“Kate, I’m sorry.” Ethan touched her arm. “It’s evidence.”
“It’s humiliating. Everyone is going to see me like that.”
He took the bag from her hand and cupped her face. “I’m so sorry, Kate.”
“Everyone will look at me and see this naked pinup girl.” Tears threatened to spill.
Ethan pulled her to him. “I’m sorry. We will find the bastard who did this. I promise. But in the meantime, you can’t stay here. Or at Muriel’s house.”
“I have to. Muriel needs me.”
“Then I’ll sleep on the couch.” With his service revolver, no doubt.
The thought was extremely comforting.
31
Kenzie slid from the bed, dropping the sheet behind her. They had forgotten to close the blinds in Finn’s bedroom last night, and the morning sun stalked the pale oak floors. Finn dozed lightly, his face buried into his pillow. Kenzie resisted the urge to run her fingers along the smooth ridges of muscle exposed by the sheet.
Foo, who had spent the night on the rattan chair under the window, lifted his head. She pressed a finger to her lips. He whined, not willing to forgo his breakfast for Finn’s sleep.
“Hey.” Finn opened an eye. “Come back here. I’m cold.”
Kenzie blew him a kiss. “Can’t. Sorry. I’ve got a client booked in an hour.”
He pushed himself to an upright position. “Lucky client.”
She grinned. “You know all about it.”
His gaze traveled over her nude body, caressing the obvious works of art and lingering on those bestowed by Mother Nature.
“Where’s your shower?” she asked, stretching.
His eyes gleamed. “Let me show you.”
Forty minutes later, Kenzie sat at a red light on Robie Street, her hair still damp, her skin still glowing and her heart still racing. She flipped open her smart phone and checked for messages.
She had received a text.
Damn him. Even though she had ignored all the text messages he sent last night, he hadn’t gotten the hint.
She threw the phone onto the passenger seat. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of opening the message.
Foo gazed at her.
She glanced at the phone again. “Shit!”
McNally was too dangerous to ignore. She grabbed the phone and opened the text, bracing herself for an obscenity-laced rant.
But it was a picture.
A picture that spoke a thousand words. And one that sent an unmistakable message.
It was a sketch of Kate Lange, in McNally’s favorite pinup style.
A car blared its horn and she jumped, dropping her phone into the well of the steering wheel. “Damn!” The light was green. She stomped on the gas, the car lurching forward, Foo slipping forward on the seat.
“Sorry, baby.” With a shaking hand, she stroked his head.
She drove the remainder of the trip to Yakusoku Tattoo with one thought in her head: McNally was going crazy.
He will never leave you alone, Kenzie.
And now that you are a tattoo artist, you can’t hide from him anymore.
Her mind whirled. She was trapped. If the police didn’t get her, McNally would.
A choice of life sentences.
No. She wouldn’t let McNally ruin her life.
And what about Kate Lange? If McNally didn’t lead the police to her doorstep with his stupid appearances at her hotel, then she still had to contend with Kate. What if she made the connection between Heather Rigby’s tattoo and her dead sister’s?
Her fingers found their way to her neck. She caressed the skin, imagining the koi swimming up, up.
As always, it calmed her.
I can make it up this waterfall.
She couldn’t let McNally or Kate Lange drag her down.
Both of them were threats.
But how to stop them without being discovered by the police? They were hot on her scent. She was already a suspect.
Think, Kenzie.
You got away with murder once.
You can do it again.
* * *
The morning came with brutal honesty, light forcing its way through the heavy velvet curtains of the Richardsons’ house. Kate lay in bed, allowing her eyes to gradually adjust to the light. A pot banged.
Alaska trotted over to her and nosed her arm. “Hello, boy,” she murmured. Charlie, not to be outdone, rushed over to lick her hand. “Hey, Charlie.”
Another pot banged.
Was Muriel making breakfast?
Then everything came back to her: the house alarm waking her up, the break-in, the missing panties.
The sketch.
