by Casey Hill
Lucy followed Reilly into the evidence room, and scanned her clipboard for the right case number. ‘This way.’
They headed down the long rows of dusty metal shelves, the dim fluorescent lights giving the entire room a dreary pallor.
‘So why exactly are we doing this?’ Lucy asked.
‘Because Mrs Redmond reckons that the sheet that her husband hanged himself with wasn’t hers,’ said Reilly. ‘So we have to follow up.’
‘That’s hardly a revelation though. His boyfriend probably brought some sheets over whenever they … you know.’
She nodded. ‘You’re probably right.’
Lucy stopped at the end of a row. ‘It’s down here.’
Reilly followed her down the row until she found the right box. Lucy lifted the box from the shelf and carried it to the end of the row before setting it down on the table.
She pulled a small knife from her pocket, and sliced through the security tape that sealed the box, nattering away as she opened it. ‘Even if the sheet isn’t theirs, it’s not likely to tell us much, is it? It certainly didn’t before.’
‘Probably not,’ Reilly said, lifting the lid. She rummaged through the box and quickly located the bed sheet. Pulling it out to take a better look, she frowned.
‘What?’ Lucy asked, spotting her baffled look.
Reilly said nothing, just stared at the sheet she was holding in her hands, her mind racing.
‘Reilly? What is it?’
‘Weird …’ she mumbled, almost to herself. ‘I think I recognize this.’
Chris took a deep breath, carefully choosing his next words. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘Yes.’
At Reilly’s request, he’d come immediately to the crime lab to try to figure out what this latest discovery meant.
‘I mean, I couldn’t tell the difference between one white sheet and another,’ he admitted.
‘But I’m a linens snob, Chris,’ she explained. ‘And this is six-hundred-count Italian linen. Hell, I buy this type myself exclusively from Scheuer Linens in San Francisco.’ Which meant that, rather than a random, generic piece of evidence, the sheet could now be considered specific, classified evidence, and in theory should be easier to narrow down.
‘And can you get hold of them in Ireland?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. Lucy’s calling Brown Thomas and some of the more specialist haberdashery stores around the country, but make no mistake, if these aren’t Jim Redmond’s sheets, then the killer’s given us a crucial piece of evidence.’
‘Give me a minute and I’ll talk to Debbie Redmond again, see if any of this rings a bell.’
He went outside the room to make the call and spoke briefly to the victim’s wife before coming back inside.
‘Says she knows nothing about thread-count and whatnot, and buys most of her household stuff from Debenhams or House of Fraser and mostly only based on what it looks like.’
Just then Lucy came back into the room. ‘Brown Thomas are faxing over a list of their linens inventory and said we should have it later this afternoon. It’ll take longer to track down suppliers elsewhere though.’
‘Still, it’s something to go on,’ Reilly said, pleased they’d finally caught some kind of a break. If the killer had used this sheet to kill Redmond and wasn’t aware that the type was uncommon, then it could tell them something useful about the killer, perhaps where he might be hiding out.
‘What about hotels?’ Chris asked, obviously on the same track. ‘Could the killer have picked the sheet up from somewhere else?’
‘The Four Seasons would be a good bet,’ Lucy mused. ‘Seeing as it’s only around the corner from the Redmonds’ house.’
‘Great. Then we’ll try that as well as some of the other more upmarket hotels in the city,’ Chris said. ‘If one of them happens to use those exact sheets, then we can work on getting a guest list and see if anything jumps out.’
Lucy headed for the doorway. ‘I’ll get going on it.’
‘The lab is running DNA testing on it right now too, but I’d be amazed if we found anything other than Jim Redmond’s profile,’ Reilly said.
Chris nodded at her. ‘Good work spotting that,’ he said. ‘It could be the break we need.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ Reilly replied, grimly. ‘Thank the wife of the poor guy who got stuck in the middle of all this.’
