That didn’t make sense, either. Her mother already confessed to the murder of Frances Sloane. Kenzie was off scot-free.
She had no reason to kill her mother’s defense lawyer. After all, it was Kate who had delivered Frances’ final instructions.
And Kate knew Kenzie wasn’t the stalker. She had a foolproof alibi with Finn.
Kenzie’s best strategy was to lie low and go back to Manhattan.
And Kenzie was no fool.
So why had she asked Kate to come to the storage locker? Was it an act of kindness?
Perhaps, in her own way, she was trying to return Kate’s sister to her through Imogen’s belongings. Perhaps that was too generous an interpretation, Kate thought. But whatever the motive, collecting her sister’s belongings was a means of taking stock of her life, and Kate was not going to give Kenzie that final authority. Frances, in disposing of her own life’s work, had recognized that moral obligation.
Kenzie jiggled her car keys. “I’ve gotta leave now.”
“I’ll follow you in my car,” Kate said, not knowing what to believe anymore—but knowing she would regret it if she didn’t go with Kenzie.
Kenzie roared out of the parking lot. Kate hit the gas to keep up. Fortunately, she knew that Bluenose Self-Storage was uptown from Yakusoku Studio, dead center in the city. It was a commercial area, with apartment buildings, automotive businesses and various industrial complexes surrounding it.
She dialed Ethan’s number, quashing the pang that came with the knowledge that Randall would be hurt by this choice. But he wasn’t here. If something did happen with Kenzie at the locker, Ethan would be able to find her quickly.
Ethan answered the phone on the first ring.
“It’s Kate,” she said, keeping an eye on Kenzie’s taillights. “Look—Frances instructed me to give Kenzie an envelope after her death. It turns out the envelope held a key to storage locker. Kenzie says that some of Imogen’s things are there.”
“Kate, this is a bad idea,” Ethan said, his voice tense. “Don’t do this.”
“I know what you are thinking, but I don’t think Kenzie is stupid enough to hurt me. She has no reason to. My client confessed to the murder. Why would she want to hurt me?”
“She could be the stalker, Kate.”
“Finn told me she spent the night at his house when my own place was broken into. It wasn’t her.”
“But we think the stalker might be a tattoo artist. What if it is someone she’s working with?”
Kate processed that information. “But do you have any evidence that she is working with someone?”
“No.” Ethan’s frustration was obvious. “Do you have to go tonight? I could come with you tomorrow. We are executing the search warrant tonight on Frances’ house.”
“Kenzie’s leaving on a red-eye tonight.”
“What if there is evidence connected to the Rigby case in Frances’ locker?” Ethan lowered his voice. “You don’t want to be involved in that, Kate.”
“Professionally, no.” She was about to head into no-fly territory from a professional perspective. She knew, on the surface, that her decision to go with Kenzie seemed foolhardy. “Frances left me several photos of Imogen. She had a tattoo in one of the photos, Ethan.”
“What kind of tattoo?”
“I couldn’t tell. It was too blurry. But it made me think…” Kate swallowed. “My sister obviously had a lot of secrets. Maybe she knew Heather Rigby. Maybe Kenzie did, too. There could be more photos of them with Imogen’s belongings.” Kenzie’s car had slowed. It turned into a side road. Kate followed it. At the very end of the dead-end street, Kate glimpsed the sign for the self-storage building. “Maybe there are photos that would point to a different killer.” Like Kenzie.
Kate knew that the police had hit a number of dead ends on the Heather Rigby case, the greatest roadblock being Frances’ confession. Without any evidence to establish a different killer, they were stuck with it. “If we could find some evidence—”
“You can bet that Kenzie will go through everything right now, Ethan. We’ve just arrived at the storage locker. I’m going with her.”
“Kate, hold her off until I get there. I don’t need a search warrant under these circumstances. But it will take at least twenty minutes,” he said, his voice a mixture of frustration and excitement. “We are at Frances’ house.”
“I’ll do my best, Ethan. But if she goes in without me, what should I do?”
I can’t let her get away with murder.
This wasn’t about vengeance for her sister’s destructive path. This was about justice for a girl who had never come home.
“Don’t go in.” But she heard what it cost him to say that. Evidence could be destroyed in minutes.
“I don’t think Kenzie would ask me to come if she planned to hurt me. It doesn’t make sense. She’s smart enough to know that I would notify someone of my whereabouts. All fingers would point to her.”
