by Lauren Carr
She reached across the table for his hand.
Chris cleared his throat. “Rod didn’t ask any of those questions.”
“We know he has a motive, but does he have an alibi for the time of the murder?”
“He was at the gym,” Chris said. “He didn’t talk to anyone, but the gym’s keycard system confirmed that he had checked into the gym at six-fifty-six. The gym has agreed to let us view their security footage to see if it was Rodney who used his keycard. Just because his keycard was used to check in, doesn’t mean he used it.”
She frowned. “Don’t you trust Rodney?”
With a dramatic air, he clutched his chest and uttered a gasp. “Helen, why would I not trust Rodney? I’ve known the guy since kindergarten.”
“Which isn’t necessarily a good thing,” she said. “Unfortunately, Opie doesn’t have an alibi. He was watching television in the room that he rents in Inwood. He didn’t see or talk to any of his roommates.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Chris said. “I find it odd that Felicia hired him to do odd jobs around her house, which is only four doors down from where Mona Tabler was killed in her home.”
“I also find it odd that Felicia hired a guy who was a person of interest in a murder so close to home,” Helen said. “That doesn’t sound like Felicia.” She paused to take a sip of water. “About this pattern in these five murders…”
“What about them?”
She ticked off on her fingers. “Beaten and violently raped. Stabbed. Arson.”
“We have more than an MO,” he said. “We also have a victim profile. Middle-aged women, all who have had a connection with the Stardust restaurant.”
“While there is a pattern,” she said, “it’s rather general. Don’t you think? Isn’t it possible that Mona Tabler, this middle-aged woman who worked at the Stardust, was murdered in the same way as the others by coincidence?”
“Dad tracked down the rumor about Opie killing Mona. It started as a joke between a bunch of exercise riders and stable workers in the racetrack’s lunchroom.”
“According to what I read in the case file, several people had heard Opie saying he killed Mona on more than one occasion. He even gave himself a name. Opie Kreuger. Get it? Freddie Kreuger? Opie Krueger?”
“Opie’s not very bright,” Chris said, “but that doesn’t make him a killer. I really think Carson killed Mona Tabler. She was a ruthless restaurant manager. It’s entirely possible that she threatened Carson’s dream of being a chef. He had mommy issues, so he took out his rage against his mother by killing her.”
“Carson isn’t the only person to have had mommy issues,” she said. “Opie’s mother was a heroin addict. She gave Opie up to the system. His mother wasn’t the only woman Opie had issues with. His first job at the track was washing dishes in the restaurant. Do you know who fired him?”
“Mona Tabler,” Chris said.
“Opie Fletcher knew her and had a motive,” she said. “Then, he went to work for Felicia and she chewed him out for not showing up when he was supposed to—”
“Opie stated that Felicia said she was okay with him coming the next day.”
“So he says,” Helen said. “Unfortunately, the only one who could confirm that is Felicia, and she’s in the morgue.”
“Do you think Opie is smart enough to have set up the lamp in her bedroom to start the arson fire without getting caught in it?”
She firmly shook her head.
“Carson Lipton was smart enough to have set up that lamp,” Chris said.
“But Felicia never went to the casino.”
“Not even for a realtors’ cocktail party?”
“I’ll keep checking with her friends and co-workers, but I’m not having any luck. Did you ask Rodney—”
“No,” Chris said, “and I don’t want to. I want to keep the serial killer’s hunting ground close to the vest until I have something more solid. Have your people had any luck locating Carson, by the way?”
“You would never believe what my officers found or rather didn’t find at the Lipton place.”
“He’s in the wind.”
She nodded her head. “They found Mabel Lipton’s vehicle in the garage. There’s no sign of them leaving involuntarily. Yet, it’s totally out of character for them to not show up for work. Unfortunately, we don’t have any evidence that either of them have done anything wrong.”
Chris agreed. “Without a familial match between Ethel Lipton’s DNA, and the DNA found at the Lancaster murder, all we have is a couple ditching work for a mental health day.”
“Until we have evidence that Carson is connected to these murders, or we have reason to believe that one or both of them are in danger, all we can do is simply ask our officers to keep an eye out for them.”
Feeling a sense of helplessness, Chris took a long drink of water.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Your mother buried the girl who you’ve been accused of murdering?” Francine’s eyes were wide when Chris delivered the news to them over a late lunch at Billie’s.
Helen was needed at a staff luncheon meeting. Unable to explain Chris’s presence, she opted to drop him and Sterling off at Billie’s, where he discovered his book club was meeting.
The group, minus Ray, who Chris had yet to meet in person, occupied the same table they had the day before. Chris suspected Billie’s was the Geezer Squad’s version of the neighborhood cop bar. Only instead of chugging beers, they swilled coffee and ate fries slathered in catsup.
Clad in a state police K-9 service vest, Sterling laid down under their table where he received a regular supply of fries from each squad member.
“Mom didn’t actually dig the grave,” Chris said, “though she did pay for the grave digger. But the church reimbursed her out of the mission’s fund, and Dad donated a hundred dollars toward the coffin.”