The noise in the kitchen was most likely Ethan. She threw on a pair of jeans and a loose sweater and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, trying to avoid her reflection on three hours’ sleep.
Ugh. She really needed a shower.
She dabbed concealer under her eyes and hurried into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Ethan said. “Breakfast is ready.”
She had heard those words many times during their engagement. “Wow. Thanks.”
Ethan scooped scrambled eggs onto the plates, which already boasted freshly sliced oranges. “The toast should be ready in a minute.”
The French press gave off a delicious aroma of coffee. She poured the hot brew while Ethan buttered the toast. They sat down at the table.
Ethan took a long gulp of the coffee. “I needed that.”
He probably hadn’t slept at all last night. She knew what he was like when he was on a case. And he was no doubt worried about the implications of what had happened to her… . “Thank you for coming last night,” Kate said. “I really appreciate it.”
“Kate, I want to be there for you. But I want you to understand something. Even if we aren’t together, I would still come. I care for you. I always will.”
Heat rushed to her face. “Thank you.”
She forced herself to eat a mouthful of the eggs, although she had no appetite. “Why do you think someone did that last night?”
Ethan exhaled. “It’s the work of a stalker, Kate. He leaves a note for you in the morning on your car. Then he takes it a step further, breaking in to your house, and leaves a drawing of you. There’s no question he’s escalating his behavior.”
“So…do you think it’s just a crazy person who saw me in the paper? Or someone who is targeting me because of the assisted suicide campaign?” Kate sipped her coffee.
Ethan shrugged. “It’s hard to know. You haven’t received any notes, texts, pictures or phone calls before that note yesterday morning?”
Kate shook her head. “I read through every message that was sent to my office after Frances Sloane’s television appearance, and none of them were threatening.”
“We need to look at those. As well as the online news forums that reported Mrs. Sloane’s story. We’ll contact the moderators to see if anyone has posted threatening content about you.” Ethan’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the number. “I’ve got to go.”
Kate followed him to the door. “Thank you, Ethan.”
He gave her a stern look. “You can thank me by calling me if you receive any more messages.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Kate, don’t fool around with this. I know you’ve been through a lot, and you are obviously a very tough woman, but stalkers are unpredictable. They live in a fantasy world. You can’t assume you know what they will do next. Don’t answer the door to anyone who isn’t a close personal friend.”
“I understand.” His warning, in a strange way, warmed her. She wasn’t in this alone.
“I’ll be here tonight. As soon as I finish work. Unless we bring in a suspect on the Rigby case…” He paused. “Do you have anyone you can call if I can’t get away?”
“I’ll call Finn. It was his turn to come over, anyway. We’ll all spend the night here.”
“Good.” He reached over and brushed his lips
across her cheek. “I’ll call you later.”
“Thanks.” There was a comforting familiarity in his words.
“And lock the door after you.”
Kate smiled. “I will.”
He strode out the door, yanking his phone from his back pocket. She watched him stop outside his car and scan Kate’s house, the property and the houses adjoining it. She knew he was wondering the same thing: Who was the guy who broke in?
And what would he do next?
Ethan jumped into his car and gave her a final wave before heading down the street.
Kate closed the front door, securing the dead bolt. It seemed foolish in the bright light of morning. But she had made a promise.
Muriel, she discovered, liked to sleep in late. Kate tiptoed to the bathroom.
A long, hot shower refreshed her, and she dressed for work. Corazon was due in ten minutes. While she was dabbing more concealer under her eyes, her phone rang.
She checked the caller. It was Nat. “Are you calling about what happened last night?” Kate asked. The media would be all over this.
“No. What’s up?”
Kate told her about the break-in. She wanted to tell her about the note and the sketch, but she knew that Nat walked a fine line between their friendship and her job. And she didn’t want her friend to be in a position of having to conceal an obviously hot news story.
So she kept silent.
“Was it a random break-in?” Nat asked. “Did they take anything?”
“Not much.” In fact, nothing was taken. Except two pairs of lace panties. She wished she could tell Nat. “The alarm system went off and he ran away.”
