by Joanna Wayne
Later, it had become a game room where her high school friends had hung out, a place for Friday night get-togethers and sneaking alcohol. The latter had not been easy, as her father had always either chaperoned functions himself or had Aunt Gloria and Uncle John do it. But, like all teenagers, Nicole and her friends were notoriously creative.
Once she’d started college, the apartment had mostly gone unused—until the night Dallas had driven her home from campaign headquarters and they’d…
Her hand tightened on the railing. Damn Dallas. Damn the memories that never fully receded no matter how many other problems flew at her. Only that wasn’t quite accurate. When Malcomb had been sweeping her off her feet, she’d concentrated only on the present—and the future they’d have together.
Now it looked as if Malcomb might be her biggest mistake of all. This time she’d exchanged vows, made promises never to forsake, had pledged to honor and trust. Honor. Trust. The words seemed to mock her as she climbed the last few steps to the apartment. She was snooping around like a thief in the dark, fearing what she might find without really knowing what she expected.
Her fingers trembled as she fitted the metal key into the hole and turned. The key slipped and clinked, never finding a groove. She pulled it out and looked at it, making certain she had chosen the right one. She had. No doubt about it. She tried it again, then drew back, leaning against the door while the truth sank in. Malcomb had changed the lock without saying a word to her.
The steps seemed endless as she made her way down them. She’d probably be angry later, but all she felt now was the sickening pain of betrayal. All the time she’d been fighting to make things work, struggling to understand her new husband and to regain some of the passion that had fizzled and died, Malcomb had been literally locking her out of his life.
Locked her out. Let the lies and deceptions in.
The marriage, or what was left of it, was slipping away fast.
DALLAS SPRAWLED in his chair at the precinct, dangling a half-eaten slice of pizza over the notes he had spread in front of him on his scarred and cluttered wooden desk. The files were not conducive to eating, but then neither was the cold, greasy pizza. Not that it mattered. When he was working on a case that gripped him the way this one did, he barely tasted food.
The killer was one sick bastard, and that was the nicest thing he could think of to say about the monster who’d murdered Karen Tucker and three other women over the past eight months. All drained of blood from a severed carotid artery. All the bodies found within three miles of each other. All brunettes. All young.
Dallas listed the facts as he knew them, hoping that seeing them in print would give him some kind of insight he didn’t have now. In the first three murders, residues of hydrogen peroxide had remained on the skin and the hair, no doubt used to clean the blood from the exposed parts of the body. Cuts, puncture wounds and tears to the genitalia had apparently been done before death, as some cruel form of inhuman torture. Dallas’s guess was the man hated women, or else he thought they all needed punishing and he’d decided to be the one to administer it.
Forensic findings also indicated that the victims had been injected with barbiturates before their deaths, probably to keep them from fighting for their lives. There were no signs of rape and no clues as to the identity of the perp.
To add to the complications, there were smatterings of saliva, urine and hair found on the neatly folded clothes of the victims and in small, almost undetected amounts on the bodies themselves. A hodgepodge of DNA. And none had matched from victim to victim.
But Karen Tucker hadn’t been tortured. Her body hadn’t been cleaned or left naked. And it appeared that she’d been left in the same spot where she’d been killed, while the others had been moved after they were killed, and planted in a new location.
Dallas massaged his neck, his muscles suddenly tight and aching. “What are you doing still here? I thought you had a hot date tonight with that sexy little weather cookie from the TV station.”
He turned as Corky stopped at the door of his minuscule office. “I broke the date. Figured it would be a washout anyway with this six-fisted demon of a case punching at me.”
“I know what you mean.” Corky shoved the pizza box out of the way and perched on the back edge of Dallas’s desk, helping himself to a slice, dropping bits of jalapeño peppers onto the desk and floor.
Dallas raked his fingers through his hair, shoving it back from his forehead. “I just can’t get a handle on this guy.”
“Old Fastidious Freddie. I’d like to pour a gallon of bleach down his throat and show him what clean is. So how did the second meeting of the day with Mrs. Lancaster go?”
“She still claims she doesn’t know anything about the calls.”
Corky swallowed a bite of pizza. “Did she sound convincing?”
“Very. Apparently the phone number is the one to her husband’s hobby area over the garage.”
“So the doc and the nurse were having private little chats late at night.”
“That’s the way it looks.”
Corky chewed on another mouthful of pizza, then picked up a napkin and wiped at a bit of sticky cheese that clung to his fingers. “Doc and nursie-poo are all cozy. Wife doesn’t know about nursie-poo. Then all of sudden nursie-poo makes decision to call wife. Has name and number in her pocket. Bingo. Nursie-poo shows up dead. Isn’t this a remake of last year’s case—only that one starred rich CEO and secretary-poo?”
“It does bear striking similarities. Add to that the fact that Nicole admitted during our last chat that an anonymous caller phoned Thursday morning and informed her that her husband was a liar and a cheat.”
“Just what a wife likes to hear. So, when do we talk to this liar and cheat?”
“I’m thinking Monday morning.”
“I was thinking tomorrow,” Corky said. “Sunday’s such a great day for seeking truth. Isn’t that biblical?”
