If Looks Could Kill

by Beverly Barton

  “Do you think you can look out for the ladies while we’re gone?” Dallas glanced from Reve to Genny and then over to Sally and Ludie. “I need Jacob and his department to work with us on this case. I want him to go with me out to the crime scene so we can take a look at things ourselves.”

  Reve realized that by putting Caleb in charge of their care, Dallas was giving Caleb something to think about other than the very real possibility that the woman he loved was going to die. Just the thought that she could lose her sister before they had a chance to really become sisters hurt Reve in a way nothing else ever had. It was at that moment she realized she loved Jasmine. And more than anything on earth, she wanted her to live.

  I did what I had to do. Jazzy had to die. It was easier than I thought it would be to kill her. Two hard blows to the back of her head was all it took. She dropped instantly after the second blow. Although she was slender, it wasn’t easy lifting her up and over the railing. And I hadn’t realized there would be so much blood. All over the hammer I used to kill her. All over my gloves. And it even splattered across my coat and on my shoes.

  I burned everything as soon as I returned home. Even my underwear. But the metal hammer wouldn’t burn, so I hid it. I removed it from the fireplace and once it cooled, I wrapped it in an old pillowcase and took it up to the attic. It’s there now, hidden away at the bottom of an old trunk, safely tucked away where no one will ever find it.

  I wonder how long it will be before her body is dis covered? Days? Weeks? Of course there will be a search for her once it’s discovered that she’s missing, so they could find her by morning, especially if they bring out Sally Talbot’s blood-hounds.

  Oh, God! What if—No, no, I didn’t leave anything behind with my smell on it. But what if they’re able to pick up a scent simply out of the air? I hadn’t thought of that. Just how long did a human’s scent remain in the air? Surely not very long.

  I can’t worry about it now. Besides, no one would ever believe me capable of such a horrendous crime.

  Should I act again quickly? Or should I wait? With Jazzy dead, that leaves only her twin. But what if they suspect that Reve will be the killer’s next victim? They’ll be watching her, guarding her day and night.

  I’ll have to wait. The perfect opportunity will present itself. And soon. I have to wait for the right moment. But I dare not wait too long. I have to put a stop to the investigation into the past before they discover the truth. I can’t let that happen. If Slim had done his job thirty years ago, I wouldn’t be in this situation now. If he’d just killed those damn babies as I’d told him to do . . . Her babies. Those beautiful little redheaded twins.

  When they arrived at the crime scene, Jacob and Dallas found what appeared at first glance to be an unruly crowd and mass confusion. Jacob parked his truck on the side of the road behind three police cars. After Dallas and he emerged from the truck, they hurried up the road, only to be bombarded by a small horde of TV and newspaper reporters. They kept walking, forcing the ones spouting questions at them to follow along.

  “Is this the work of a serial killer?”

  “Was Jazzy Talbot attacked because she’s a redheaded whore?”

  “What’s Jazzy’s condition? Is she going to live?”

  “If y’all expected her to be the next victim, why wasn’t she better protected?”

  The news camera zoomed in, getting a closeup of their faces when the cameraman jumped around in front of them. Within seconds the reporters formed a circle, effectively surrounding them. Jacob wanted to smash the camera and knock the cameraman’s teeth down his throat. But he was already notorious for his bad temper, so he did his level best to keep it under control tonight.

  “No comment,” Dallas said.

  “Can’t you tell us whether Jazzy is going to make it or not?” a female reporter for the Herald asked.

  “Contact the hospital for an update on Ms. Talbot’s condition,” Dallas told her, then gently shoved her out of the way, making an escape route for Jacob and him.

  Jacob saw Jazzy’s red Jeep up ahead, just off the road, parked in the grass. A tight knot formed in his stomach. If only Jazzy had waited for Caleb before coming out here to meet some mysterious caller. Yeah, hindsight was twenty- twenty, and the world was filled with people asking themselves “What if?” But it wasn’t in Jazzy’s nature to be cautious. Even as a kid she’d been bold and fearless. And that meant she’d often leaped before looking and gotten herself into all kinds of trouble.