He exhaled. “Okay. Try to stall her. I’m on my way.”
Kenzie parked in a dark corner of the parking lot. She hopped out of the car and gestured to Kate, pointing at her watch.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Kate, be careful.”
Kate deliberately parked under a streetlight, on the other side of the parking lot. Kenzie strode over to the security door. Kate hurried after her. Weeds sprouted between the cracks of asphalt, scrubby bushes flanking the pothole-ridden lot. The facility didn’t inspire much confidence. It was rundown, with a hodgepodge of additions that created a rough L-shaped building. At the end of each wing, truck ramps led down to dented double-garage doors. A variety of loading bays dotted the building, the lower edges patchy with pieces of torn tire rubber. Punctures gashed the wood flanking the bays, no doubt the victim of careless drivers.
The entire place had a shoddy, derelict air. Kate was surprised that Frances would entrust any belongings to it. Kenzie stood on the narrow porch in front of the main entrance. She swiped the key and pushed the security door open. “Come on, Kate.”
Kate stepped inside. It was totally black. No light whatsoever. Not very promising. “We need some lights, Kenzie.”
“Just a sec.” Kenzie groped around the entrance, flipping a bunch of switches. Fluorescent light flickered reluctantly along the narrow corridor, shedding barely enought light to see. Farther along the corridor, Kate could see a few dark stretches where the bulb had burned out and had not been replaced.
Kenzie stuffed a folded envelope between the door and the frame. “I don’t trust this place. I’m going to leave the door open, just in case.”
“I don’t think it can lock us in, Kenzie.”
“I’m not taking any chances. I don’t want to miss my flight. And these lights look pretty crappy, too. If they go out, we’ll be able to see the streetlight.”
A sign with bright neon letters listed the storage units. Kenzie frowned. “I don’t see 132 on this.”
Kate shrugged. “Let’s head in the direction of the one hundred series. It must be around here somewhere.”
She realized what a foolish strategy that was about five minutes into their foray.
“This place is a friggin’ maze,” Kenzie muttered. “Whoever numbered it should have their head examined. We should have left a trail of bread crumbs.”
It was the third time they had had to retrace their steps. There was a strange sense of camaraderie that made Kate uncomfortable. Kenzie seemed to feel it, too. The tattoo artist couldn’t meet Kate’s gaze as they turned another blind corner.
And the sight of the mousetraps edging the corridors did little to enhance the experience. Well, at least it means that there are probably no rats in residence, Kate thought.
“There it is,” Kenzie announced, rounding a corner. She unlocked the door, slid it up and turned on the light.
The room was small, Kate noted with relief.
This shouldn’t take long. Despite her bravado with Ethan, she was on edge about b
eing in this place with Kenzie.
Two sets of metal shelving lined each wall. Document boxes had been neatly stacked on each shelf, marked in what Kate guessed was Frances’ pre-ALS hand. Closet. Bed linens. School projects. Garden. Old toys. Books. Misc. And there, on the end: Friends (Imogen?). Kate’s tension dropped a notch. So far, Kenzie had told the truth.
Various knickknacks and furnishings lined the shelf: a cube-shaped side table, a matching cube-shaped table lamp and a bookcase. Normally, Kate would have been incredulous that a mother would have stored a teenage girl’s furnishings to keep for her estranged grown daughter, but these were unique pieces. Clearly chosen for style and design.
“Your mother was very organized,” Kate said.
“I know. It was a pain when I was a teenager, but it has its uses.” Kenzie hoisted the box marked Friends (Imogen?) off the shelf, and placed it in the far corner against the wall. “Here, have a look through that.”
Kate glanced at the dim overhead light. The box was in the shadow, but the room was so narrow Kenzie would not be able to access the boxes on the shelf otherwise.
Kate crouched down in front of the box and flipped off the lid. Kenzie threw a quick glance at her, and then began to investigate the contents on the shelving unit, moving quickly between boxes.
Kate peered into the box. The hair on her arms shivered. This was a time capsule from a lifetime ago. There were things in the box that Kate had not realized were missing until she stared at them seventeen years later.
She pulled out Imogen’s Language Arts binder, her sister’s name written in a girlish, pretty script. It was purple. Her favorite color. A pencil case. Kate lifted it up, hoping to find some loose Polaroids hidden underneath, but something glinted. It was a chain. Her mother had given Imogen that chain for her thirteenth birthday. They had looked all over the house for it after she died.
A whoosh of a heavy object coming toward her head was her only warning.
