by Anne Frasier
The woman bit her lip while Elise silently profiled her. Single mom with a couple of kids, struggling to make ends meet while holding down two jobs. She would have been within her rights to refuse to share the name. Instead, she hunched down over the computer screen while clicking keys. “Charles Almena.”
“How many ways in and out of the building?” Lamont asked.
“There’s a back and side door”—she pointed—“and the door you came in.”
Elise thanked her. With little conversation, the team fanned out. One officer remained in the lobby, and two others headed down long hallways to guard the exits while Elise, Lamont, and Dunn took the stairs to the second floor.
At room 234, Lamont reached over Elise’s head and knocked heavily on the door. “Police. Open up.”
So much for keeping a low profile.
“I believe in going in bold,” he said upon seeing Elise’s irritation.
They heard the sound of movement from inside, and Elise displayed her badge in front of the peephole. “Homicide.”
The door opened, and a hastily dressed, bleary-eyed man stood there, shirt unbuttoned, in wrinkled khaki dress slacks. “What’s this all about?”
“Are you Charles Almena?”
“Yes.”
It hit her that he was Lamont’s profile in the flesh, from the top of his head to his toes. Age, race, height, and weight. Even clothing.
Dunn spoke into his radio. “We have the suspect engaged. Repeat, suspect is engaged.”
“Suspect?” Almena looked from Elise to Lamont. “You’ve got the wrong room.”
“Do you know a Jay Thomas Paul?” Elise asked.
A door down the hall opened, and a frightened woman peeked out.
“Everything’s fine here,” Dunn assured her.
The woman’s face vanished and the door closed.
“Mr. Paul has filed a report against you,” Lamont said.
“For what?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon and unlawful restraint.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Elise’s phone rang: Judge Rita Abernathy.
“I’ve e-mailed a warrant,” the judge said.
“Thank you.” Elise disconnected. “Got the search warrant.”
The other officers appeared.
“Read him his rights,” Elise said.
Almena let out a roar of rage, pushed past them, and made it a few yards before he was tackled, his arms pulled behind him, cuffs slapped on his wrists.
“Add resisting arrest to that list,” Lamont said.
Two of the officers helped Charles Almena to his feet, then pushed him toward the elevator. “Let’s go.”
Elise would have preferred to let the crime-scene team collect evidence, but they wouldn’t be there until morning, and even sealing the room was no guarantee it would go undisturbed. A housekeeper could come along with a master key and destroy everything, so Elise retrieved her kit from the trunk of her car, and she and Lamont got to work.
“Look at this.” Lamont held up a piece of rope that had been left on the bed. “This could be a match for the burns on the bodies of Devro, Murphy, and Chesterfield.” He tucked the rope into an evidence bag. “You noticed the guy fit my profile, right?”
“I’d think that would disappoint you,” Elise told him, “because if Charles Almena is our killer, it means David Gould is innocent.”
“This could just be a nut job who’s following the killings and decided to scare your buddy, Jay Thomas. That guy is bully bait.”
With gloved hands, Elise lifted a black marker and dropped it in a labeled evidence bag. “Washable,” she said. “The press didn’t have that information.”
“Yeah, but Jay Thomas did. So they’re having this affair or whatever you want to call it, and Almena is pumping J.T. for information on the case. Then he acts out the very stuff Jay Thomas has told him. I’m betting it will all be made apparent in the interview.”
“Which I’ll conduct.”
Lamont frowned. “Or, hey, how about that father of yours. Why don’t you have him do it? Isn’t that why he was brought in to consult?”
“By Major Hoffman. And since she’s dead . . .”
“I think you should abide by her decision, just out of respect. Let your dad put on those special glasses he wears.”
He was baiting her. “How did you know about the glasses?”
“I hear things.”
She let it go. No way was she getting into it with him at a crime scene.
An hour into the evidence collection, Elise attempted to engage Lamont in actual conversation. “What happened between you and David? Why does he dislike you so much?”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t told you.”
“He has. A little, but I don’t know the whole story.”
Lamont paused as he dug through a paper bag. “His wife . . . She was beautiful. The kind of woman who stopped men dead in the street. I think she even did some modeling. They were mismatched, that’s for sure. But I couldn’t blame Gould. He wasn’t that smart about women. Kind of inexperienced, really, and oblivious to her misery. Because she was miserable—even though they had this perfect suburban life in this newly minted neighborhood.”
How strange it was to think the person Lamont was talking about was the person Elise knew. Or didn’t know.
“I’d stop by their house and she’d be crying. I don’t know. Maybe she had postpartum depression, or maybe she’d just gotten herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of. But anyway, yeah. We started seeing each other. When Gould was out of town for weeks at a time, I practically lived at his house. And he thanked me for it. Thanked me for watching out for his wife.”
Not an unusual tale.
