by Clea Simon
“You thought what?” Creighton’s voice was as cold as his eyes.
I took a breath. “Look, you don’t know everything about me, Jim. And there are some things…some things you’ll just have to take on faith. But I have reason to believe Laurel Kroft is involved with a shady character.”
Those eyes were slits now. I kept talking. “Do you remember Benazi? Gregor ‘Bill’ Benazi? The slick older dude who was involved with that gun case? Well, I’ve seen him around again.”
“And you’re saying you saw him and Laurel together?”
“After a fashion.” Well, I had.
“I need to know where and when, Pru.” He saw my hesitation. “This isn’t a game. God help me, if you’re lying about this.”
“I’m not lying, Jim.” How to explain that I got my info from a dog? “It’s just that I didn’t see it per se.”
“Who did? I’ll need to question him or her.”
“You can’t.” I slumped against the wall. This was hopeless.
“Who are you protecting, Pru? It’s not that ex of yours…”
“Which one?” I didn’t know what had gotten into him. I did know I didn’t deserve to be talked to this way. It made me punchy. Punchy and reckless. “You seem to think my past is littered with every bad boy east of the Mississippi.”
“Maybe because it is.” He leaned forward over the desk. For a moment, I thought of a puma, ready to pounce. “Tell me about Benazi.”
“I don’t have anything to say.” He was pissing me off.
“How do you know he’s in town?”
“I saw him. Saw his car.” I remembered the red Maserati. “He must have seen mine. He called me.”
“Because of your car?” Now his voice was frosty.
“Yeah, Jim.” I thought back. “I thought at the time it was about the Haigens’ SUV. Dierdre was trying to unload it—Richard’s car. I mean, he can’t really drive it anymore. It’s a stupid car, totally overloaded. I thought she’d want an arm and leg for it.” I thought of what old lady Horlick had said. How the packed Benz had gone for a song. “It wasn’t my style anyway.”
“Benazi was selling her car?”
“No.” I shook my head. It was confusing, even to me. “He just knew about it. She wasn’t advertising it locally. I mean, a diesel Benz? In Beauville?” I laughed. He just looked at me. “It’s a car thing, Jim.”
“And you met to talk about the car?”
Time to ’fess up, at least as much as I was able. “No, Jim. I thought that maybe that’s what he wanted. And I was curious what he was doing back in town. He took that white Persian, you know.” It sounded lame, even to me. “We had dinner.” I thought back. “It was creepy.”
I saw Creighton take in a deep breath. Watched him let it out again. When he spoke, his voice was more calm than it had been in a while. “Pru,” he said, finally. “I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to think carefully before you answer it. I don’t want you to try to second guess me. What I want is the truth. Can you do that, Pru?”
I think I nodded. Something about his manner. At any rate, he seemed satisfied enough to continue.
“Would this man have any reason to hurt Mariela Cruz or Laurel Kroft?”
“What? No.” That jerked me upright. Then it hit me. “Jim, what are you talking about? Laurel—I thought…” The tears, the tension. Even, maybe, his unexplained absence last night. “Jim, has something happened to Laurel?”
He pulled out his desk chair and sat, heavily, like a much older man. “We got the call last night. Some kids saw the car, out in that parking area. The preservation land…Probably were going to break into it, but then they saw her.”
“She was…in the car?” I didn’t know where this was headed, but it didn’t sound good.”
“Only a few feet away. Dragged.” He stopped, as if the word had choked him. “It looks like another animal attack, Pru. Laurel Kroft is dead.”
Chapter Thirty-five
I was lucky Creighton’s office had another chair, the way this hit me.
“But, this doesn’t make sense. Mariela wasn’t even—” The facts weren’t adding up. “She didn’t even die out there.”
