regan checked the time, groaned, and then straightened her shoulders and headed to her office.
Chapter Three
THE MURDER WAS A MISTAKE.
He stood in the shadows of a building near the Water Tower district watching the entrance, waiting for the chosen one to appear. The damp, cool night air settled in his bones. He was miserable but didn’t dare give up, and so he continued to hide there waiting and hoping for over two hours. Then he finally accepted that he had failed.
Defeated, he climbed back into his Jeep and headed home. Tears came into his eyes, so severe was his disappointment and shame. He heard someone sob, realized that he had made the sound, and impatiently wiped the tears from his cheeks.
He couldn’t stop shaking. He had failed. What would the demon do to him now? He sobbed again.
And then, just as he was about to scream with the despair, the answer came. He saw the entrance to Conrad Park and suddenly knew the demon had guided him to where he needed to go. The jogging trail circled the university and the park in a perfect figure eight. He remembered seeing the diagram in the newspaper along with a long article about a festival. The proceeds would go to some sort of charity, but he couldn’t remember which one.
You’ll find her here, the demon whispered.
He was suddenly relieved. He found a perfect parking spot along the street next to the university. He pulled up beside a telephone pole. There was a poster for a coming race north of the city nailed to it. The poster showed a pretty young woman crossing a finish line.
He started to open the door and then froze. He wasn’t dressed properly. He’d worn his cheap but serviceable black suit with a white shirt and pinstriped tie because he thought he’d find her down by the Water Tower district, and he wanted to blend in with the other businessmen going home from work. He had stuffed a baseball cap in his pocket and planned to put it on once he started following her so that no one else on the street would be able to identify him after the fact.
What should he do?
Make the best of it, the demon hissed.
He grabbed his briefcase and decided to act as though he were a professor at the university, walking in a hurry. It wasn’t such a stretch. Yes, he could pull it off.
The weather had turned foul again. It had rained hard every day for the past four days, but it was supposed to be clear tonight. The weatherman had obviously been wrong. Damn, he should have thought to bring his umbrella along. It was too late to get one now.
Gripping the vinyl handle of the briefcase in his left hand, he walked quickly along the trail, trying to act as though he knew where he was headed. He walked for almost a mile, a fine mist covering his clothes, the urgency building inside him as he searched for the perfect spot. There weren’t many wooded areas, and he knew the specimen would be more cautious and watchful there.
He wasn’t too concerned that the mist would keep her away. Runners run, no matter the weather. And there was an important race to get ready for, he thought. Oh, yes, he would find her there.
But where should he hide? He kept walking, looking for a good spot. New lights designed to look like old-fashioned gas lamps were spaced along the path about twenty feet apart, some even closer together near the back of a building he was approaching. A sign with an arrow pointing to the building indicated it was a lecture hall. “Won’t do, won’t do,” he muttered. Too much light for what he intended.
His suit was soaked through, and still he continued on. What was that against the wall? He walked closer, stepped off the path, and then stopped. A shovel? Yes, that’s what it was.
There were three large holes along the side of the stone building where shrubs had been pulled out to make room for new ones. One of the workmen had obviously left the shovel behind. And a few other items as well. On the ground next to the shovel was an orange tarp folded haphazardly, and sticking out from one edge was a hammer, rusty but adequate. He seized it, measured the weight and grip in his hand, and held it close to his side. He hadn’t thought to bring a weapon. He was strong, terribly strong, and he believed he could subdue any woman, no matter her size, with his bare hands. The hammer might make it easier to convince her not to struggle. Better safe than sorry, he thought.
He walked around the curve in the path and gasped with excitement. A renovation was in progress. There was a pyramid of dead shrubs and trees, the roots like dried-up octopus tentacles reaching into the path. The trash was waiting to be carted away. He looked around for signs of anyone who could see or hear, then picked up a rock, and with his first pitch, broke the lamplight nearest the pile. Still too bright, he decided and threw another rock to break a second lamp.
“Perfect,” he whispered. A perfect little nest.
He kept thinking about those big, deep holes someone had thoughtfully left for him. A couple of them were on the south side of the building, but there were two more adjacent to the path with neon orange cones around them. Although he was wearing gloves, he still brushed his palms against his pants as he hunkered down behind the stack of foul-smelling, decomposing rot. His loafers sank into the mud. He gingerly placed the cheap attaché case on the ground next to him and took a deep, calming breath.
