Pretty Dead

by Anne Frasier

“Where’d you hear that?”

  “Around.” More of the folklore.

  “I have killed people.”

  His admission surprised her. Not that he’d killed, but that he’d admitted to it.

  “People who needed to die. Not innocents.” He looked over both shoulders, then refocused on her. “Before you were born, I already had the reputation of being able to extract confessions from criminals,” he said in a low and confidential voice. “But that didn’t always work. A few times, when I didn’t get the proof I needed to put someone away, I took care of it myself.”

  Judge, jury, and executioner. She could read between the lines. “You mean you killed a suspect.”

  Tip of the head, eyebrows raised. Affirmative. “These were bad people, Elise. People who couldn’t be allowed to continue inflicting harm.”

  “More than one.” A statement. “You killed more than one.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t appear remorseful. She had a psychopath hanging around her daughter.

  “You have to understand. These were men who’d done terrible things to children. And women. They needed to die.”

  “That wasn’t for you to decide.”

  “Why not me? Why not the person who had an unfiltered view of what was going on, and not some chosen jury listening to sifted and diluted evidence that might or might not put someone away? Especially if that someone had money and influence.”

  Elise resented his ability to upset her. He didn’t deserve that kind of power.

  “There was one particular man,” he said. “A case you won’t find anywhere because all records have been destroyed. He was almost the end of me. I have to admit, by that time I was getting careless and cocky and sloppy. And yes, I started thinking I was above the law. After I killed him, an investigation was launched, and it wasn’t long before they were getting close, and I knew I’d probably end up with the death sentence.”

  “So you ran.”

  “I thought about it, and I probably would have. Just hop a train and live on the rails and in the street. But I was approached by an undercover branch of the FBI. In return for my cooperation, I was given full immunity, and the case was not only closed, all records were destroyed. They helped me fake my own death. They helped me disappear.”

  Now she did roll her eyes. “And what was this fabricated position? Why did the FBI want you so desperately, enough to destroy evidence to a homicide?”

  “I broke people.”

  “Tortured them?”

  “That usually wasn’t necessary, but . . .”

  “I’ll ask David about this secret group, this secret FBI club.”

  “Go ahead, but he won’t have heard of it. I worked for them for ten years. Then I left. Or I should say, they let me leave. But I was still dead to the rest of the world.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  He ratcheted things up. “I’m dying. For real this time.”

  If anybody else had spoken those words, Elise’s heart would have broken a little. But she wasn’t an idiot. He was playing her. When she didn’t swallow his FBI story, he pulled out something else. Only a naive child would fall for his act, so she steeled herself against any shred of sympathy she might feel. “We’re all dying.”

  “Believe it, don’t believe it. It’s your choice. But I wanted to see you, and I wanted to see Audrey and Strata Luna.”

  “Before you died?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t have to get involved in this case to see us.”

  “You needed help. I get the truth out of people. And I’m telling the truth.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that you’ve killed people.” She could feel it in him.

  “And you haven’t?”

  “No. Never.”

  “What about Marie Luna?”

  Elise inhaled.

  “My daughter,” he reminded her. “Strata Luna’s daughter.” He was watching her closely now. “Your half sister.”

  “I did not kill Marie Luna.” That honor went to Detective Avery, but she’d been there.

  “You would have, so don’t tell me you don’t believe in killing when it’s necessary. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done exactly what I’ve done. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have killed your half sister.”

  “Not the same.”

  “Exactly the same.”

  His rationalization was similar to a serial killer’s. “Marie Luna was killed to save a life,” she said.

  “That’s what I mean. We do what we have to do. You’re just like me, Elise. Just like me.”

  No.

  He pushed himself away from the car. “I would advise you to not mention this conversation to anyone, not even David Gould.”

  “Are you threatening me now?”

  “I would never do that. But saying anything could put your life in danger.”

  Anger exploded in her; words came rushing out. She shouted, not even sure of what she was saying. Something about how blood didn’t make family; that loyalty and love made family. And something about how he had no right to haunt her the way he was, and he had no right to see Audrey. “You are nothing to us. Nothing.” Those were the awful things that poured from her mouth, each sentence seeming to beat him down a little more.

  She, more than anyone, knew how words had power. Words could hurt more than a physical blow, but it surprised her to see that her words could hurt him. That her words had any impact at all. But they did.

  She calmed down enough to notice that his breathing was shallow, as if inhaling and exhaling were too much work. He tilted a little, then reached out and grabbed for something that wasn’t there.

  In the short time he’d stood behind her house, he’d seemed to shrink, and the force that emanated from him had dimmed. Now he looked like a pathetic old man.

  How had he gotten there? Walked? More to the point, was he really sick? “Do you want me to call a cab?” she asked.

  He shook his head, turning his back to her. “I won’t bother you again,” he said over his shoulder as he took one faltering step after the other.

  A trick? A final attempt to garner sympathy?

  The man’s entire life had been a lie, so how was she to know? And the truth was, she knew absolutely nothing about Jackson Sweet other than the legend of exaggerations and half-truths that surrounded him.

