Until Dark

by Mariah Stewart

  “Why do it, then? Don’t you have a degree in art history and a minor in communications?”

  “I’m lucky. I’ve always had a talent for drawing faces. I took some studio courses when I was in college, and even flirted with the idea of becoming a painter for a time.”

  “Then surely there are other ways for you to make a living.”

  “Yes, but nothing that would give me the same sense of satisfaction I get when a sketch I’ve made results in a good arrest. I remember very clearly how I felt when my brother’s murderer was brought to trial and was convicted. Sentencing Webster to life in prison would not bring back Ian and Zach. But at least their killer would pay a price for what he’d done to them. To what he’d done to the people who loved them. Every victim deserves justice,” she said quietly. “Everyone who has lost someone they loved deserves to have all the doors closed behind them, so that they can get on with the rest of their lives. Everyone deserves closure. This is the only way I know to help others to find it.”

  Closure of a kind, Adam knew, that had eluded Kendra for years.

  “My mother went to her grave not having found my brother’s body. We never knew what really happened to him. How he died, or where. A man had been tried and convicted of his murder, but he never admitted a thing, never gave us a thing.” She looked up at Adam from across the table. “One of the reasons why I’ve never believed she committed suicide. She wouldn’t have chosen to leave this life while his body was still out there.”

  “What were the others?”

  “The others?”

  “The other reasons.”

  “She wouldn’t have left me. My mother and I were very close. She was my best friend. We had gone through so much together. My father’s illness . . . his death . . . my brother’s murder, the trial . . .” Kendra swallowed hard. “She used to say that we were survivors, that our grief bound us as much as our love and our blood. There is no way in hell she would have chosen to leave me behind to deal with the pain of losing her. She and I had been to that well too many times together. She would never have made me go alone. She never would have taken her life and left me to wonder why.”

  “What do you think happened, then?”

  Kendra shrugged.

  “I have no idea. I was hoping the police could tell me. That was their job, to study the evidence, then tell me what happened.”

  “I’m sure they believed they did that, Kendra.”

  “They were wrong,” she snapped. “She wouldn’t have left me, wouldn’t have left her husband. She and Philip were very happy together. He was the one who encouraged her to run for office—financed her campaigns and pulled in every old political favor he could think of to help her get elected. Not because she was his wife, but because he believed in her.” Kendra shook her head. “After so many years without my father, so many years of believing that the best was in the past, she’d finally met a man who made her believe in the future, to believe in herself and her ability to do great things. There was nothing that Philip wouldn’t have done for her—nor her for him. She wouldn’t have left him. Wouldn’t have left me. I tried to make the police understand that. . . .”

  “But even the FBI came up cold, Kendra,” he reminded her gently. “And you know, better than I, that your stepfather’s connections ensured that the best the Bureau had had looked into her death.”

  “They missed something. They all did,” she insisted. “There was no note, Adam. If my mother killed herself—put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger—she would have written a note first. To me. To her husband. But there was nothing.”

  “Nothing found.”

  She looked at him sharply.

  “There was nothing found because there was nothing to be found. My mother was not a quitter. If you’d known her, you’d have known that taking her own life would never have been an option for her. She would have considered it cowardly. After all the terrible times she survived in her life, why, when things were so wonderful, would she have killed herself?”

  “And what does your stepfather think?”

  “He agrees with me completely, of course. Neither of us has ever accepted the official version. Neither of us ever will.”

  “And assuming that you’re right, what are your chances of ever finding out what really happened that night?”

  “Less than a snowball’s chance in hell. Philip and I both know that.” She picked at a cuticle so that she had someplace to look other than at Adam. She didn’t want to see what was in his eyes. She suspected that he believed that she—and Philip, too, most likely—was in total denial where her mother was concerned. It was a conversation she did not want to have with him.

  “Why these women, Adam?” she asked, changing the subject. “Why did he choose them?”

  “Well, let’s look at what we learned about them today. Mancini always says you have to study the victim to find the killer. We know that Amy Tilden had arrived late to school for Home and School night because her son had a soccer game and her youngest daughter had Brownies that afternoon. She’d watched the game, picked up her daughter, then headed home for dinner. According to the statement of the next-door neighbor, with whom she shared a driveway, Amy and the kids arrived at the house right around six-fifteen and Amy’s ex-husband, Stan, arrived shortly thereafter.”

  “Ex-husband?”

  “He came over to watch the kids while Amy went back to school. He said he had dinner with them and she left at seven. He was the one who called the police when she didn’t return home.”

  “How’d she do that? Get everyone fed and be back out the door in less than an hour?” Kendra frowned. “He bring a pizza home with him?”

  “Nope. The extremely efficient Amy Tilden apparently had put something in her slow cooker before she left for work in the morning. By the time she left her home after dinner to go back to school, she had the dishes in the dishwasher and all three kids lined up doing their homework.”

  “The Amy Tildens of the world humble me with their ability to organize, to keep everyone’s life in order. Why would someone want to harm a woman like that? And not just harm her, but humiliate her by tossing her onto the road like a piece of litter? What was he trying to prove?”