He was shaking his head. “She did, though. Laurel did. Forensics has her car. I haven’t seen it, but I was told there was blood all over, signs of a struggle. We don’t know if she tried to get back in, to get to safety. It’ll be a few days, before…”
He couldn’t do it. He put his face in his hands, and I was beside him, holding him. Talking nonsense I didn’t know I knew.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” This wasn’t me. “It’s okay, Jim, just let it go.” Wallis would have a field day. But she wasn’t there, and for a minute or two, it was me and Jim again. Not like I’d ever wanted it to be, but there it was. And then he pulled back and pushed himself upright in his seat. I dug a crumpled Kleenex out of my pocket and he blew his nose. And we were back to business.
“So.” He motioned for me to sit again, and I did. “You can see why I need to know about this phone exchange you two had.”
I nodded, I did. That didn’t make my dilemma any easier. “And I’ll help you, Jim, the best I can. Only, you don’t really think I had anything to do with her—with what happened to Laurel, do you?” I’d changed my wording out of deference for his feelings. Only after I’d spoken did I realize what my phrasing implied, and before he could answer, I followed up. “What do you think happened anyway, Jim? I mean, what you’re saying is this sounds like an animal attack. But you’re looking for a person?”
“I don’t know, Pru.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard him say those words. “Forensics won’t be back for a while. But we do know that Mariela was moved after she was killed. And Laurel? I don’t know what happened, but if she was out there…If she was looking for something…” He swallowed hard. I could see him straining, willing the cop part of his mind to take over. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
“Could it be a copy cat?”
He looked up. “What?”
“Something about this doesn’t feel right.” I was running through everything I knew about wild cats. Everything I’d read. “Maybe,” I was winging it, hoping that talking it out would help me make sense of my unease. “Say someone knows how Mariela died…hell, everyone knows how she died. So someone killed Laurel and made it look the same, at least at first glance.”
But I had thought something was off with Mariela’s death, too, I remembered. Besides, Creighton was shaking his head.
“Occam’s razor, Pru,” he was saying. “If it looks like a cougar killed one person, and another is killed, then it makes sense that a cougar killed them both. What I need to do is figure out why Laurel was out there. What she was looking for. Which means…”
In the pause as he gathered his thoughts, I remembered Albert’s call. “So that’s why Albert has a posse.”
I was relieved by Jim’s blank response. He had no idea that our animal-control officer was part of an illegal hunt and, to his credit, he immediately announced his intention to put a stop to it.
“This can’t happen.” He pulled himself out of his chair, looking as if the day had already been too much for him. “For one thing, somebody could get hurt. Somebody else.”
I bit my tongue on my retort: that any crew Albert was a part of was more likely to injure itself than get anywhere near a wild animal. Creighton was doing his job. For once, it coincided with my interests.
“I’ll join you.” I stood as he moved toward the door.
“No, Pru.” He was back in cop mode. “I’ll handle this.”
“I need to be there, Jim.” This wasn’t about Mariela’s death, or not only. I couldn’t forget that strange vision I had had—what I had seen through that panicked sheltie’s eyes. Besides, my particular sensitivity might save another life. Not that I could tell
that to Jim. “You know I’m more of an animal expert than Albert is. Besides, I told Albert I would go. He wants me to bring the dog.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Look, I’ve got to pick up Spot anyway, Jim. We can’t leave him alone. After that…I’m a private citizen.”
He didn’t argue.
“Do you want to give me the key?” I wanted to spare him. I felt for him, I really did. I also wanted a chance to look through her place.
“You won’t need one. I’ve got people over there now.” So much for that idea. “I’ll call them and tell them you’re on your way.”
He turned away and started down the hall. I had the feeling that he wanted some privacy, but I had another question.
“Jim?” He paused, then looked back toward me. “Did you get any more information about Mariela?”
Now he turned. “What do you mean?”
“Do you know if it was in fact a cougar that killed her?” I swallowed. If only I could tell him.
“The results were inconclusive.” He shook his head. “Why?”
Some tech was covering his ass. “I was just wondering.” And now I was covering mine. “Maybe we’re looking for the wrong kind of animal.”