  Moving down the alley, he stopped, teetered, and dropped to his knees. A second later he pitched forward.

  She watched him for several heartbeats, waiting for him to get up, waiting for the scene to correct itself. It didn’t. He lay there, unmoving.

  Heart attack?

  She ran to him and fell to her own knees beside him, rolling him to his back.

  His face was gray, his lips blue.

  She pulled out her cell phone and called 911. The dispatcher led her through a list of instructions. She checked his vitals. He had a weak, irregular pulse, and his breathing was shallow.

  The ambulance arrived within minutes. An oxygen mask was put in place, and Sweet was lifted to a gurney while Elise gave them what details she could supply—which amounted to pretty much nothing.

  “You can ride in back with him,” one of the EMTs told her.

  Ride with him? “That’s okay. I’ll follow in my car.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Elise was in the ER waiting room. She took a seat. As she sat there, she went through possible people she could call to relieve her of this duty. The list was short. David, Strata Luna, and Major Hoffman, the major seeming the most unlikely.

  This episode put a new spin on things and carried a new tide of resentment combined with fear. Was Sweet really dying? If so, why her fear? What did she care? How would his death change anything, since he’d been dead all of Elise’s life until a short time ago? And more to the point, why was she feeling anxious as if deep down she’d taken some weird sense of comfort in knowing he was alive and nearby even if she wanted nothing to do with him?

  Confused emoti
ons battled it out as a young doctor appeared, his gaze sweeping the waiting room and settling on her as he approached. “Are you Jackson Sweet’s daughter?”

  It didn’t get much more personal. A daughter waiting anxiously to hear how her father was. If the doctor only knew.

  She got to her feet and nodded.

  The doctor came closer and hunched his shoulders, the action seeming to create privacy in a public place. “As I’m sure you know, your father’s condition is serious, but then we are talking about cancer.”

  “Cancer?” Her heart thudded.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “We aren’t close.”

  “It might seem strange, but it’s not unusual for a parent to keep this kind of news from a child. Parents want to protect their children, and they don’t want to be a burden.”

  No need to explain the details of her relationship with Sweet to a total stranger. “What kind of cancer?”

  “Hodgkin’s lymphoma. The prognosis for this type is fairly good because it tends to respond well to chemotherapy, but home care is essential, especially with his heart condition.”

  The bad news just kept coming. “What kind of heart condition?”

  “Arrhythmia and mild congestive heart failure. He needs to take care of himself, and he apparently hasn’t started chemo. Says he has no plans to get it. That needs to be remedied. With it, his chances for survival are decent. Does he live by himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right now we have him on IV fluids because he’s severely dehydrated. I want to keep him several hours for observation. If he’s stabilized by late afternoon, we’ll release him. But I can’t release him without assurance that he won’t be left alone.”

  Elise shook her head. “That’s out of the question.” Apparently he didn’t know who they were. Maybe she and her dad weren’t as locally famous as she thought. Or maybe the doctor was new in town.

  “We sometimes send recovering patients to a place that’s voluntarily run.” He could see she wanted no part of Sweet’s home care. “I might be able to get him in there.”

  She grabbed at the idea. “Please look into it.”

  The young man didn’t try very hard to hide his disappointment in her. She, not Sweet, was coming across as the bad guy here. “He’s not my father,” she found herself saying. Not a lie. What she meant was that he might have been her biological father, but he wasn’t a father father.

  “I could have sworn he said you were his daughter.”

  “He likes to think I am.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange.” The doctor vanished, then returned ten minutes later. “We got lucky, and they happen to have an empty bed just vacated today. I spoke to the woman in charge, and they’ll save the spot for him. We’ll take care of everything, including getting him there.” He handed Elise a piece of paper with an address and phone number. “In case you want to stop in and see him.”

  Elise checked the address, recognizing the location as a high-crime and drug area, but that was where free beds were located.

  CHAPTER 19

  On her way home from work, Elise pulled out the address the doctor had given her that morning. Earlier, Elise broke the news of Sweet’s illness to David and Major Hoffman.

  “Let’s keep this to ourselves,” Hoffman had said, making it clear she still wanted Sweet involved in the case. If a cancer diagnosis didn’t change the woman’s mind about bringing Sweet on board, nothing would.

  As expected, the voluntary care center was a sad place, a dark place, probably fifty times as depressing as David’s apartment, and that was saying something.

  “I’m here to see Jackson Sweet,” Elise told the woman sitting in a metal folding chair at the rummage sale desk near the front door.

  “Up two flights of stairs, down the hall, third room on the right.”

  “Thanks.”

  The wooden stairs were bowed and bare in the middle where a million feet had worn the paint away. The building smelled like urine and feces and food you wouldn’t want to look at, let alone eat. She passed windows on the way up, but was unable to see through glass that hadn’t been cleaned in a century.

  She knew the history of the space. A crack house where there had been a bust almost every week and almost as many killings. The city finally kicked everybody out and sold it to a nonprofit for a dollar. It didn’t appear that they’d done much more than bring in patients.

