Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  “Where’s the husband?”

  “Downstairs,” Bob said.

  “I want to question him ASAP. Something doesn’t add up.”

  Bob’s gaze narrowed as he laid the plastic storage bag with the other gathered fibers for the lab in Bowling Green. “You just said you thought it’s our man’s work.”

  “I still do.” LeAnne checked the facial bruising with her gloved fingers. “This one seemed to put up a hell of a fight.” She looked at Bob. “What’s that tell you?”

  “She didn’t like her silk restraints.” Bob chuckled. “Maybe it wasn’t her style.”

  “The silk scarf or the bondage?”

  “Either.”

  LeAnne motioned for the coroner’s men to remove the body; the victim’s hands and feet had been secured in paper bags to preserve any DNA found beneath the nails. The coroner gave time of death at approximately twelve hours prior, give or take an hour.

  She returned her attention to Bob as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Jillian Gallego died three and a half months ago. Miranda—sixteen days. Our man took three months in between to possibly get to know Miranda. Who knows how long he knew Jillian before he killed her.

  “Let’s say he wines and dines them, gets to know their schedule, knows where they live. Every one of these women, aside from Cora Smith. We’re not even sure she’s linked to this case or lives in a remote area. He stalks them and finds out when they’ll be alone. Then, since there is never any evidence of forceful entry, he goes to visit them while hubby is away. Their backdoor Romeo turns into their worst nightmare. Lights out.”

  “If that’s the case, then he didn’t take much time to get to know Mrs. Duncan. Sixteen days is a whirlwind courtship.”

  “My point exactly.” LeAnne grinned. “This bastard, for some unknown reason, didn’t take his time with this one.” LeAnne thought about the two times she had interviewed Mrs. Duncan. “Something bothered, maybe annoyed him. It could have been her voice.”

  Bob’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “I interviewed Samantha on the Smith case. She had a…a unique voice, sort of grating on the nerves. Maybe our guy didn’t want to waste time with this one. Or, maybe our guy is sending us a message. Maybe he doesn’t think he can be caught. He’s stepping up his game plan—or maybe getting impatient. He never leaves us any latent, no real fibers, no DNA, only a few hairs, lip prints. And if the hair is his, it rules out Tony Hargrove. His is black.”

  “Allen Wymer’s hair is a dark blond.”

  “And so are two of the three murder victims’ husbands.”

  Bob raked a hand through his own dark blond hair. “I’ll get samples from the last two husbands and have them compared. I don’t think we found any stray blond hairs at the Gallego scene.”

  “Just Snake and Jillian’s. It’s almost as if our man knows what we’ll look for. He probably wears hair nets, condoms, and wind pants, since they don’t leave fibers behind, for God’s sake. And the binds securing her wrists, they don’t fit with the last two murders. Where do you suppose this silk scarf came from?”

  “Samantha’s drawer. That might be something you’ll want to ask the husband.”

  LeAnne picked up the ties with her gloved fingers and deposited them in a paper bag.

  Bob bagged and tagged the tube of lipstick that appeared to be the shade the perp used after LeAnne had carefully dusted it for prints, not found. They placed all items in a large cardboard box.

  “You’ll need to print the place.”

  “I won’t find any.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. Well, if you’re done with me, I’ll get this evidence over to the lab. See if they have any breakthroughs.” Bob picked the box off the floor. “Tomorrow, when I get back to the office, I’ll check with VICAP, find out if they came up with a match to the signature or MO of our man.”

  As Bob made his way out of the bedroom, LeAnne nodded, writing a few more key thoughts into her already thick notebook. Since Cora and Samantha were friends, and the last person interviewed in the Smith case was now the victim, she couldn’t help but think the two connected, even if Cora hadn’t died exactly like the others.

  She would be damned before she allowed this sick, twisted individual to take another life. She would catch him—or die trying.