23
The wooden framed house was dark, quiet. It sat on the corner of the block in a San Francisco suburb, just one of thousands of similar family houses.
Reilly sat on the couch, her legs tucked up underneath her, homework scattered around her, half studying, half watching TV.
A figure flitted silently across the darkness of the back yard, pressed up against the side of the house.
Reilly paused in the middle of a sentence then muted the TV and listened intently. Nothing.
She turned the volume back on and resumed her studies.
The figure slid along the wall and tiptoed onto the porch, moving soundlessly to the back door. A hand reached out and gently tried the door handle – it turned and the door swung silently outwards. The figure slipped quietly into the kitchen, passing through a band of light from upstairs.
Reilly was engrossed in her books, oblivious to the intruder. He peered round the door into the living room, spied her sitting on the couch.
Closer and closer he crept, tiptoeing up behind her.
‘You’re going to have to be a lot quieter than that,’ she said, suddenly turning around.
‘Damn, your hearing is awesome!’ The teenage boy vaulted the couch and landed beside Reilly, scattering her books.
‘Tommy, mind my homework,’ she admonished.
‘Homework, schomework!’ Then he grinned. ‘I’ve got a different kind of homework for you …’
They wrapped their arms around each other, lips locked together, oblivious to the passing of time. Finally, they came up for air.
‘When’s your dad back?’
Reilly shrugged. ‘Who knows? Probably when people stop buying him drinks or when they throw him out.’
‘Great,’ said Tommy, going straight back in for more.
Their mouths locked again and he began peeling off Reilly’s sweater. She responded passionately and soon they were both half-naked, hands exploring frantically.
A sudden noise made Reilly break away. She sat up, listening hard, her gaze moving anxiously around.
‘What is it?’ Tommy was not in the mood to stop.
‘I thought I heard something – Jess sleeps very lightly.’
‘Who’s Jess?’
‘My little sister.’
Tommy nibbled at Reilly’s neck. ‘So? Who cares?’
She shivered as he kissed her. ‘But she might see us …’
‘So what? She might learn something.’ He reached for Reilly’s jeans and started to unbutton them.
She tried to stop him. ‘We shouldn’t – not here – not now.’
Tommy persisted. ‘Come on, baby. `You know I love you.’ He laughed. ‘We’re seventeen – this is what we’re supposed to do.’
Reilly still looked uncertain but Tommy, knowing her weak spot, resumed the offensive on her neck. ‘I love you,’ he crooned, slowly sliding her jeans down over her hips.
She couldn’t resist any longer. ‘I love you too,’ she whispered, lying back and letting Tommy finish undressing her.
‘What are you doing?’ a voice called out quietly from nearby.
Tommy looked up, startled. ‘What the—’
Reilly looked round and saw Jess staring at them, her fluffy blond hair pulled up in a ponytail, a peculiar look on her face.
‘Jess, it’s OK,’ she said, reassuringly.
‘What’s he doing, Reilly? Is he hurting you?’
Tommy was smiling now, regarding Jess with interest. ‘Well, well … what do we have here? You never told me you had such a cutie for a sister, Reilly.’
Reilly stared
at him, feeling uneasy. What was it about Jess that made every guy – young or old – go weak at the knees?
‘Reilly?’ Jessica was staring at her in disbelief. ‘You were doing it – with him?’
Damn. ‘No, Jess. You don’t understand – we were just—’
‘We were just fooling around,’ Tommy interjected, sitting up and buttoning his shirt.
Jess continued to stare at Reilly as if she’d let her down. And oddly enough, she felt like she had. Jess looked up to her, saw her as a mother figure and Reilly felt like she had to protect her.
‘Yeah,’ she pulled her jeans up and scrambled to her feet. ‘It was nothing, Jess.’
‘You were doing it with him!’ her sister accused, her expression darkening. ‘You’re just like her! You’re a whore and I hate you!’
Tommy looked bemused. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Jess,’ Reilly spoke softly but simmered with rage inside. ‘You have no right to talk to me like that. Now go to your room.’