“Let’s hope it isn’t Sandy Lipton,” Francine said. “Victor Sinclair will have a field day with all this.”
“Victor Sinclair isn’t going to be a problem,” Bruce said with a wink that everyone around the table understood—except Chris.
“Bruce,” Chris said, “why is Victor Sinclair not going to be a problem?”
“How should I know?” Bruce held up his hands in a broad shrug. “It would be wrong for me to use information that I have collected from some of my many sources to coerce someone to do something that they otherwise wouldn’t want to do.”
“That would be extortion.”
“‘Extortion’ is such a negative word,” Bruce said. “I prefer the word ‘persuasion’.”
“What do you have on the Sinclairs?” Chris asked.
Everyone around the table sat at the edge of their seats with their gaze focused on Bruce, who let out a deep breath. “Let’s just say that Victor Sinclair isn’t as knowledgeable about law as one would think.”
Elliott and Francine exchanged puzzled glances. Chris pondered the statement before he asked, “Are you saying Victor Sinclair cheated on his bar exam?”
“Technically, you have to take an exam to cheat on it,” Bruce said.
“But—”
“Steve Sinclair has a lot of influence. But then, so do I,” Bruce said. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Do you have proof of this?” Chris asked.
“As long as the Sinclairs maintain their distance,” Bruce said, “I’ve got nothing to say.”
There were chuckles around the table.
“Okay, let’s get to work.” Elliott rubbed his hands together. “Where were we? Oh, yes. Doris buried the victims’ bodies.”
“Mom says she never saw the bodies, and she never put the dates together,” Chris said. “So much time had passed since Sandy disappeared and Tamara’s COD was natural causes. Anyway, if we had anything to hide, then we wouldn’t be
exhuming the bodies. If it does turn out to be Sandy, then Dr. Frederic Poole will be at the top of our suspect list.”
“I’ve been searching high and low,” Francine said, “and can’t find any evidence to suggest that Dr. Poole was dealing in black market adoptions. Why the elaborate cover-up?”
“We still don’t know who the baby’s father is.” Elliott turned to Chris. “Any progress on that front?”
“Carson says it’s Victor Sinclair, but I don’t think so.”
“Well, we’ll get answers to all of those questions once we get the bodies exhumed,” Jacqui said, “assuming Tamara Wilcox and the baby are Sandy Lipton and her baby.”
“I’m assuming since Tamara Wilcox is really a Jane Doe and has no family, that getting her body exhumed isn’t going to be difficult,” Bruce said.
“Since our church, Oakland Community, technically owns the plot, all we need is the pastor and church’s permission,” Chris said. “Mom is the chair of the church’s board of trustees. When she explained the situation to Reverend Ruth, she agreed—after she stopped laughing. Helen scheduled the exhumation for Monday.”
“It’ll take a while to process the DNA and compare it to Ethel Lipton’s to see if there’s a familial match,” Francine said.
“There is a faster way,” Jacqui said. “I know DNA is the sexiest game in forensics, but it isn’t the only game in town. We have Sandy Lipton’s picture, and she is smiling.”
“Our prom picture,” Chris said with a somber tone. “She couldn’t stop smiling that night.”
“Blow up the prom picture and we can compare the teeth to Tamara’s. We can have the results in a matter of hours, if not faster,” Jacqui said with a wave of her hand.
“If it is Sandy Lipton,” Francine asked, “then who do you think dumped her at the hospital?”
“Could it have been Carson?” Bruce asked.
“Do you mean Carson Lipton, who’s in the wind?” Chris asked.
“Are you serious?” Elliott asked.
“Yesterday, I asked if he would voluntarily allow us to put his DNA in the system to see if we could get a familial match with any Jane Does. He said he didn’t want Big Brother to track him like a wild animal.” Chris looked across at Jacqui. “He definitely has mommy issues and last night, a middle-aged woman living four doors down from Mona Tabler was murdered—with the same MO as the other women.”
“You asking for his DNA could have put enough pressure on him to make him snap,” Jacqui said.
“We can’t find any connection between this victim and the Stardust,” Chris said.
“But she lives locally,” Jacqui said. “I assume she wasn’t a recluse. He could have seen her in the grocery store. She could have cut him off in traffic. He could have had a fight with his wife that made him snap and fall back into his old pattern all over again. This victim may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time for him to select to use as a substitute for his mommy.”
“His wife is missing, too,” Chris said while extracting his vibrating cell phone from his pocket.
“Pray he’s not on a killing spree,” Jacqui said, “or last night’s victim may be the first in a long list of victims.”
Seeing that the caller ID read an unfamiliar phone number from Morgantown, West Virginia, Chris hesitated before connecting the call. “Chris Matheson speaking.”
“Mr. Matheson, this is Rachel.” Her voice shook with emotion.
In the background, Chris heard what sounded like a fight. “Rachel, are you okay?”
“No,” she sobbed. “It’s Peyton. She’s crazy!”
“Die, you bitch!” A man bellowed in the background, followed by a crash.
“Rachel, where are you?” Chris snatched his coat from where he had draped it across the back of his chair. Elliott ushered Sterling out from under the table.
“Home. Prospect Hills!”