  “When we figure that out, we’ll be close to finding him. Though I suspect it’s tied into the manner in which he rapes. Except for Karen Meyer, he has exhibited surprisingly little violence for so violent an act. Almost as if the rapes, too, were meant to prove a point. To humiliate and shame these women, to show his power over them.”

  “Wouldn’t it take a great deal of control to commit a rape in such a way?”

  “Absolutely, and there’s no question that he’s a very controlled individual. He wants a minimum of resistence, hence the stun gun. Wants to exercise his power and make certain that his victims know that he holds the power.” Adam hesitated, then added, “Except, again, for Karen Meyer, where things apparently did not go according to plan. Now, do you have a copy of the statement from the guy who was parked next to the Tilden van in the lot behind the school the night Amy disappeared?”

  “Yes. Jack Wilson. Forty-three years old, turkey farmer.” Kendra shuffled through her notes. “He was late arriving at school to meet with his son’s teacher, couldn’t find a spot in the visitors’ lot so he parked in the employee lot.”

  “And just happened to be returning to his car after his appointment in time to see a man coming from around the back of the dark van that was parked on the other side of Amy’s car.”

  “And just happened to get a glimpse of him in his headlights before he hopped into the driver’s side.” Kendra read her notes aloud. “Longish dark hair, curly in the front . . . a nose he described as a ‘ski jump’ . . .” She glanced up at Adam. “Which isn’t a terribly unusual feature, by the way. All the Smith men had one.”

  She studied the sketch she’d made as she slipped off her shoes and pulled her legs up onto the sofa.

  “Mr. Wilson actually got a better l
ook at our suspect than anyone so far, but he was out of town when the investigation started and only spoke to the police on Thursday afternoon, when he returned. I think that’s one reason why the original sketch is so far off the mark,” Kendra murmured. “They didn’t know they had a good witness.”

  “And then we had those kids come forward—the boys who played on the opposing soccer team that afternoon—to report that a dark van had been parked near their bus at the field.”

  “It’s too bad the boys didn’t get a better look at the driver.”

  “Well, their general description matched Max Spinelli’s. About six feet tall, dark hair.”

  “Which probably describes about half the men in Windsorville.”

  Kendra lined up the photos of the three victims side by side on the table in front of them.

  “But why these women?” Adam frowned. “So often, you see serial killers targeting prostitutes. But these women are about as far from being hookers as you can get. Devoted mothers. Single women, all of whom worked, contributed to their communities, were totally involved in their kids’ activities. The ultimate soccer moms. None of them women whose lives should have ended this way.”

  “No one’s should.” Kendra stared at the photos. “Do you think their physical appearance was a factor in their being chosen as victims?”

  “You mean because they are all tall, slender, and blond?” Adam nodded. “Hard to believe that could be a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  He slid the photos into a small stack, like a deck of playing cards.

  “Miranda Cahill is joining the investigation,” he told Kendra. “She should be here by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  “Is she the profiler—excuse me, the criminal investigative analyst—you spoke of earlier?”

  “No. That’s Anne Marie McCall. Miranda’s joining the investigation to help with the interviewing process; specifically, to interview the families. One thing we’re looking to determine is whether these women knew each other or were connected in some way. I’ll be interested in seeing what she comes up with.”

  “So will I.” Kendra leaned back against the sofa, her eyes half-closed with fatigue. “She’ll want to take the sketch. Maybe someone will recognize him.”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” Adam said as he returned the photographs to their respective folders. “I also want to speak with the state police about replacing that first sketch that was circulated with the one you did this evening.”

  When she did not respond, he turned back to her, and found her head resting against the back of the sofa. Her eyes were closed and her breathing rhythmic, her face soft with sleep.

  “Kendra?” he asked softly.

  Her eyes flickered slightly beneath the lids but did not open.

  Adam went into the bedroom and returned with a blanket he’d taken from the bed and one of the pillows. He spread the blanket over her carefully and tucked the pillow under her head, then turned off the light. He put the safety chain on the door, and went back into the other room to go to sleep.

  Kendra awoke in the night, mildly disoriented and more than a bit chagrined to find that she’d fallen asleep in Adam’s room rather than her own.

  “Oh, hell,” she muttered as she struggled to free herself from the blanket that she’d wrapped partially around her midsection as she slept.

  Stumbling to the small desk that sat along the far wall, she peered at the phone for the read-out of the time. Three forty-seven A.M. She wondered how long she’d been asleep.

  Berating herself for dozing off in the middle of a conversation, Kendra folded the blanket neatly and left it on the sofa. In the dark, she paused, debating whether or not to turn on the light so that she could gather her notes and whatever else she had left on the coffee table. From the next room, Adam’s breathing was rhythmic, steady. Turning on the light could awaken him, something she wanted to avoid at all costs. It was bad enough she’d fallen asleep when she did. Advertising that she was sneaking back to her own room in the wee hours would only embarrass her more. She stood next to the sofa and allowed her toes to search for her shoes. Finding them, she slipped them on, then quietly walked to the door, unlatched it, and stepped out into the hush of the hallway.