‘I’m telling Dad,’ Jess remained defiant. ‘I’m telling Dad that you were doing it with some guy in our living room when you’re supposed to be taking care of me. You’re just like her, aren’t you, Reilly? And just like her you’ll end up leaving us too.’
Reilly sat up in bed, disoriented. This time the dream was so real it was almost as though Jess were really there.
She shivered and stared into the darkness – every shadow suddenly seemed to contain a threat, lurking in wait, ready to spring out on her.
She glanced around the room for a moment, at the small wardrobe in the corner, the window with its lace curtains, letting in the yellow glow of the streetlamps, before finally settling back down on her pillow. She tried to close her eyes and relax, let sleep overtake her.
‘Goddamnit,’ she muttered, sitting up again. There was no point; she was wide awake now, sleep had completely deserted her. She climbed out of bed and wrapped herself in a toweling robe, before heading into the living room.
Reilly flicked on the overhead light and the glare immediately chased away the shadows and the ghosts that had haunted her sleep. This case was obviously getting to her more than she’d care to admit, subconsciously unearthing memories and emotions she thought she’d long left behind.
She stood in the doorway of the living room, trying to decide what to do now she was so alert. Unable to think of anything else, she sat down on the couch in front of the coffee table and fired up her laptop. Might as well do something useful.
While the computer flickered to life, Reilly sat and gazed around the apartment. While it was clean, there was no denying it was pitifully small, and try as she had to give it some kind of personal touch over the last few months, it still didn’t feel like hers.
She thought dreamily of her old place back in California just minutes from the beach, with its huge wood-framed windows which let in the warm light and cool ocean breezes. Then she suddenly froze as her gaze rested briefly on her bookshelf.
Something didn’t look right.
She stood up and walked over to take a closer took. No matter how hard she stared, she couldn’t figure out what was bothering her. Was something missing, something out of place, but what?
She shook her head, putting it down to edginess about her most recent dream. That was all it was; it had to be. Still, Dr Kyle’s admonishment before she left California echoed in her mind. ‘If you’re feeling fragile, don’t be afraid to seek help. Being vulnerable isn’t the same thing as being weak.’
Was the return of the dreams making her feel vulnerable? No, they were just dreams; they couldn’t hurt her and they certainly couldn’t make her weak. In any case, everyone had their own worries, their own fragilities that they tried to keep hidden from the rest of the world. She thought about Chris and his stubborn refusal to admit to what was his own weakness. Yes, everyone had their own demons, Reilly assured herself and she was no different.
She returned to the couch and picked up her laptop. Resting it on top of her thighs, she opened up Google and typed in the word ‘taboo’.
Hours later, Reilly woke slowly, her neck and back sore. Something was beeping at her. She was still on the couch and she felt groggy. She looked down – it was her laptop beeping to tell her the battery was about to run out. She snapped it closed, then sat up and ran her fingers through her hair.
In the gray morning light everything looked so normal, so unthreatening, that it was hard to believe she was trying to get inside the mind of someone so sick they used society’s most forbidden as a means of terrorizing people. As if threatening and then eventually taking their lives wasn’t enough, he had to put them through psychological torture too.
Reilly looked at her watch – shit, it was 7.15! She needed to be in the office early today to prepare for that afternoon’s interdepartmental meeting and knew she’d need to be on her game for the inevitable questions from O’Brien later.
She climbed groggily to her feet and headed to the bathroom, shedding her robe on the way. Turning the shower temperature down, she stepped inside, letting the tepid water wake her up.
Afterward, she dressed quickly and brushed her hair back in a simple ponytail. Breakfast would have to wait; she could always get something from the staff canteen. She grabbed her handbag, mobile phone and keys from the small table by the door, then stopped in frustration. Where was her GFU staff ID? She always left it on the table when she came in. She tried to picture coming in last night. Had she done anything different? Or did she even have it with her last night? It was hard to know, one day tended to blend in with all the rest. Figuring she must have left it pinned to her lab coat yesterday, she headed out the door.