A man’s agonizing cry drowned out the rest of Rachel’s answer.
“She stabbed Seth! Help me! Please!”
Their connection was cut off.
“We don’t know where Rachel lives,” Chris told Elliott, who pressed his SUV’s accelerator pedal to the floor to race out of Billie’s parking lot. “Prospect Hills is a big subdivision. You’re driving blind.”
In the backseat, Sterling lost his footing. He bounced off the backrest to the floor.
As if on cue, Ray’s voice came out of the on-board device in the SUV. “Elliott, I plugged Rachel Pine’s home address into your GPS. ETA nine minutes. The way you drive, six. Bruce is on the phone with emergency services.”
“Bruce had already reported it to emergency,” Chris told Helen who he had gotten on his phone.
“Who’s Bruce?” Helen asked in a breathless voice.
“He belongs to my book club.”
Ray’s estimation was correct. Five minutes later, Chris grabbed the edge of his seat when Elliott spun the wheel to turn into a neat neighborhood on the outskirts of town. Sterling hit the side window. The dome of Washington High School rose above the rooftops.
“In a half mile, your destination will be on the left,” the GPS lady said.
At that point, they didn’t need her. Two police cruisers, one county and one state, were parked in front of a two-story colonial home. A town car with a Stardust logo stuck on the side doors filled the driveway.
They heard the wail of police sirens in the distance.
After Chris and Elliott jumped out of the SUV, Sterling climbed over the front seats to gallop ahead of them to the open front door. At the top of the stoop, the German shepherd stopped with a yelp. He spun around, leapt down into the yard, and let out a commanding bark. Intent on helping the young woman pleading for her life, Chris barged into the house with the four uniformed officers and Elliott.
Their search ended in the living room.
Rachel Pine and Seth sat side by side on the sofa. Rachel was dressed in a pair of shorty pajamas. Bare chested, Seth donned a pair of lounging pants. An ice bucket held an open bottle of white wine. One wine glass rested on the end table. Another rested on its side at Seth’s bare feet.
The wide-screen television on the mantle was blasting a daytime drama. The volume competed with Sterling’s barking for attention.
“I thought there was an assault in progress.” One of the state officers, an older man with a beer belly, shot a glare out the window in the direction of Sterling’s barking.
“I heard screaming,” Chris said while checking Seth’s neck for a pulse. His purple skin felt cold.
The other sheriff deputy was searching for Rachel’s pulse on her wrist. When he lifted her arm, it was stiff. Chris nodded his head to the deputy to confirm that he was unable to find a pulse.
Rachel Pine and her boyfriend were both dead.
The state police officer tapped the button on his radio, but before he could speak, Sterling body slammed the window. “Will someone lock up that dog?”
“Someone just came in and took these two out,” Elliott said.
“Rigor mortis has already set in,” Chris said. “They died last night.”
“It couldn’t have been Rachel who called you ten minutes ago.”
“Looks like someone wanted you to come here to find their bodies.” The state officer pounded on the window. “Shut up, you mangy mutt! What’s wrong with that dog?”
Chris’s eyes met Elliott’s.
“It’s a trap,” Chris said in a low voice.
“That’s why Sterling is freaking out. He smells explosives.” Elliott grabbed one of the officers by the arm and dragged him toward the door. “It’s a bomb! Get out!”
The six men ran for the door. Sterling’s barking took on a frantic tone.
At the door, Chris saw that there were only three of the four uniformed officers ahead of him. He turned around to discov
er that the older officer had slipped on the polished hardwood floor in the hallway. He struggled to climb to his feet.
“My knee!” he groaned. “I broke it.”
Chris wrapped the man’s arm around his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. Together, they rushed out the door where the other officers helped them into the street.
They cleared the yard as Helen pulled up in her cruiser with Sheriff Bassett’s car behind her.
“What’s going on?” The sheriff demanded to know the reason for the mass exodus from the crime scene.
“It’s a trap,” one of the deputies said before answering a question from the dispatch operator in his request to send the bomb squad.
“We have two dead bodies inside,” his partner said. “They appear to have died last night.”
“But you said there was an assault in progress,” Helen said to Chris.
“It couldn’t have been Rachel who called me,” Chris said. “She’s been dead for hours. The call had to be a set up.”
“Set up for what?” the sheriff asked.
“A bomb,” Elliott said who was examining the older officer’s wounded leg. “Someone wanted to lure Chris here to blow him and anyone who was with him up.”
“Where’s the bomb?”
“Inside the house,” Chris said.
“Where in the house?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said. “Somewhere inside.”
“But you didn’t actually see any bomb,” the sheriff said. “What makes you so sure there’s a bomb?”
“Sterling told us.”
“Sterling?” Sheriff Bassett turned to Helen. “I don’t recall an Officer Sterling. Must be new.” He turned back to the deputy calling for the bomb squad. “Did Officer Sterling see the bomb?”
“He smelled it,” Chris said.
“Smelled it? Must be some sort of prank.” Sheriff Bassett stuck his thumbs into his belt. “Where is this Officer Sterling? I don’t like officers pranking my deputies—especially at a crime scene.”