“Maybe, but I say we let the good doctor stew awhile after Nicole tells him that we know he talked to the victim several times over the past few weeks. Besides, I’d like to gather a little more information on him.”
“You don’t really think Dr. Lancaster is our serial killer, do you?”
“Very unlikely. How about you?”
“Nah. More likely a pompous doctor playing ten toes up, ten toes down with a nurse. If that were a felony, there would be so many doctors in jail, the country would have to go to self-medication.”
Dallas picked up the stack of photos from the crime scene and fanned them across the desk like a hand of cards. He’d studied them thoroughly earlier, but still they had a sickening effect, like taking a big gulp of milk without realizing it had gone sour. Dallas didn’t like Malcomb Lancaster on general principle, most likely due to the fact that he slept with Nicole every night, but Dallas couldn’t picture her marrying a guy as sick as Fastidious Freddie.
Son of Sam. The Green River Killer. Fastidious Freddie. Strange how serial murderers got named. In this case, a cop finding the first victim had labeled the man and it had stuck. It was as an appropriate nickname as any, Dallas guessed, and was a lot more socially acceptable than the term that had flown into his head the first time he’d seen the man’s handiwork.
“Fastidious is a deranged lunatic,” Corky said, bending over the desk for a better look at the pictures. “Not that those attributes rule out doctors. Can’t wait to see what our sexy little profiler comes up with, especially after she adds the latest murder into her magic formula.”
“We should know soon.”
Corky reached over and picked up one of the snapshots. “I don’t know what the profiler will say, but I think the guy must have escaped from the psycho ward of some state hospital.”
“He’s dangerous and smart. That’s all I’m sure of.”
Corky slid off the desk and paced the room. “So how do we start looking for a killer who leaves no clues?”
“No choice but to start with t
he victims. I want to know everything there is to know about Karen Tucker. Who her friends are, where she hung out at night, who she’s dated, where she got her clothes cleaned—the same type of info we gathered on the other victims. There has to be some kind of link between them.”
“A schoolteacher, a stripper, a female jockey and a nurse. It’s going to be tough finding a pattern there.”
“The guy has to meet the women somewhere. He had to be where they were—at least long enough for them to get his attention.”
“And he might be out tonight choosing his next victim. Wonder where Dr. Lancaster is tonight,” Corky said.
“No doubt at home, having a cozy dinner with his wife.” A little more bitterness than was justified edged into Dallas’s voice. He could tell from the change in Corky’s expression that it had not gone unnoticed.
“You’ve still got the hots for this woman. C’mon, admit it, chum. You’d like to be over there doing her yourself tonight.”
“If I wanted to be doing anybody, I’d be out with the weather chick.”
“And thinking about the doctor’s wife.”
“Lay off it, will you?”
“Okay, but you do know this woman. So just on the outside chance that Dr. Malcomb Lancaster is Fastidious Freddie, do you think she’d suspect something? A madman like that can’t just play by the rules in every area of his life but one.”
Dallas thought back on the afternoon’s conversation with Nicole. He knew she was a smart woman, yet she was trusting, too, wanting to believe only the best about her husband. “I’d guess wives are like everybody else. They see what they want to, believe what they want to, until the truth slams into them and knocks them to the ground.”
Dallas felt the anxiety building inside him, like pin-pricks of pain infiltrating his brain. He was ninety-nine and nine tenths percent certain Malcomb wasn’t a serial killer, but it was that one tenth of one percent that gnawed at his control and festered in his mind.
The temptation to call Nicole swelled inside him, but what would he say that he hadn’t said already? That she should walk out on the guy because there was a chance in a million he might be a killer? Put herself in Dallas’s hands? Yeah, like she’d buy that one.
He picked up the photos and stuffed them back into the yellow envelope he’d pulled them out of. Nicole knew where to find him, and she had his cellular phone number. That was all he could do.
The phone rang. He took the call, half believing it was Nicole. It was the coroner.
“I thought I might catch you at the precinct.”
“What’s up?” Dallas asked, surprised to hear anything from the autopsy report this late in the day.
“I just finished with Karen Tucker and I found something I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”
“Hit me with it.”
“She was about four months pregnant.”
THE HOUSE WAS QUIET. Empty. Incredibly lonely.
Call me if you need anything.
Dallas’s invitation flashed in Nicole’s mind, almost blinding, like one of those flashing neon signs at the casinos on Red River. She took his card from her pocket, found the number and started to dial. The first ring of the phone worked as an alarm, and she punched the button and broke the connection, shaking to think how close she’d almost come to making a fool of herself.
Dallas was a cop. All he was interested in was facts about phone calls the dead woman had made to Malcomb, not in the fact that Nicole’s marriage was falling apart and she was so frustrated she couldn’t think straight. And even if he were willing to listen, she didn’t need the added complication of having him back in her life. She was far too vulnerable now.
She’d have to deal with Malcomb on her own.
