by Vella Day
“About that.”
Robby faced the two men and three women who filled all but one sofa. “This here is my cousin, Trevor Kinsey, and his little wife, Lara. They’re from Orlando.”
She balled her fists at the mention of the word, little, but she pushed aside the slight. This was only an act. The man who claimed to be Randall Johnson had a deep brow ridge that matched the X-ray. Dammit. How could she have been so wrong? If this was Randall, who was her skeleton? She stole a glance at Trevor who schooled his reaction at seeing the missing man.
He took her hand and led her over to the only available seat, which was a short loveseat where their hips would touch and her memories would betray her.
“Nice place, Robby.” Trevor faced the other guests. “You all live around here?”
What kind of dumb question was that? Hadn’t he told her they were to appear casual and not give a hint he was a cop?
All five nodded and murmured something. She looked at Trevor to catch his reaction. Nothing but a smile painted his face.
“I want to ask you all a question,” he said.
“For that smile, I’ll answer any of your questions, sweetie.” This came from a large woman with a big head of platinum hair in the shape of a cone.
Didn’t she care Trevor came with a wife? Even if she were a fake one?
“I came up here to visit Robby, but I also had another mission. I got a friend down in Tampa who’s real upset.”
Lara uncrossed her legs trying to look relaxed. “Our friend had a neighbor who disappeared a few months ago, and he thinks the guy might be headed this way.”
Lara shot her gaze to Randall whose face was as blank as a sheet of unused paper.
An older woman sitting next to Miss Bouffant of 1956 scrunched her face. “He was coming to Lake City?”
Trevor placed a hand on the small of Lara’s back no doubt to keep her from interrupting. “Seems so. Apparently, the guy was a private pilot who often flew into Cannon Creek Airpark to visit some friends. He was scheduled for a flight up here but never showed and never came home.”
She surveyed the motley group. All eyes remained riveted on Trevor.
“Anyone know anything about him?” Trevor wiggled his fingers at her for the photo.
She dug the 8x10 out of her backpack and handed it to him. He passed the photo to his left.
Lara watched Randall’s face. Surely, he’d confess once he saw the picture. But confess what? He was the real deal and her skeleton was still a John Doe. He couldn’t know she had his X-rays and a dead body.
The older woman frowned. “Why Chester, this guy looks just like you.”
Chester?
Chester/ Randall swiped the picture from her and studied it. “No, it don’t. You need glasses, Flo.”
The largest of the three women leaned over Chester and snatched the photo. “He’s your double, sure as shit.”
Chester, or was it Randall, stood. “I best be going.”
Trevor rose too. “Are you Randall Johnson?” The Randall look alike clenched his jaw and stared at Trevor. They were like two men facing off at the OK Corral.
From the shifting eyes, the new sweat on Randall’s forehead and his clenched fists, implied that would be a yes.
Randall’s shoulders slumped as he dropped down on the seat. “Guilty as charged.”
Trevor sat too. “You want to tell me about where you’ve been for the last few months?”
Fat Flo punched Randall in the arm. “You’ve been lyin’ to us? To me?”
He chomped on his bottom lip. “Kind of.”
At least Trevor didn’t shoot a look at Lara. She wasn’t sure she could take the I-told-you-so face. How had she been so wrong? The width of the eyes matched, the shape of his chin and the size of his head seemed to be the same as the skeleton’s. Except, her skeleton was dead and this guy was very much alive. Robby said this man was Randall, yet he went by the name of Chester. What was going on?
Randall ran a hand over his hair. “My wife died ‘bout six months ago. Cancer took her sudden like. With her gone, I lost it and started to gamble a lot. Then I was fired from my job. I got a stipend each month from the Reservation, but I managed to piss it away too.”
Lara’s heart saddened.
“What about the night Joe Merrick disappeared?” Trevor leaned back in his seat, taking a non-aggressive pose. Lara took his cue and spread her fingers on her thighs instead of clenching her hands.
Randall’s eyes narrowed and his jaw jutted out. “Robby told you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Randall didn’t even glance in his friend’s direction. “I was at the Grand like I always was back then. It was a bad night.” He polished off his beer. “Joe and me stopped at the liquor store and bought a fifth of Jack. Actually, it was our second. We was sitting on the roof of his truck drinking and trying to figure out how I was going to pay back the debts I owed. Knowing I didn’t have the money, I wanted out.”
Robby dropped another beer in front of Randall.
“What happened to Joe?” Trevor asked.
Randall, or rather Chester, inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “I went to take a whiz behind the dumpster when I heard a loud noise. I stuck my head out and saw some guy stab Joe and stuff him in the back of his car.”
Lara couldn’t help but intervene. “You didn’t try to stop him?”