His senses were heightened by adrenaline, and he was more attuned to his surroundings. He could hear every little sound, smell every musty scent.
He heard the pounding of feet against the pavement as a runner approached. He smiled with satisfaction. Runners run, no matter what. He scrunched down lower still and squinted through the triangular opening he’d made between the branches. He watched the spot under a bright light he knew the runner would have to pass.
“Yes.” The runner was indeed a woman. But was she the right woman? Was she the perfect chosen one? He couldn’t see her face—she was looking down at the path as she sped along. He could see her slim, atheletic body, though, and her thick, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had to be the one. He stared at her long, luscious, incredibly perfect legs.
Clutching the hammer like a baseball bat, he prepared to spring.
He didn’t mean to kill her. He wanted only to daze her. Too late, he discovered his timing was off. He should have let her get past him and then struck her from behind, at the base of her skull, but he was too eager and too inexperienced. She was a fighter, clawing at his face as he struggled to take her down.
He dodged her hands, and when he was finally able to get a good look at her face, he realized she was seeing him clearly. Panic set in, and then fury.
She was pulling pepper spray from her pocket and screaming at the top of her lungs. He struck her hard—one blow from the hammer—and she collapsed. The demon wouldn’t let it end there. Again and again he struck her legs, pounding her knees and her thighs and her ankles.
There was blood everywhere.
Luck stayed on his side, for the mist had turned into a hard rain. He turned his face up to the sky and let the cold rainwater wash the blood away. The crimson stream flowed under his shirt collar giving him goose bumps. He closed his eyes to rest.
He suddenly bolted upright. How long had he been squatting next to her body, stupidly looking up at the black sky while anyone and his uncle could have wandered by?
He shook his head. He had to hide the body.
The holes. Those beautiful, big holes on the side of the building. Dare he risk carrying her all that way? Or should he use the shovel and dig a better hole underneath all the dead shrubs. Yes, that’s what he would do. But not yet. He quickly hid her under some branches, then found a spot near the shovel to hunker down and wait. After midnight, when he was sure no one would disturb him,
he moved the dead branches and dug a pit for her. He made sure it was deep enough to cover her folded body. As he dragged her to the hole, both shoes and one of her socks came off, so he threw them in. He stuffed her into the hole butt first, shoveled dirt on top of her and patted it down, and then dragged the rotting branches and dead shrubs over his work.
After he covered his footprints as best he could, he stood off to the side of the path to survey his handiwork. He was relieved to see that the rain had already washed the blood away from the walk.
The shaking started when he got back in his Jeep. He could barely get the key into the ignition, so undone was he by what had just happened. By the time he got home, an overwhelming sensation of peace and tranquility eased through his limbs, and he was feeling just like he used to after sex. Satisfied, content, relaxed.
And guilt free. That surprised him a little. He really didn’t feel any guilt at all. But then, why should he? The woman had tricked him, and for that reason alone she deserved to die.
Two other runners had passed by while he’d waited to bury the body, and either one of them, both males, might have noticed the bloodstains the rain hadn’t completely washed away yet. Yes, he’d taken quite a risk tonight.
He flipped the car lights off before he turned the corner so the nosy bitch neighbor wouldn’t see him pulling into his drive. Several weeks before, he’d removed the garage door light. As he approached his house, he drove at a snail’s pace. There she was, standing at her kitchen window, staring out. She was always checking on the neighbors.
She disappeared just as the garage door went up. Her name was Carolyn, and she was becoming more than just a pain in the ass. Too bad Carolyn didn’t live alone. She took care of her mother. One would think that the old woman would keep her occupied, but apparently that wasn’t so. Carolyn was a busybody and intrusive, always wondering when she could stop by to meet Nina. If she kept it up, he would have to do something about her.
After he parked in his garage, he pulled a wooden crate from a shelf and laid the bloody hammer in the bottom. Then he emptied his pockets. The pepper spray and driver’s license he’d impulsively taken from the woman went into the box next. He shoved the crate and the attaché case into a corner. After that, he stripped and put his muddy clothes and shoes in a trash bag.
The Murder List Page 3