“I felt bad.” He gingerly held up a sex toy before tucking it into an evidence bag. “I really did. Gould and I roomed together at Quantico. We’d partnered on a lot of cases. I finally told Beth we had to stop. When she asked why, I tried to let her down easy, so I told her I didn’t want to get involved with someone who had a kid.” He shook his head. “You don’t think somebody is going to do something like that. I mean, how could I have ever guessed? And Gould? I have damn good reason to think he’s capable of these killings. You didn’t know him back then, but he went nuts. Nuttier than now. When he found out what happened, when he found out I was the one who’d said that to her about the kid, he showed up at my door planning to kill me. And he might have succeeded if I hadn’t been having my weekly poker party, all cops. Somebody hit him with a stun gun, and he went down. We all agreed to keep it quiet, but now I wonder about the wisdom of that decision.”
Lamont might have been putting his own spin on the story, but everything he said made sense. She believed him. “I think we’ve covered what we can,” she said. “We’ll seal the door and let the crime-scene team finish up.”
Lamont handed her an evidence bag. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “Nobody sane kills her own kid so her boyfriend won’t leave her. Who does that?”
David’s wife.
CHAPTER 44
I’m sending you some crime-scene photos, plus photos from last night’s assault on Jay Thomas Paul, the reporter I was telling you about.” Eyes on her computer screen, Elise dragged several images to her e-mail and hit “Send.”
“Got ’em,” said the voice on the other end of the line. Felix Drummond was one of the best handwriting analysts in the country, and typically even law enforcement had to wait months for a report.
“I appreciate your working me in,” Elise said.
“I’m all for helping to catch the bad guy if I can. I’ll call you with the results.”
“Thanks.”
She placed the receiver in the cradle and was about to call Jay Thomas to see how he was doing, when her cell phone rang. She checked the screen, and didn’t recognize the number. Without identifying herself, she answered with an abrupt and distracted hello.
“Hey, darlin’.”
Not a
voice she recognized. “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“I’m hurt. This is your old high school buddy, Tyrell King. I’m still waiting on that date.”
“Tyrell, I’m a little busy right now.”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching the news. Some crazy shit goin’ down.”
Maybe he was calling for a reason. A real reason. “Do you have any information for me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Alert now, she said, “I want you to come in so we’ll be able to take your statement if it comes down to that.”
“I’m just gonna tell you over the phone.”
Better not to push him. “I’m listening,” she said, grabbing pen and paper.
Tyrell’s voice dropped and became serious. “I might have seen the guy you’re looking for.”
So far the only report released to the media stated merely that they were “following a strong lead.” Nobody knew anything about the arrest of Charles Almena.
“Shoulda called before, but I didn’t want to get involved,” Tyrell said. “I thought it would blow over.”
“Murders don’t blow over.”
“I know, but I thought you’d either catch him or he’d go somewhere else. Leave Savannah.”
“Give me a description.”
“A white guy. Aren’t they all white? These crazy fuckers?”
“Usually.”
“Have you ever known a brother to murder people just for the fun of it? ’Cause I ain’t never heard of one.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“Early thirties. Medium brown hair. Tan skin. Really tan, like maybe he golfed or something. Polo shirt kinda guy. Clean and shiny.”
He could have been describing Charles Almena. “If we put a lineup together, would you be willing to come in?”
“Sugar, you know I can’t do that. Tyrell King can’t be seen hanging around the police station. I called you because I want to keep my name out of this. I don’t want anybody knowing I said anything.”
“Tyrell, this is important. I need your help.”
“I live under the radar.”
“You ride around in a limo with a driver. How’s that under the radar?”
He laughed. “You’re sassy.”
That was a first. Nobody had ever called her sassy. “Tell you what. You can come in a side door. I’ll be waiting to escort you to the interrogation room where we’ll conduct the lineup.”
“If I say yes, will you go out with me?”
“You’re charming, but no.”
“Got a man?”
“No, I don’t have a man.”
“Then a woman?”
“No. I’m a cop. You’re a”—she used his own description—“businessman.”
“That’s no excuse. I know you’re friends with Strata Luna.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Strata Luna and I have a history.”
“We go back even farther. To high school.”
She steered the conversation to the murders. “We have someone in custody, but right now we don’t have enough evidence to hold him much longer,” she said. “If he’s the killer, your ID would keep him locked up until we get evidence back from our analysts. Come on. Be a hero.” She didn’t add that his ID would be another step toward getting David out of jail.
“Okay, but I’m just doin’ this for you.”
“Don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. For the girls. For my daughter and your daughter, if you have one.”
“You’re a persuasive woman,” he said. “I like that.”
“It’s my job,” she reminded him.
They made arrangements for him to come in that evening, after dark, with the hope that few people would spot him and his reputation as a badass would remain intact.
As promised, Elise met Tyrell at the side door. He entered the building, wearing a baggy black jacket, dark sunglasses, and a ball cap pulled down low. A male officer did a quick body search, patting Tyrell down before pronouncing him clean.