He cut a look at her. “A day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t asked myself the same question. I was drunk. If I had stumbled out, the guy would have come after me too. Only after I seen the prick drive off, did I step out from behind the dumpster.”
Trevor placed his hand on hers. “Did you get a look at the killer?”
“It was too dark.”
A tic manifested around his eye. “You sure a man killed Joe?”
“I was drunk, but not that drunk. It was a man for sure.”
“Tall, short, fat, Black, White, Seminole, what?”
Randall half stood, then dropped back to his seat. “Guy was White I think.” He leaned forward dangling the beer in his fingers. “Maybe five ten, a buck eighty.”
“Age?”
Randall shook his head. “I couldn’t tell.” He held up a finger. “The guy drove an older model blue Volvo. That’s all I remember.”
Lara’s logical mind clicked. “If you could tell the brand of car, why couldn’t you describe the man’s face?”
She waited for Trevor’s hand to stop her, but he didn’t move.
“Can’t see a face through his back. The guy didn’t turn around for more than a second.”
“Sorry. It must have been hard for you to see someone you cared about die,” she said.
“Damn right.”
The muscles relaxed in Trevor’s face. “You didn’t happen to catch the license plate number, did you?”
“No. My eyes weren’t focusing right.”
Robby placed two beers in front of her and Trevor.
Trevor took a long drink. “Thank you for coming clean.”
“You’re not Robby’s cousin, are you?”
“No.” Trevor nearly polished off the beer.
As Randall sank back further into the sofa, the image of blue car driving down her road flashed in her mind. Could it have been the same person? She took a sip of beer, partly to quench her dry mouth and partly to numb her brain.
“You a cop?” Randall’s gaze bounced around the room. Was he trying to decide if he could escape without Trevor stopping him?
“Yes.”
Randall stood and shoved his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “You going to arrest me?”
“No. I know where to find you.”
Trevor edged forward on the sofa, looking like he wanted to leave.
Lara held up a palm. “Why didn’t you call the police right away?” She hadn’t planned to say anything else, but her inquisitive mind wouldn’t stop.
“Too scared, I guess. Joe and I had a little fight at the casino. I didn’t want the polic
e to think I’d killed him.”
That wasn’t a good excuse in her opinion. “What about your family? Did you tell anyone you were alive? Didn’t you realize you might have ruined their lives?”
Trevor claimed Randall didn’t have any family, but maybe there was still a living aunt or cousin.
He jerked as though she’d hit him. Her tone must have been too harsh. “All I got is a stepsister, and she don’t care much about me. Besides, I needed the guys I owed money to believe I was dead.”
Trevor leaned forward. “You do realize keeping Joe’s murder to yourself is against the law?”
Randall slammed the bottle on the table. “Four of my friends went missing. I’m guessing they’re dead too. I see my best friend die. It ain’t no crime to want to stay alive.”
The man did have a point. She took a deeper slug of her beer. The cool, refreshing drink slid down her throat, perhaps a little too easily.
“Who were the four friends who disappeared?” Trevor asked.
“John BlueEyes, Smitty Johnson, Danny Shaw, and Johnnie Bayard.”
Trevor’s men. She squeezed his hand.
“When did you see them last?” He crossed a booted foot over his knee.
Randall told Trevor what he knew, but it wasn’t much. Trevor handed Randall his card. “Contact me if you remember anything else.”
He thanked the host and left, leaving Randall, if he was Randall, to live in his own guilty hell.
She remained quiet on the way back to the hotel, pleased Trevor had the compassion to let the man go. At a stoplight, she slapped the dashboard.
He looked over at her. “You forget something?”
“I should have asked if Randall had a twin. The man’s physical resemblance to John Doe #1 is too close.”
He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “You heard him. The man only had a stepsister. No twin.”
Lara tucked a leg underneath her on the seat. She gathered her braid and twisted it in a bun. “There’s something he’s hiding. I could see it in his eyes.”
“That may be, but we may never find out what it is.”
19
The need to kill again bubbled inside him. Fuck. He’d have to wait until after the trip to Germany to get his fix though. He dusted off a stray hair from his jacket as he leaned against his father’s bedroom door. “You ready to go to the airport?”
Their plane to Germany left in three hours. They would spend the night in New York and take off early the next day. While he couldn’t really afford to lose the time to work on the tableau, his day job wouldn’t suffer much. That’s what backup workers were for. He’d be home in a week and would spend the remaining time finishing the tableau, assuming he could get Lara Romano alone.
Leaving Maggie, though, took more preparation on his part. He had provided her with enough food and insulin to last two weeks—just incase the plane was delayed. She’d be fine. The timing of the trip came at a bad time but being able to connect with the family that had shunned him meant the world to him.
His father looked around the room, his lips pinched together.