  Noticing one of his deputies, Moody Ryan, standing guard over the Jeep, he threw up his hand and waved. Moody waved back.

  When they reached the corded-off area, they found two- thirds of the police force and half of Jacob’s deputies keeping the crime scene protected from reporters and curiosity seekers. He sure as hell hoped this many officers didn’t mean that by their numbers alone they had compromised the scene. All it took was one wrong move to screw up the evidence. And with this many people milling around on the bridge, putting out dozens of different scents, there was no point in bringing in Sally’s bloodhounds.

  Bobby Joe Harte met them when they approached the bridge “How’s Jazzy?” he asked.

  “In surgery,” Jacob replied.

  “Lieutenant Glenn put me in charge of crowd control,” Bobby Joe said. “I called in as many deputies as I could on short notice, and we’re manning the parameter. Luckily, we got in place before that bunch showed up.” He nodded toward the clamoring reporters kept at bay only by the presence of the deputies. “The crowd’s been getting bigger by the minute. More and more folks are hearing about what happened and showing up. But I think we can handle things.”

  “Where’s Glenn?” Dallas asked.

  “He’s on the other side of the bridge, overseeing the investigation. He’s got Burt and Dwayne and Earl collecting evidence.”

  “Who were the first officers on the scene?” Dallas gazed out across the bridge and surrounding area, apparently taking note of his personnel working the site.

  “Hendrix and Kirk,” Bobby Joe replied.

  “Hm—mm. Kirk’s a rookie, but Hendrix has been around long enough to know the proper procedure.”

  Jacob followed Dallas as he headed across the bridge. He’d learned that the first two rules you follow at a crime scene are don’t touch anything and write everything down. Anything taken away or added to a scene could mean the difference between solving a crime and a perpetrator getting away scot free.

  Tommy Glenn, a heavyset, bearded guy in his early thirties, had been with the Cherokee Pointe police department since he was nineteen. He was a seasoned professional, a small-town-cop pro. When Glenn saw Dallas and Jacob heading his way, he came toward them, a grim look on his face.

  “Chief.” Glenn nodded to Dallas. “Sheriff.” He looked at Jacob. “How’s Jazzy?”

  “In surgery,” Jacob said. “Fighting for her life.”

  “Have we got anything here?” Dallas motioned with a subtle move of his right hand.

  “Nothing was touched before Earl got here. Of course, he called in Burt and Dwayne. They’re collecting evidence now. Blood from the bridge railing and the rocks below appear at first glance to be about it. But we’ve got some bloody shoe prints, too. And tire tracks, although it’ll be just about impossible to prove the tracks belong to our perpetrator since there’s traffic along this road all the time, but we photographed them and I think we should make casts.”

  “I want every scrap of possible evidence documented and no stone left unturned,” Dallas told Glenn. “And be sure to keep accurate records and see to it that every tidbit of evidence is clearly marked.”

  “Yes, sir.” Glenn nearly saluted before he turned and motioned to one of the uniformed officers assisting the men in charge of collecting evidence. “Bring the gun over here.”

  “Gun?” Dallas and Jacob said simultaneously.

  “We found a Beretta Tomcat pistol on the bridge not far from where the railing is smeared with blood,”
Glenn said.

  The officer brought the gun, sealed in a plastic bag and appropriately tagged, and handed it to the lieutenant. Glenn held up the bag.

  “Polished blue finish,” Jacob said. “That’s Jazzy’s gun or one just like it. I was with her when she bought it.”

  “Was it fired tonight?” Dallas asked.

  “Nope. It still has a full seven-shot magazine in it.”

  “That tells us that whoever hit her probably came up behind her quickly and got in at least the first blow before Jazzy knew what was happening,” Jacob surmised.

  “Any sign of the weapon her attacker used?” Dallas asked.

  “Not so far,” Glenn said. “But we’re going to scour every inch of the bridge, as well as the creek and ground within sight, then we’ll span out and search the woods.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work.” Dallas cordially dismissed Glenn, who immediately returned to his duties.

  By the deferential way Glenn acted toward Dallas, it was obvious he admired and respected the chief of police. It said a lot about the kind of man Tommy Glenn was because everybody knew he’d badly wanted the job Dallas had been given.