‘Where did you pop up from?’ Simpson was on duty again that morning and he gave Reilly an amused glance as she hurried in to the lobby of the GFU building.
She paused, surprised. ‘I’m just running a bit late this morning.’ She headed for the lifts but his voice stopped her in her tracks.
‘What do you mean you’re running late?’ Simpson said, somewhat bemused. ‘You beat me in this morning.’
Reilly spun around. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
Simpson gave her an odd look then held the large blue logbook out for her to look at. ‘See, I have you signed in right here.’
Reilly hurried over back to him and stared at the logbook. She was indeed registered as having arrived at seven. She gave him a sharp look. ‘Well, I don’t know who you have signed in but it certainly isn’t me.’
Simpson removed his peaked cap and scratched his thinning hair. ‘Maybe you just popped out for a coffee or something then?’ His voice was uncertain and more than a little confused.
Reilly shook her head. ‘No. I’ve only just got here.’
‘Then who came in earlier?’
Her stomach twisted as suddenly she remembered the misplaced ID. ‘Do you remember anything about the person who checked in?’ she asked him hurriedly, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. ‘The one you thought was me.’
‘Like I said, I wasn’t actually here at the time – I just came on shift half an hour ago so it would have been the night guy Murray that registered you.’ He looked worried, like this was the kind of thing that was going to get him into a whole lot of trouble. ‘Ah, I’m sure it’s just a mistake. I wouldn’t worry about it.’
But Reilly didn’t need to hear any more – she was already racing toward the lifts.
‘There’s an intruder and it could be a murder suspect,’ she called back at him. ‘Call it in.’ She stabbed the button on the elevator repeatedly, waiting impatiently for it to come. After what seemed an eternity the bell announced its arrival and Reilly stepped inside. ‘And if you see anything suspicious,’ she threw back at Simpson, ‘do not attempt to stop this person by yourself.’
Inside the lift, she cursed the fact that she wasn’t in the States – she had no gun. Even though it was unlikely the intruder was still inside, there was an undeniable reassurance
that came just from having a firearm . Not only that, but it was what most of her training had focused on. Instead, she would have to do what Daniel always encouraged his recruits to do – use her instincts.
Stepping out of the lift, she quickly looked right and left – there was no movement, just the cold flicker of the fluorescent lights. The corridor was deathly silent at this time of day – the other staff didn’t usually arrive until between eight-thirty and nine. Which to check first, her office or the lab?
Reilly took a deep breath and opted for the office – it was a more personal space, and therefore a more likely target for the killer – if that was indeed who it was. She slipped her shoes off and headed quietly down the corridor.
She was working hard to control her breathing and stay calm. She’d been trained to deal with circumstances like this. She looked down at the black, low-cut shoes that she clutched in her left hand. Her instructors at Quantico wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry if they saw her right now, looking to potentially apprehend a dangerous suspect, armed only with a pair of Italian leather mules.
She slowed her pace as she approached her office, and paused outside it, listening for any sound, anything that might indicate an intruder was in her office. The building groaned quietly, the central heating gurgling and grumbling, but there was no noise from her office, nothing that suggested anyone was there. One shoe raised as a weapon, Reilly turned the corner into her office.
As soon as she looked at her desk, she knew that someone had been there. Last night, when she’d been checking the bookshelf at her apartment, she’d known something was missing but she couldn’t pin down what it was. Now she knew.
Sitting upright in the middle of her desk was a photo album – her photo album. Oh Christ, had the killer somehow got inside her apartment? How … and more importantly why? Recalling last night’s edginess and the gut feeling she’d so easily discounted, her heart began to thunder inside her chest. What was going on here?
The album was turned away from her, the cover facing forward so that Reilly had to walk into the office and around to the other side of her desk to see which page it was opened at.