  She made a mental note to look into it, see who was behind the nonprofit, see if it was legit, and see what could be done to improve the overall situation. The mayor would be the person to contact, but that wasn’t going to happen, not now, probably never. Elise would try city council members.

  She found Sweet in his room, sitting in a chair, a thin cotton robe around him as he stared out opaque glass. She rapped lightly on the open door, but he didn’t turn his head.

  “Now I know there are worse things than dying of cancer,” he said without movement. As odd as it seemed, seeing her nemesis brought down so cruelly made her sad. This place might have been okay for some people. Others could have endured it, but for someone like Sweet . . .

  “Maybe you could go to Strata Luna’s.” If she knew he was living in such a state, the Gullah woman would be there in a second.

  Her comment about Strata Luna woke him up. “No!” He turned his head, and his eyes held some of the old fire. “I don’t want her to know about the cancer.”

  Elise stepped deeper into the room, taking note of the uneaten food on the plastic tray. Green gelatin, macaroni, and some kind of meat that looked like it had come from a can.

  “So the cancer is the reason you came out of hiding?” she asked, finally ready to converse with him without being on the defensive. Maybe she’d learn something. Or maybe not.

  “I didn’t know it was cancer at first,” he said. “I just knew something was wrong, and I knew I couldn’t live like I was living, hopping trains, sleeping in shelters. One day I just couldn’t do it. Didn’t have the strength to pull myself into a car.”

  “When do you start chemotherapy?” She knew the answer but wanted to see if he could be straightforward with her.

  “I’m not getting it.”

  “The doctor said your chances of survival are good—if you have chemo.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Are you afraid? I’ve heard the treatments get rougher as you go along.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk. And no, I’m not afraid. Not trying to be melodramatic, but I just don’t see the point.”

  He’d been telling the truth about dying. Had he also been telling the truth about his job with the FBI?

  She opened a cupboard. Inside were his jeans, shirt, boots, jacket, his backpack. Decision made, she tossed the jacket over her arm and gathered the rest of his clothes, boots on top. “Are these all of your things?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you to my place.” Maybe Audrey would have more luck convincing him to get the cancer treatment.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jay Thomas was feeling lonesome, feeling sorry for himself as he sat in the establishment where the mayor’s daughter used to work and where she was last seen.

  He’d taken a spot at the end of the bar on a stool in what had been Caroline Chesterfield’s section. David Gould had mentioned that killers liked to return to the scene of the crime to relive and savor the events of the killing. The Savannah PD even staked out the place for a few days. Nothing had come of it, so Jay decided to take it upon himself to investigate the bar, see what was going on. He considered himself lucky to find an empty seat in the dead girl’s section, but then maybe nobody wanted to sit there. Like maybe the killer would return and decide to replay the night.

  Not much of a drinker, Jay still managed to polish off two beers. Unfortunately, the alcohol made him feel even more sorry for himself, and the resentments he’d been trying to push aside now became this big neon sign in his brain.

  Truth was
, shadowing Elise Sandburg and David Gould made him feel like a grade-school kid all over again. The dork wanting to hang out with the cool kids.

  His hamburger and fries arrived.

  He ate, not with relish and hunger, but more like a spoiled brat who really wanted pizza.

  Maybe he was immature. Maybe the problem was with him. Maybe it had always been with him. They treated him like a pain in the ass and a fool, and it might be possible that he didn’t deserve their respect.

  A depressing thought.

  Another beer later and he wasn’t feeling much better. Looking for a diversion, he pulled the day’s newspaper from his messenger bag, folded it to the crossword puzzle, and began filling in the squares.

  Minutes later someone asked, “Do you compete?”

  Jay heard the words, but he figured they weren’t for him.

  “Do you compete?”

  This time Jay looked over to see a tall white guy perched on the stool beside him. Hadn’t noticed him sit down. And he must have been there awhile, because he had a half-finished drink in front of him. Something in a short glass, something on ice. Something someone cooler than Jay would drink.

  “The crossword puzzle,” the guy explained. “I couldn’t help but notice how fast you finished it, and I thought maybe you competed in crossword puzzle competitions.”

  Jay gave him a bashful glance and hunched his shoulders. “No, I just like to work them.”

  The man was probably several years younger than Jay. “It’s popular because of the sly humor,” he said.

  Jay pegged him for a salesman. Maybe somebody who golfed, but instead of the requisite polo, he wore a white dress shirt, tie removed, collar rumpled. He had one of those haircuts that was precise and tidy and needed to be touched up every couple of weeks, everything topped off with the kind of cologne that smelled like money and sleek cars.

  “The puzzles are popular because of the sly humor,” the guy repeated, this time with more authority. “There’s the surface stuff . . . but then, when you look deeper, there’s more.”

  Wow. He got it. He totally got it.

  “Yeah.” Jay tried to control his excitement. “It’s always there. Even when you think it’s just a normal puzzle.”