  “What are the odds we’ll find anything that will help us?” Jacob asked.

  “You never know. Criminals make mistakes all the time, especially amateurs.”

  “You believe whoever tried to kill Jazzy is an amateur?”

  “Either that or he’s somebody who wants us to think he is. I suspect this isn’t the work of the guy who killed Becky Olmstead, Kat Baker and all those other redheads over the past few years. The MO isn’t identical.”

  “Do you think we have a copycat killer on our hands?”

  “Possibly. The public knows that a couple of prostitutes were murdered and their corpses dumped in a body of water. The Tennessee River and Douglas Lake. And word leaked out that both women were redheads.”

  “Those are the only two things about Jazzy’s attack that are the same as the two murders.”

  “She was hit over the head, not strangled,” Dallas said. “And she wasn’t raped.”

  “What if it wasn’t the serial killer or a copycat killer?”

  Dallas cocked his head to one side and gave Jacob an inquisitive look. “Do you have another theory?”

  “I know we can’t completely rule out the serial killer, and I’m not saying it isn’t a copycat, but what if the person who attacked Jazzy had a personal reason for wanting her dead?”

  “Like what?” Dallas smiled like a proud papa whose son had just become a man.

  “She and Reve have hired the top private investigation firm in Tennessee to search for their birth parents. What if somebody in Cherokee County doesn’t want the twins to learn the truth? What if whoever tried to kill them when they were babies is still around?”

  “If that’s the case, then neither Jazzy nor Reve will be safe until the truth is revealed.”

  Chapter 22

  Five days after her surgery, Jazzy remained in a coma. Everything possible was being done for her. Reve had called in the most renowned specialists, sparing no expense to fly in the leading neurologists. Every available test had been done, except those the doctors deemed either unnecessary or too risky at this point. An MRI and a CT Scan, which looks at the structure of the brain, were followed by other diagnostic testing, most of which Reve couldn’t remember. The local neurologist, Dr. Behel, and his colleague from Vanderbilt, Dr. Alfred Cornelius, had agreed not to run a SPECT Scan, despite the fact the results of both the MRI and the CT Scan were normal, and yet Jazzy had not awakened. In patients of reproductive age, the SPECT Scan procedure was used judiciously.

  Dr. Cornelius had said, “If Ms. Talbot’s condition doesn’t change in the next few weeks, I suggest moving her to Nashville, to Vanderbilt, where we can run a PET Scan, and if we feel it necessary at that time, we’ll discuss running the SPECT Scan.”

  Although Reve hadn’t lived at the hospital 24/7, as Caleb had, even when she wasn’t there, she got little sleep or rest. She had remained at the hospital for the first thirty-six hours, as had Genny; then Dallas had driven them to Genny’s home in the mountains and placed an officer outside to guard them. She had stayed with Genny a couple of days, the two making the trip to the hospital together daily. But yesterday morning, Lacy Fallon had phoned her and asked what should be done about managing both Jazzy’s Joint and Jasmine’s. It seemed that Jazzy, being a bit of a control freak, hadn’t trained anyone to take over in case of an emergency. Even though both establishments were continuing business as usual, if someone didn’t take charge soon, both would have to close. So Reve had moved into Jazzy’s upstairs apartment and, using her basic business skills, took over the reins of her sister’s two establishments. After all, there was little she could do for Jazzy just sitting in the Intensive Care Unit waiting room, but by taking charge of her sister’s business affairs, she’d be doing something useful.

  The policeman who’d parked outside the apartment last night had been replaced by a sheriff’s deputy this morning. Moody Ryan had followed her to the hospital and come up on the elevator with her.

  “I’m going to be here for at least an hour.” Reve stopped outside the waiting room and turned to the young deputy. “Why don’t you go down to the cafeteria and eat breakfast?”

  “I had breakfast before I came on duty, ma’am.”

  “Then go get a cup of coffee.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll stay out of your way. You won’t even know I’m here. But my orders are to keep you under constant surveillance.”

  “And those orders came from?”

  Moody’s lips twitched. “Sheriff Butler.”