  * * *

  “Mr. Duncan, how are you doing?” LeAnne asked as she took a seat across from the husband. He was grieving, though LeAnne thought not nearly as much as Doc Holliday had.

  He rubbed a palm over a day’s growth of beard. He didn’t appear to have lost much sleep since finding his wife the day before. LeAnne thought it appropriate to question Hank the following day, since doing the scene yesterday had taken so long. And so far, she had yet to hear from Bob as to what he had found out from the lab or the office.

  Nor had she heard from Marcus.

  But had she really expected to? LeAnne shook off the notion; she had a job to do and thinking about what transpired two nights prior was not a part of it.

  Hank glared at her. “How the hell do you think I feel? Someone killed my wife in my own goddam bed, in my own goddam house.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan,” LeAnne said.

  His cheeks flushed in rising anger. “Don’t you think you should be out there finding this madman, instead of sitting here questioning me?”

  “I’m afraid part of my investigation revolves around questioning you.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  LeAnne gently laid her hand atop the table between them. “Mr. Duncan—you are not under any suspicion, but still, in order to capture the real criminal, I have to rule you out. I need to question you on where you were two nights ago, when your wife met her demise.”

  “With a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  He looked warily at her. “A female friend.”

  “Uh, huh.” LeAnne glanced down at the table, writing in her notebook so Hank would not see her reaction. Does anyone remain faithful? she thought, thinking of her own infidelities. But, then again, she had yet to get married. “And this woman’s name?”

  He looked away, obviously weighing his options. Finally, he glanced back. “Julie Easton. She lives in Cleveland. We did some paving work for her father, who lives in Toledo, a few years back. We…uh…have been seeing each other ever since.”

  “And Samantha, did she know about this ongoing affair?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. We rarely talked, Detective. And when we did, it wasn’t about who we were slipping between the sheets with.”

  “Then why stay married?”

  “If I would have divorced her, she would have taken me for a mint. No prenuptial. She put up with me because she had a cushy lifestyle. I gave her everything she wanted.”

  “Was she having an affair that you know of?” He shrugged. “Anything’s possible, Detective.”

  “You make it sound like your wife wasn’t very desirable.”

  “She was a looker, all right. A great arm trophy, if you know what I mean.”

  LeAnne nodded. Hank Duncan ought to be damn glad the sheriff’s office didn’t suspect him. His alibi should be easy enough to prove. But he certainly had motive.

  “She just wasn’t real,” he paused for the right word, “experimental.

  She liked it missionary style. She wasn’t into trying anything new.”

  LeAnne jotted down a few more notes, then continued. “So you don’t think it’s likely she would have allowed herself to be tied up.”

  He let out a snort of a laugh. “Samantha liked her sex short and quick. ‘Are you done yet?’” he added in an attempt at imitating her grating voice. “If I could have, I would have divorced her long ago.”

  “So you aren’t aware of any affair?”

  “I’d tell you to ask Cora. They seemed to share everything. God, who knows, maybe even men. But then again, she’s dead, too. What the hell are you guys doing over at the sheriff’s office, anyway?
Sounds like you got some madman running around that you can’t catch, and you’re sitting here wasting precious time questioning me.”

  LeAnne flushed. “We’ll catch him all right, Mr. Duncan. It’s only a matter of time before he slips up.”

  “But how many more dead women will he leave behind?”

  Desperate to take the attention off her and the department’s inadequacies, she asked, “Does the name ‘Sid’ mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “The name came up in a past investigation. I thought maybe if your wife…”

  “Wait. I do recall a name. I remember walking by the kitchen one night. Samantha was whispering to someone on the phone. The name ‘Shawn Michaels’ came up.”

  “Shawn Michaels. Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I remember wondering, ‘What the hell is she doing, screwing some WWF wrestler now?’ No, I wouldn’t forget that name.”

  LeAnne jotted the name in her notebook. Sid Justice had also been a WWF wrestler at one time. She bit the end of her pen, then glanced up.