Only there was no dealing with Malcomb. She’d ask him about the changed lock, and he’d have a perfectly good reason for it, just as he always did. Just as he’d had for Karen’s phone calls. But everything about Malcomb was a contradiction. Their courtship had been glorious. Their marriage was the pits. He’d been romantic and thoughtful when they’d dated, had made her feel special, even cherished.
Now it was only ten short months later, and she felt as if they lived on separate planets, maybe in separate galaxies. The contradictions were eating away at her, stealing her soul, turning her into some frustrated shrew she didn’t even recognize. So maybe the problems were hers and she was just a failure….
Here she went again. Feeling inadequate and mal-adjusted, and this time Malcomb wasn’t even here for her to blame. Blame and fault didn’t matter, anyway. The bottom line was the marriage union existed only on paper. In every other way she was all alone.
The phone rang, and she almost jumped from her skin. She was shaking inside and not at all sure she could keep her voice steady. She took a deep breath, counted to ten, then answered, “Hello.”
“Hello, Nicole. This is your brother Ronnie.”
Her heart warmed and she smiled at the way he always identified himself, as if she wouldn’t recognize his voice instantly.
“Hi, Ronnie. How are you?”
“How are you? Ronnie’s fine.”
He was repeating her words. He didn’t always do that, but he did when he was upset, and occasionally for no reason anyone could explain.
“I’m glad you called,” she said.
“I’m glad you called. Ronnie misses you.”
“And I miss you. Did you watch TV tonight?”
“Watch TV tonight. Sa-man-tha wiggled her nose. She’s funny.”
“Yes, she is very funny.” Ronnie never tired of reruns, and he liked the really old shows best.
“She’s very funny. I want to come home.”
Guilt washed over Nicole, added to the overwhelming load of frustration and confusion that tortured her. Ronnie had been the main reason she’d moved back to Shreveport after her father’s death. She’d wanted him to continue to be able to come home for weekends the way he’d done all his life. Even when their father hadn’t been in town, he’d had a sitter stay at the house with Ronnie from Friday night until Sunday afternoon to make certain he knew he was part of the family.
Now she was letting him down, but she didn’t want him here this weekend. He picked up on stress, reacted to it in unpredictable ways. “I’ll come to see you tomorrow, Ronnie. We’ll go somewhere fun.”
“Come see Ronnie tomorrow.”
“Yes. Tomorrow. After you’ve had breakfast. Would you like that?”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
They talked for a few minutes more, and the repetition grew less pronounced. Maybe a promise of a visit from her was all he’d needed to make him feel more relaxed. It was so little to ask. Whatever happened between her and Malcomb, she’d have to make certain that Ronnie started coming home again for weekends and that she was there for him.
Her own anxiety level had eased a mite by the time she’d hung up the phone. Her emotions were too raw to think clearly, her nerves too frazzled to make rational decisions, so she might as well fix herself a light dinner, have a glass of wine and try to read until she fell asleep. Hopefully that would be long before Malcomb returned. She just didn’t want to see him again tonight.
But it wasn’t Malcomb she thought of as she pulled a hunk of cheese from the refrigerator and took a box of crackers from the cupboard, at least not directly. It was Karen Tucker who stalked her mind, the woman who’d carried Nicole’s name and number in her pocket while someone had taken her life.
What had she talked to Malcomb about during those fourteen calls? And what had she planned to tell Nicole? Knowing those two things would make Nicole’s decision making a lot easier.
Unfortunately, the dead never talked.
THE NIGHT WAS MOONLESS, cold, eerie, the fog so thick it covered Nicole like a blanket as she walked up the slippery, winding staircase to Malcomb’s study. Fear was palpable, clutching at her, burning in her lungs. She didn’t want to be out here, but there was something—or someone—call
ing to her for help.
She’d had to come back.
No. What was she thinking? She shouldn’t be out here at all. The room belonged to Malcomb. The voice was calling him. She tried to turn around, to go back inside her safe house, to her warm bed. But her foot slipped on the step, and she started falling. Endlessly falling.
“I’ll catch you, Nicole. I’ll keep you safe.”
“Dallas. You came.”
He reached out and tried to catch her, but she slid from his grasp, pitching forward, plunging headfirst down the metal steps.
“Dallas. Please help me. Please.”
She felt his hands now, only they were hurting her, twisting her arm and yanking her back to the steps. There was something in his hand. A knife. Hot pain seared through her as the blade penetrated her body, and a sticky river of warm blood oozed from the gaping hole. But it wasn’t Dallas who was hurting her. It was a stranger, a man without a face.
She tried to scream, but all that came out was a low moan. “Dallas.”
She jerked awake and opened her eyes. It had been nothing but a nightmare, but so real her heartbeat was racing. A shadow moved above her, and the room seemed to heave and pulse. She heard quick, frenzied breathing—breaths that were not hers.
Chapter Seven
The shadow coalesced into the shape of a man, as if she’d conjured him from the dark vapors of her nightmare. She started to scream, then jerked to an upright position as light from the bedside lamp eradicated the darkness.
“Malcomb.”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“Of course not.” She’d shaken off the nightmare, but the dread stayed with her, cold, dark, almost tangible. “I didn’t hear you come in. You frightened me.”