  “I sincerely hope Sheriff Butler doesn’t expect you to go to the ladies’ room with me.”

  Moody blushed. “No, ma’am, I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  Giving up on trying to escape her shadow, Reve opened the door and entered the small ICU waiting room. Moody Ryan came in behind her. On the solitary sofa nestled against the back wall, Caleb lay curled up in an awkward position, a hospital-issue blanket wrapped around him from armpits down to the top of his booted feet. The poor guy looked like hell. He’d been cleaning up in the bathroom, but he hadn’t shaved and the brown stubble on his face was turning into a beard. If she’d ever seen a guy madly in love, that guy was Caleb McCord. If, God forbid, Jazzy didn’t make it, Reve didn’t think Caleb would either.

  She turned to Moody. “Look, if I promise not to leave this room, would you go to the snack bar and get a cup of fresh coffee and a sausage muffin?”

  Moody stared at her questioningly.

  “I’m sure Caleb hasn’t had a bite to eat since sometime yesterday. I want him to have breakfast, but I see no point in both you and I going to the snack bar.”

  “Yeah, I guess it would be okay for me leave you, if you promise to stay right here with Caleb.”

  Just as Moody headed out of the waiting room, Caleb roused and gazed bleary-eyed at Reve. He threw up a hand and waved.

  “Morning,” she said.

  He kicked off the blanket, sat up and stretched. “What time is it?”

  “A little after eight. I sent Moody down to the snack bar to get you something to eat.”

  Caleb rubbed the back of his neck. “They don’t make these couches for sleeping.”

  “You really should go home, take a shower and sleep in your own bed for a few hours.”

  Caleb stood, picked up the blanket, folded it unevenly and laid it across the arm of the sofa. “I’m not leaving this hospital until Jazzy comes out of that damn coma.”

  “That could be weeks,” Reve reminded him.

  “Don’t waste your breath. I’m not going anywhere until she opens her eyes and looks at me.”

  Reve nodded, then went over and hugged him. “You keep your vigil here at the hospital, and I’ll make sure her business interests are taken care of. When she recovers, I’ll turn things back over to her in tip-top shape.”

  Caleb eased back a
nd took Reve’s hands in his. “She’s going to come out of the coma and recover completely.”

  Caleb had stated his hopes confidently. Too confidently? No. They shouldn’t expect the worst. They should remain cautiously optimistic. Hadn’t Dr. Cornelius told them that using the standard Glasgow Coma Scale, which estimated a patient’s chances of living and recovering by assigning numbers ranging from three to fifteen, Jazzy had a chance for a full recovery? The higher the number, the better the odds. Jazzy’s case was a ten, and a ten was on the high end of the mid-range.

  “With patients scoring eight to ten, twenty-seven percent will die,” the doctor had explained frankly. “But the good news is that sixty-eight percent will have a good recovery, with moderate disabilities.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Reve said to Caleb. “Jazzy’s a fighter. She’ll wake up any time now, and when she does, she’ll do whatever it takes to recover. And we’ll be here to help her. If she needs her own personal physical therapist, I’ll hire the best. She may not be ready for that Christmas wedding y’all planned, but—”

  “Then maybe a New Year’s wedding,” a female voice said.

  Reve and Caleb looked around to see who’d spoken. There stood Miss Reba and Big Jim. She carried a small overnight case, and he held a garment bag.

  “Any change in Jazzy’s condition?” Big Jim asked.

  “No change,” Caleb replied.

  Reve noted a genuinely sad expression on Jim Upton’s face. A strong, handsome face, she thought, especially for a man of seventy-five. Although handsome in his own right, Caleb didn’t resemble his grandfather and wasn’t quite as tall. But there was a strong hint of Miss Reba’s beauty in her grandson’s attractive features.

  “We’ve brought some toiletries and a change of clothes.” Reba marched into the waiting area. Though a petite woman, her presence filled the entire space. “And your grandfather has arranged for you a room on this floor, directly down the hall.” She kissed Caleb’s cheek. “Now you run along with Jim and get freshened up, then go down to the cafeteria for breakfast. I’ll stay here with Reve until you return.”