  “The scarf that tied Samantha’s wrists, do you remember it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did it belong to Samantha?”

  “I doubt it. As far as I know, Samantha never wore them. We have a few colored hankies lying around the house. Blue, black, white, pink. She wore them as belts around her waist sometimes, but that’s it.”

  “As in bandannas?”

  “Yeah—but I’m sure, no scarves.”

  “Can I see a few of them?”

  “Sure.” Hank left the room for a few minutes, then returned with a half dozen bandannas. He dropped them to the table, a sea of colors. His face was thoughtful. “That’s strange.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Duncan?”

  “There’s an Indian print one—it’s missing, not in her drawer. I checked the hamper, too. I remember it specifically. We were out shopping, and she said she had to have it for one of the outfits she bought that day. I thought it was ugly.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “Browns, oranges, golds. It had a silhouette of an American Indian on it.”

  “If you find it, could you let me know?”

  “Any reason?”

  “Just a hunch.” LeAnne jotted a note to check with Frank Holliday. If the red bandanna tying Miranda came from the Gallego house, and the one tying Samantha came from the Holliday house, which meant her perp was leaving a trail as big as could be. This, coupled with the lip print, meant this SOB wanted her to know which ones he took out.

  “That will be all for now, Hank. If I need anything else or we find out something about your wife, we’ll be in contact.”

  Hank walked her to the door. “Please do, Detective.”

  LeAnne walked out of the house. The question? Who would get the honors of wearing the Indian print bandanna belonging to Samantha? LeAnne prayed she found her perp long before he ever got the chance to use it. But at the current rate her perp moved, LeAnne doubted he would give her more than a few weeks before they found yet another body.

  Chapter 24

  LeAnne sat across the table from a smiling Tony Hargrove, Deputy Tom Jenson in attendance, since Bob Reese was unable to attend. The smile appeared more of a smirk. Condescending. A you-don’t-have- squat-on-me type of smile. LeAnne wanted nothing more than to slam his forehead onto the table and show him what she thought of being ridiculed.

  Tony’s dark brown eyes gleamed, his arms crossed over his chest. Christ, he was pretentious. Her interview with Allen Wymer had found the deputy innocent of the latest crime; he had an airtight alibi, therefore exonerating him of all three.

  “Where were you, Saturday night?” LeAnne asked as she paced the area in front of the table.

  Tony had been read his noncustodial rights and agreed to be interviewed. The cassette recorder whirred on the table, as he also agreed for the session to be taped. He gave them his background information: his family, his job, his place of living, prior records. Tony Hargrove came out squeaky clean.

  He shrugged his slender but muscular shoulders. “At home.”

  LeAnne stopped her pacing and leaned toward Tony, bracing her hands on the table in front of him.

  “Anyone at home with you that could corroborate this?”

  “Was I with anyone?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “Nope.”

  LeAnne eyed him carefully. His face remained quiescent; no facial movement, no twitches.

  “Let me see if I have this right.” She stood up. “It’s a Saturday night, and you stayed home. No date, no partying, no nothing.”

  “That about sums it up. Do you want to know what time I went to bed, Detective?” His grin widened.

  Tony certainly seemed to enjoy himself. He obviously thought because of his father, the judge, no one could touch him.

  Of course, she felt differently and meant to prove it. “Yes, Anthony, what time did you go to bed?”

  “One in the morning.”

  “And your father wasn’t home?”

  “Nope.”

  “You didn’t have a date with your fiancée?”

  “We broke up.”

  LeAnne raised her brows. She hadn’t heard this newest information. “Can I ask why?”

  “She was too possessive of my time. She didn’t like my…uh…attentions elsewhere.” He leaned back in his chair. “Why? You interested?”

  LeAnne cleared her throat. “I don’t think so.”

  “Snake got you too preoccupied these days?”

  LeAnne glanced briefly at Tom Jenson, who acted as though he had not heard. “I don’t know what you mean. Besides, it’s hardly your business.”