She lurched sideways. But it was too late.
Her head exploded in searing pain.
She collapsed on top of Imogen’s box.
50
Kenzie gazed down at Kate’s head. Brown hair spilled over the edges of her sister’s box. Blood glistened from the spot where the cube lamp had connected with Kate’s scalp.
That was easy.
So was finding the gun.
Her mother had been very clever. When Kenzie saw the box marked Garden, she guessed that the gun was in there. Now the next, most crucial question: Would it work?
She retrieved it from the box and unlocked the catch, pushing the barrel down. The cylinder gleamed in the light. There was not too much rust. And there, in the final two chambers, sat the unused bullets.
The coke had carried Heather through the tattoo. It gleamed black and glistened red on the back of her neck.
“Do you like it?” John had asked Kenzie, ignoring Heather.
“I love it.” Kenzie’s mind raced, soared, flew. The cocaine had hit her system and her nerves sizzled on her skin. She couldn’t believe John had set this all up. That’s why he had been gone before their gig—he had taken his tattoo kit and the booze out to the bunker and hidden it in the bushes.
He had done it for her. All for her.
John dug around in the backpack and pulled out the gun.
Heather had gasped. Kenzie snickered. The girl was such a drama queen. “Why do you have a gun?” Heather asked, her gaze darting from John to Kenzie, then to Lovett, whose eyes gleamed with excitement, and then back to John again.
John stroked Heather’s cheek with the muzzle.
The sight of the hard metal pressing against her soft cheek was such a turn-on.
“It’s for a game, darling.”
Heather staggered to her feet, the combined effect of cocaine and vodka making her stumble as she grabbed her shirt from the ground. “I think it’s time for me to go.” Her voice trembled.
McNally grabbed her hand. “Not until you play.”
She yanked her hand, but she couldn’t break his grip. Of course she couldn’t, Kenzie thought. John was invincible. So was she. They could do whatever they fucking wanted to.
“Let go! I want to go home.”
John twisted Heather’s arm behind her back. “You can’t leave yet, Heather. We’re not done.”
The air within the small concrete walls was thick from Heather’s fear, feeding Kenzie and John’s excitement. Kenzie had never seen John so rough. Every nerve in her body snapped and crackled.
God, she loved him.
Heather shot a terrified look at Kenzie. “Tell him to let me go.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Kenzie said. “It’s just a game. We’ve all played it before. And no one got killed.”
“Really? You don’t use real bullets?”
Lovett pushed up behind Kenzie, while John took Heather’s hands in his own. “You have such pretty hands, Heather,” he said. He put the gun in her palms, and clasped both his hands around it, forcing the gun to point to the floor.
“Guests always go first, Heather.”
She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.
Kenzie swigged some vodka. “Don’t be a baby, Heather. You’ve got the best odds out of all of us.”
Then Lovett grabbed Kenzie’s arms from behind.
The vodka bottle crashed to the ground.
“Look what you did, you idiot,” Kenzie cried. “Now it’s all gone.” She tried to shake him off. “Let go of me, you jerk!”
He glanced at John. Kenzie glared at him. “Tell him to let go of me, John!”
“Here’s the deal, ladies. It’s winner take all.”
The walls were spinning. Kenzie tried to focus. What was John talking about? “I don’t get it.”
“I’ll get Heather to demonstrate.” He cocked the hammer.
Kenzie waited for him to push the gun up to Heather’s temple.
Instead, he aimed the gun at Kenzie’s chest. He winked at Kenzie over Heather’s head.
“What the hell are you doing, John?” Kenzie yanked her arms, trying to break Lovett’s grip, but Lovett held her fast.
“Don’t miss, McNally.” Lovett’s voice was tense.
“Winner takes all,” John said. “Pull the trigger, Heather.”
“Will you let me go if I shoot?” the girl asked McNally. Her makeup ran in two black streaks under her eyes.
He grinned. “If you are the winner.”
Heather closed her eyes. Her chin trembled.
The gun gleamed. Hard, cold, its edges smudged. Kenzie could not keep her eyes from it. John’s gaze locked onto her face. You’ll be fine, baby, his gaze said. Trust me.
His hand, covering Heather’s, pulled the trigger.
Kenzie tensed, bracing herself.
The gun clicked.
Heather sagged.
The rush that went through Kenzie was like no other she had ever experienced. Her mind soared, spinning, flying, exulting.
Tattooed Page 36