“It’s not the cat we’re looking for, Pru.” His voice was cold now. Determined. “We’re looking for who dumped Mariela there. Who lured Laurel out to the woods. A person’s much more dangerous than any wild animal, if he—or she—wants to be.”
Chapter Thirty-six
I was glad to be alone, driving back to Laurel’s. Too much was going through my mind, and Creighton knew me too well for me to be easy about it. Unlike Doc Sharpe, he never seemed concerned about my strange connection with animals. He did note it, however, and he’d spent enough time at my place to see how Wallis and I interacted.
As I drove, I went over what I knew: Laurel had been looking into something when she’d been killed. Had that something gotten her killed? It seemed likely. It also seemed like my buddy Gregor Benazi was somehow involved. The Haigens, too, though I still didn’t understand how. I tried to remember everything Tracy Horlick had said about them. About him. Growler seemed to think that his person was angling to become Haigen’s next wife, but Richard would have to be deaf and dumb as well as blind before he traded Dierdre in for the old coot.
Laurel, however, might have been tempting. Was the late shrink flirting with the moneyed old man? Personally, I couldn’t see trading in lively, young Jim Creighton for a half-blind billionaire. Then again, he might be easier to train. Unless he wasn’t. As I sped down the highway, a scenario played out in my head: Creighton and Laurel were getting serious. She’d made her choice and gone to tell Richard Haigen it was over, stalling me with some nonsense about an “accident.” And he, what? Kills her? And Mariela, too? Because…she knew about Mariela? Or was it something else entirely—was I looking at the wrong Haigen? Had both women died because someone else had been there first?
Dierdre seemed too self-possessed to go into a jealous rage. But maybe it had been a practical, rather than emotional, move. If her security were on the line, she would have had more reason to lash out. But if Laurel Kroft had been moving on—leaving Haigen for Creighton, Dierdre would have had no reason to get rid of her.
None of it was making sense. And none of it had anything to do with a cougar. This was all about rich people, one rich man, in particular—Richard Haigen—and the women who may or may not have been part of his life. Could that have been what Benazi was trying to warn me about?
If so, the old man was going to have to be clearer. At any rate, I’d arrived at Laurel Kroft’s house. Sure enough, the county van was parked out front, and the door was open. I let myself in and shouted a greeting. No sense getting law enforcement mad at me.
“Oh, it’s you.” The white-coated tech didn’t even look up. I don’t usually get ignored by men. Then again, lab techs are a special breed. “Jefferson has been looking for you.”
I didn’t know any Jefferson, but I walked gingerly through the house, staying on the clear plastic that had been rolled out over the floor.
“There you are.” I’d just entered the living room when I heard the voice behind me. It had spooked me, and I turned quickly, a little annoyed at the lanky tech who had crept up so quietly.
“Do you mind?” I nodded over to Spot. He was whining, his tail between his legs. Between Laurel’s absence and these strangers, he was clearly in distress.
“By all means, take him.” He made a gesture with his gloved hand as if he were bestowing a blessing. “I need to check his cage, anyway.”
“It’s a crate,” I corrected him, reaching for the lead. On top of everything else, Spot really needed to go. “What are you looking for, anyway?”
“I don’t know if I can tell you.” He looked quite happy that I’d asked.
“Fine.” I let Spot lead me past. It did him good to take back a familiar role, and I was happy to be away from this jerk.
“But since you’re such good friends with Detective Creighton,” he continued, as he bent over the crate, “it probably wouldn’t do any harm.”
This is what I hate about small towns. Not only did Mr. Smarmy know my business, I couldn’t cut him down to size. Whatever happened next between me and Jim, Jim would have to work with him. And I’d probably run into him again, too.
“Yeah?” I couldn’t say it nicely.
He didn’t care. “Drugs,” he said, looking up, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Just got the call, or I’m sure Detective Creighton would have told you. We’re looking for sedatives, sleeping pills. Roofies. Anything that could have been used on a woman her size that would keep her still long enough to cut to shreds.”