  “I would have asked you over myself, had I known you were receptive to offers.”

  Heat rose up her neck and stung her cheeks. “I’m not receptive to any offers. I’m engaged, as you recall.”

  Tony’s grin turned to more of a sneer. “So you were…uh…questioning Snake late Saturday night?”

  Again, LeAnne glanced at Deputy Jenson, who continued his indifference. She cleared her throat again. “I’m asking the questions. Remember?”

  He chuckled. “I forgot. Ask away, Detective. I’m quite enjoying seeing you squirm. I’m sure good ol’ Chad would love to hear what you were doing Saturday night. Isn’t he in Boston?”

  Though she wanted to ignore his biting comment, she continued, knowing the time he saw her car might prove imperative to the case. “At what time did you pass by Marcus Gallego’s house?”

  “Why would you care? I’m sure you were too busy to notice.”

  Her ire peaked. LeAnne leaned in again, bracing her hands on the table surface. “What I was doing, or not doing, at the Gallego household is none of your concern. What is my concern, though, is at what time you passed by and noticed my vehicle sitting in his driveway. Your answer may or may not exonerate you of the crime committed that night.”

  The coroner stated that Samantha Duncan died near or around eleven o’clock Saturday evening. If Tony Hargrove passed by early, then he had plenty of time to get back across town to do the deed. If he passed by late, then LeAnne would be his alibi. No one but Marcus or LeAnne knew where she had spent her evening.

  Tony shrugged. “Nine—nine-thirty.”

  “To or from home?”

  “To.”

  “And no one saw you?”

  “Nope.”

  Tony very well could have been heading away from home at that hour and still had plenty of time to meet Samantha Duncan.

  “How well did you know the deceased?”

  “I never slept with her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  LeAnne paused thoughtfully. “That’s not what I was getting at—but thanks for offering. Do you use condoms, Anthony?”

  Tony laughed. “Why don’t you find out for yourself, Detective? I’m a much better fuck than Snake Gallego.”

  LeAnne flinched. This time
Deputy Jenson sat a little straighter in his chair. Bob Reese would have been out of his seat and jumping down the little prick’s throat. But not Tom; he seemed to fair better ignoring the hearsay.

  “My personal life is none of your concern, Anthony. As a matter of fact, I had a few questions for Marcus. That’s why I had gone to his house.” LeAnne figured it wasn’t a complete lie. She had gone to question him, just not about the case.

  His grin told her he did not believe a word of her feeble excuse. “And you couldn’t bring him in? Why, Detective, you can come to my house anytime you have questions. I think I might prefer it that way.”

  Anxious to switch the topic, she changed tactics by being blunt. “Did you wrap your fingers around Samantha Duncan’s throat? How about Miranda Holliday? Jillian Gallego?”

  Tony shifted in his chair. His pale face shed his smile like the cocoon of a moth. “I didn’t kill anybody. Am I under arrest or something? I know my rights. If so, shouldn’t I have my lawyer present?”

  “I told you before, you don’t need a lawyer. I’m not charging you with any crime, and you can end this conversation any time you wish.”

  He fidgeted with the cuffs to his sleeves. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “So you’ve said. Did you know these women?”

  He glanced back at LeAnne, the defiance in his eyes now nonexistent. “All three of them.”

  “And Cora Smith?”

  “Her, too.”

  “Now, I’ll ask again. Think carefully how you answer this question,

  Anthony—this is part of an ongoing investigation. If you didn’t do anything, then you have nothing to worry about. Do you wear condoms every time you have intercourse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever wear jogging pants? Wind suits?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you like your sex, Anthony?”

  He choked on the water he had just sipped. “Excuse me?”

  “Missionary? A little S&M? Bondage?”

  He stared at her long and hard, as though weighing his options. “All three,” he finally replied. “On top, on the bottom, against the wall, in the great wide open—any way I can get it, Detective. Care to find out?”