  It was hard to believe that people were sleeping behind the doors that lined the hall, the floor was so quiet. She found her room, six doors down from Adam’s, and as carefully as she could, slid the card in the lock to open the door. Closing it behind her, she set the safety lock and turned on the light switch. The light in the bathroom to her left came on, giving her enough visibility to find her way to her bed. Stripping off her clothes and searching through her suitcase for a nightshirt, she reached for the phone to call the desk clerk to request an early wake-up call. Knowing that Adam would want to get an early start, and still feeling sheepish about falling asleep in his room, she reached for the phone on the table next to her bed.

  It was then that she noticed the message light was blinking.

  Adam was the only person who knew she was here. Had he called her room after she’d fallen asleep to leave some smart-mouthed message for her to find when she returned? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  She lifted the receiver and pushed the button to retrieve the message.

  “Hi,” a male voice greeted her cheerfully.

  Definitely not Adam.

  “Heard you were in town and, well, I just couldn’t resist giving you a ring. It’s sure been a long time, hasn’t it? Sorry we won’t be able to get together just yet—you know, places to go, people to see. But you can expect to hear from me again. I will be in touch. You can bet your life on it.”

  Kendra frowned and hung up the phone. Obviously the call had been intended for someone else and had been mistakenly directed to her room. She called the desk and requested a six-fifteen wake-up call, ordered coffee to be delivered at six-thirty, then, remembering the message, said, “Oh, by the way. There was a message on my phone that should have gone to another room.”

  “Which other room?” the desk clerk asked.

  “I don’t know which other room. A man left a message that was clearly intended for someone else. I have no idea who he was or whose room he thought he had reached, but the message wasn’t for me.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  Kendra yawned, sorry she’d even brought it up. She rested the phone between her cheek and her shoulder while she turned down the bed, then sat at the edge of the mattress, wanting nothing more than to fall straight back onto the pillow and return to sleep.

  “Ms. Smith, there’s no record of an incoming call being placed to your room.”

  “How is that possible? I just listened to the message. . . .”

  “The call must have been made from inside the hotel.”

  “Oh.” Kendra’s tired brain pondered momentarily, then gave up. “Well, in that case, I suppose the two parties could have already met up. Thanks.”

  Kendra turned off all but the small light in the bathroom, then dropped into bed, grateful to stretch out her legs. The call forgotten, she was sound asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  Chapter

  Five

  “How many do we have?” Kendra looked across the conference table in the State Police Barracks at Lieutenant Al Barker, who’d been instrumental in providing copies of the most up-to-the-minute details of the investigation into the death of Karen Meyer. “How many witnesses actually saw the suspect?”

  “Well, there were seven people who stepped forward, but only two actually gave what appears to be a credible account.” Barker leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Caucasian male, approximately six feet tall, early to mid-twenties. Dark hair, dark glasses, dark clothing, dark van. Nothing that we didn’t already have from the priors.”

  “I’ll need to speak with them individually,” a frustrated Kendra told him, wondering what had happened to Adam’s directive that no one speak with the witnesses. Lieutenant Barker apparently th
ought it applied to everyone except him.

  “We’re having a list typed up for you and will bring in whomever you need.” Barker paused, then added, “We’d like to run that sketch of yours in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

  “If it holds up against the witnesses, it’s yours.”

  Adam entered the room accompanied by a tall, leggy woman with ice blue eyes and dark hair neatly pulled back from her face and clipped at the nape of her neck.

  “You must be Miranda Cahill.” Kendra smiled.

  “Since we’ve never met, I’m going out on a limb here and guess that you know my sister.” The woman extended her hand to Kendra.

  “I know that you and Portia are identical twins, so it sounds silly to even comment on how alike you are, but it is amazing. Even your voices are similar. The two of you must have had some good times when you were younger.”

  “Actually, we’re mirror-image twins. And yes, we did have some fun with it. Still do, actually.” Miranda grinned. “Just because we’re mature, responsible individuals entrusted by our government to carry guns doesn’t mean we’re above sometimes impersonating each other when circumstances dictate.”

  “Well, as one who fell victim to the infamous ‘Cahill switch,’ I suggest we change the subject.” Adam pulled out a chair for Miranda, then one for himself.

  “Oh, forgot about that one.” Miranda turned to Lieutenant Barker and explained, “Portia, Adam, and I were at the Academy together.”

  Lieutenant Barker nodded slowly, contemplating the havoc two beautiful, identical women could create if they set their minds to it.

  “Miranda’s part of the posse, sent to help us out,” Adam explained. “She’ll be visiting with the families of the victims over the next few days to see if there are any common threads.”

  “Kendra.” Miranda turned to her. “I’ve seen your sketch. I’d like to take it with me.”

  Kendra hesitated. “I’m not certain it’s complete.”

  Adam frowned. “What do you think you’re missing? All of the descriptions we’ve gotten so far have been the same. Dark shock of hair falling over the forehead. Face partially covered by dark glasses. Height, build, age, all the same . . .”