“To cut?” Spot was tugging gently. I begged him, silently, to wait.
“Stab. You know…” He made an obscene slicing motion over his throat and belly.
Surprise left me momentarily speechless.
“I thought…” I stopped. This was what I’d suggested to Creighton. I struggled to remember why. “So, she wasn’t killed by a wild cat?”
“Depends on how you define ‘wild cat.’” He had a truly unpleasant smile. “Drugging someone and then slashing them? Seems like a woman’s way to kill, doesn’t it?”
He shrugged, not waiting for an answer, and began scraping something off the door of the crate. “Besides, she wasn’t attacked out in those woods. The blood in the car? Hers—and mainly on the passenger side. Someone did their best to make it look like she was mauled and then drove her out there.”
“And left her.” My mouth was dry. I was trying to make sense of this. I was failing. “So she wouldn’t have felt much pain, right?”
“Who knows?” Even with his back toward me, I could see him shrug. “It wasn’t like she could yell for help or anything.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
It must have been his choice of words. That or seeing him kneeling on Laurel’s blond wood floor. The reality was sinking in, and I felt a wave of nausea. I also felt the increasing desperation of the dog by my side.
“I’ll be back in a few,” I said to the tech, as I made my escape. “Come on, Spot. Let’s go.”
Spot relieved himself on the first tree we came to, but even as he moved on, watering another and finally squatting out by the road, he remained agitated.
“Is it Laurel?” I asked. A leading question, but the poor dog had been through so much, I wanted to give him an easy one.
“Gone, gone, gone.” A silent wail, as heartbreaking as a bay, broke through. I knelt on the ground beside him, to take him in my arms.
“I know, Spot. Or is it Sal?” He looked up as I leaned into his warm neck. Growler was right; this dog didn’t care “And, yes, she’s gone.”
“I told her. Warned her. She’s gone, gone, gone!” He was still trembling, with some com
bination of fear and—could it be, anger?
“Are you angry at her? Is that it?” I tried to put myself in his place. Your person is taken, hurt by someone. “Are you angry at her attacker?” Dogs have been known to act heroically, facing off against much larger animals when their people are threatened. I drew on that knowledge now, hoping to calm the shepherd mix. “You would have fought for her. I know you would have. You’re a good dog.”
“Bad, bad, bad.” I hugged him closer. If he let his loyalty eat him up, I wasn’t sure how to get him back. “Bad.”
“Not bad. You did what you could, Sal. I mean, Spot.” Now didn’t seem the time to mess with what we’d become accustomed to. “You did what you could.”
“She didn’t listen. Told her, told her, told her.” His thoughts were breaking out now into vocalizations. Soft at first, but growing louder. A howl of grief and of regret. I held him close, wondering what the techs inside must be thinking. For them, it was a case. It was evidence. Science.
“Not your fault, Spot. Not at all.”
“I told her, told her. Told!” His voice had silenced all the birds in the area. Even the squirrels had quit their chattering. And as I leaned in, I felt the full force of his sadness and, yes, that anger again. But not at whoever had mauled the beautiful Laurel Kroft. No, underneath the bristling rage, I felt the same sense of something wild. Something big and lethal. And feline.
“I told her,” Spot was saying.
“It wasn’t a cougar.” I kept my voice calm, my tone even. I visualized the words as I spoke them. Anything rather than picture a large tan cat. Or, worse, a spotted one. “It was a person, Spot. A person.”
He wasn’t listening. “Told her she was gone!” The baying continued. “Gone, gone, gone!”
Spot was upset; there was no other explanation. And while I didn’t want to confuse him further, I also saw no good coming out of his being put back in his crate. Besides, I had told Albert I would meet him—and Creighton as well, for that matter. I looked back at the house and made my decision. That tech didn’t have to know how long a walk we were talking. I was going to the preservation land. Laurel had died there. With the cougar no longer being blamed for her death, Creighton would have to call the hunt off. But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be some answers to be found. For me and for my bereft beau. Not to mention, for Spot.