“Well, you are certainly keeping the police busy, between the break-in and your client.”
Kate straightened. “What do you mean?”
“That’s why I was calling. The police were at your client’s house yesterday morning. In fact, Ethan was there.”
The Sloane house was, of course, within walking distance of the Rigby murder site. It would make sense that they would canvass it. “Was this just the usual neighborhood canvass?”
“I don’t know. But I think not. The police seem unusually tight-lipped.”
As Ethan had been with her.
And as it should be, Kate. You are Frances’ lawyer. Ethan is the investigating officer on the Rigby case. They each had a duty to their respective professions.
“Do you know who they interviewed?”
“Frances Sloane.” Nat sounded surprised. “She’s the only one who lives there, right?”
“Yes, but her daughter is visiting from out of town… .”
And out of all the members of that family, Kate could guess which Sloane the police would take an interest in.
Kenzie Sloane.
Who would have been the same age as the murder victim.
Who, from Kate’s own personal experience, was capable of leading a young girl down a path of destruction.
Had she done the same to Heather Rigby?
“Is this going on tonight’s news?” Kate asked.
“You bet. There was practically a lineup to get a shot of the driveway to Frances Sloane’s house.”
Damn.
Kate had not given up hope that Harry Owen would change his mind if she could convince him to meet with her client.
But if Frances’ daughter was a suspect in this notorious case, he would not want anything to do with her.
God. What a mess. “Thanks, Nat. I’ve got to run.”
“No problem. But remember, when your client gets arrested for Heather Rigby’s murder, I get dibs on the exclusive. You know, quid pro quo.”
Kate laughed. “She didn’t kill anyone, Nat. She’s not capable of it.”
“So, if it wasn’t her, why were the police at her house?”
“I don’t know.” Kate couldn’t implicate Kenzie. That could interfere with the police investigation, and she had learned from bitter experience with the Lisa MacAdam case how important it was to stay out of their business.
But she could defend her own client.
And if that meant that the media turned their focus to a different Sloane, then so be it.
32
Kenzie stretched her shoulders and reloaded the needle with ink. She found herself glancing at her purse in the corner. Even though she had erased the text message from McNally, her cell phone now seemed like a ticking bomb.
Her client lay on his back, eyes closed. Conversation had become sparse in direct proportion to the stages of completion of the tattoo. The ribs were a sensitive area, and Kenzie worked as quickly as she could. Her client had tolerated the outline of the hannya mask well. It was the shading that was killing him. After three hours, the mask was almost done. And Kenzie’s nerves were almost shot.
Kenzie had tattooed many hannya masks over the years. A traditional Japanese theatre mask that originated in the fourteenth century, the hannya mask was a popular symbol for good luck, even though it depicted the demonic rage of a woman who had been betrayed. The horns, the bulging eyes, the glowering expression—it had never bothered her.
Until today.
“The police have revealed that murder victim Heather Rigby had been wearing a rubber Halloween mask of a witch when her body was hidden in the bogs at Chebucto Head.” The killer’s final, gruesome act was constantly replayed in the newspaper, the radio, the TV.
Heather had not been wearing a mask when Kenzie pulled the trigger.
Kenzie wished she had. Then she would never have seen the shock in her eyes, the rictus of pain twisting her mouth, the blood that eventually erupted from her lips and ran in a rivulet down her neck.
Kenzie’s hand shook. The red ink that she used to shade the demon’s mask trickled down the side of her client’s rib cage.
Blood gushed from the wound in Heather’s chest, running in separate streams across her ribs.
Kenzie’s nose stung from an acrid, burning smell. Only then did she realize that a bullet had been fired.
“Shit,” Lovett cried.
A moan broke from Heather’s throat. Her eyes, so brown, so afraid, locked with Kenzie’s. Help me, they begged.
Help me.
McNally threw Kenzie a triumphant look. “Guess you got lucky,” he said.
Heather gasped. Tried to cough through the blood.
She was dying.
Tattooed Page 25