The interrogation room located on the lower level of the historical brick building was cramped, and the viewing area with one-way glass seemed a luxury in the tight space. Agent Lamont was waiting for them.
“You didn’t tell me anybody else would be here,” Tyrell said, irritated.
Afraid he might back out, Elise tried to reassure him. “We need more than one witness, and Agent Lamont is working the case with me.”
Tyrell let out a snort.
Elise wasn’t sure if it was the presence of an FBI agent that bothered him, or the fact that it would be harder to flirt with her with someone else in the room.
Lamont spoke into his phone. “Bring ’em in.”
As they watched through the one-way glass, a door opened and several men filed into the brightly lit room, then turned, their hands clasped low in front of them, expressions blank.
All white men.
All between the ages of thirty and fifty.
One of them was David.
They’d cleaned him up, made him shave, given him fresh clothes so he’d look the way he might have looked on the night Layla Jean Devro died.
Angry, Elise turned to Lamont. “We did not discuss this.” Not to mention that it went against protocol to have more than one suspect in a lineup.
“Seemed like a good idea to include him.”
Not the time to argue; she’d deal with Lamont later. “Any of these men look familiar?” Elise asked Tyrell. “Do any of them look like the man you saw on the night of Layla Jean Devro’s murder? Do any of them look like the man who picked her up just hours before her death?”
Tyrell nodded. “Number two.”
“You sure?” Lamont asked. “It would have been dark.”
“I’m sure. I got a good look at his face under the streetlamp. That’s him. That’s the guy I saw.”
Charles Almena.
And more important, not David.
CHAPTER 45
The morning after the lineup, David’s belongings were handed to him in a Ziploc bag. Billfold, keys, some change. In the lobby of the Chatham County jail, Elise stood up when she spotted him.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” she said.
“No.” He could see she was worried. She wanted to make amends, probably apologize for not believing him, believing in him, but it was too soon. He couldn’t talk to her. “I’ll take a cab.”
She pressed her lips together and gave him a small nod.
He didn’t watch her go.
Before leaving the building, David used the pay phone to call his mother.
“Oh my God, David. I was just looking into purchasing plane tickets to Savannah.”
“Everything’s fine,” he assured her. “I’ve been released, and I’m ready to head home.”
They talked awhile, and when the conversation ended, he called his sister. More reassurance and relief. “Gotta go,” he said, spotting a cab through the glass entry doors. “Love you.”
At home, he took a shower to wash off the antiseptic stench of jail. Then he sat down on the sofa, Isobel jumping on his lap. A half hour later his landline rang.
Elise.
He considered not answering, but at the same time he figured she’d just show up at his door if he continued to avoid her.
“I want you to come back to work,” she said once he picked up.
Not what he’d expected. “I don’t know how I feel about that.” The cases weren’t completely wrapped up, and there was, as yet, no explanation for the newspaper found in David’s car, even though most everyone agreed it had been planted there.
“Lamont will be leaving now that we have Almena in custody.”
“I’ll have to give it some thought.” Isobel rubbed her head against his chest and purred louder than he’d ever heard her purr. “Is that all?” he asked.
“No. David, I’m sorry.”
He was pretty sure those were the wo
rds she would have spoken earlier if he’d allowed her to give him a ride home. Her apology didn’t change anything.
“You did what you had to do,” he said. But her betrayal hurt. At the same time, he’d almost believed his own guilt. “I thought I might have killed Coretta,” he admitted. “But even so, I would have expected you to know better, to convince me I hadn’t done it.” With a distracted hand, he continued to pet the cat. “I’ve always had your back, Elise.”
She didn’t reply, and he tried to picture her in his mind. Was she at work? In her car? At home?
Through the receiver came the sound of a sob that she managed to cut off, but not before he heard it. “I know,” she whispered.
But David wasn’t about payback or twisting the knife deeper. “You should come over tonight,” he told her. Truth was, Elise was the most important person in his life, and he’d always believe in her more than she would believe in him. Just the way it was. “We can watch a movie.”
Another long pause, then, “I’ll be there.”
He smiled at the relief in her voice. Seconds later he came to a decision. “I heard Lamont was using my desk. Do me a favor and smudge some sage before I return tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 46
Jeffrey Nightingale considered it maintenance. The evenings spent watching sappy movies on his laptop while exactly mimicking actors’ gestures and expressions could never be considered a waste of time. It was the only way he could emulate the people out there in the world who weren’t like him. Emulate. Because he didn’t want to actually be like them. Hell no.
He’d spent years honing his craft, and like some of the greatest actors, he rarely broke character, even in his own head. He became the person he was playing. He lived it, night and day, until he took on a new skin.
Now, with his back against the headboard of the bed, he sat in the dark room and stared at the screen, waiting for scenes where he could really pour it on. The compassion, the empathy, the pain and sorrow, then the tears. He didn’t know how the tears happened for him, but they didn’t come from sorrow. He was sure of that. All it took was concentration, and there they were, rolling down his cheeks.