“I left my luggage in the car, in case you’re wondering.” No need to bring in his gear only to repack it in the trunk.
His dad snapped closed his suitcase and straightened. “Your luggage?”
“Yes, my luggage. You think I’m going to meet my relatives for the first time and wear the same thing for four days?”
His father squinted. “Whatever gave you the idea you were invited?”
His harsh tone landed harder than a well-aimed punch. As adrenaline spiked his heart, he gnashed his teeth together and breaths puffed out his nose. “You said it was a family reunion of sorts. I got my passport and bought my ticket.” He squeezed his fists tight.
“Your grandmother is ill. She only asked for me. You know how she felt about my marriage to your mother.” His dad shook his head. He closed his suitcase, and then patted his jacket pockets, most likely for his glasses he had on top of his head. “Why didn’t you ask me before you spent the money on the ticket?”
A sharp ache drove up his arm, and his vision momentarily blurred. “I’m still a half breed to her, is that it?”
His dad shrugged. “Found ‘em.” He dragged the glasses from atop his head to his face.
“You bastard. They kicked you out of the family too. Why invite you back now?” A fleck of spit flew out of his mouth and landed on his father’s face.
His dad wiped his cheek. “As I said, my mother is dying, and she wants to see me.”
“Like you care about her.” He dragged a hand across his mouth. “The old bat never once tried to contact any of us until she was almost gone. Tell me what did she ever do for you? For us?”
His dad slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t ever talk about your grandmother like that.”
Every muscle tensed. “Have a good trip. You can find your own goddamned way to the airport.” He spun on his heels and stormed out of the room. It would piss his dad off when he had to spend money to take a cab. Well too fucking bad.
The injustice of it all bit into his soul. He could only hope the plane crashed.
Bitch grandmother.
He slammed the front door. The need to hunt, and the need to kill reared up again. The rejection beat down on him like demons at his door.
Lara. Taking her would slake his anger.
Inhaling, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and rolled his shoulders to relax. If Lara hadn’t returned yet from her jaunt, he’d come back later for her. After all, he’d scheduled in the four-day trip. He had time to spare, time to wait.
Not caring that he nearly rammed into the back of a subcompact, he made it to her house in record time. This was his second visit today. She had to come home sometime. He’d checked both detectives’ houses and hadn’t spotted her at either place. He’d called the lab too, but she hadn’t been there either. Her car hadn’t moved in front of her house. Shit. This bitch was pissing him off with her disappearing act.
Maybe she was trying to fool him by leaving the lights off. He marched up the porch steps and knocked. If her cop boyfriend answered, he’d say he stopped by to see how she was holding up after the funeral. It was an easy cover.
His family would be sorry they’d shunned him. When he was famous, he sure as hell wouldn’t acknowledge them.
He rang the bell, long and hard. No answer. His fingers clenched. Where the fuck was she? His sweet princess and he had a date—with a needle, and then with a knife. And he had a commitment to the Natural History museum in two weeks.
Fine. Real stars didn’t rely on one showing. Not at all. He’d already planned his next scene. It was what successful people did. The tableau with Pocahontas and John Smith would honor the Native American nation. His next scene would show them for what they really were—butchers and turncoats, like the Seminoles who’d refused to accept him as one of their own. If his mother had been alive, she would have made them see how wrong they were to shun him. She’d said Native Americans accepted everyone. We are all brothers and sisters. Bullshit. He’d make them pay for their snub, for their mockery.
He’d picked out the next victim a week ago. Her name was Charlene Eason. He strode back to his car and took off, needing the release killing always brought.
Her neighborhood, off I-4, was a hodgepodge of houses. Some had been fixed up in the last few years, while others lay in disrepair. Didn’t the Seminoles care what their neighborhood looked like? Pleasure surged. At least he wasn’t one of those lowlifes who had to rely on a monthly stipend to survive.
By the time he arrived, night had fallen, which was perfect for what he planned to do. He cut the engine and rolled to a stop under a large elm far from any house lights. He needed a tall woman with high cheekbones, slim hips and long, flowing hair. Around here, the Seminole women were short and stocky. He’d spotted Charlene at the Snake festival and immediately made plans for her to join the others in his tableau.
Eve
ry night for the last five days he’d followed her home, but she’d never seen him. He was that good, in part because makeup was his specialty. The first night, he’d been a harmless old man, the second night, a well-dressed salesman, and the third night, his personal favorite, a police officer. Last night he’d nabbed a dog and walked the pup around the streets, passing Charlene and her friend, Julie, twice. They were so wrapped up in themselves, they never looked at him. But he’d soon change that.
“Stupid women. So predictable.” How had they not been attacked before? It was his job to save them from suffering at the hand of some sadist by killing them first.
He checked the clock on the dash. Ten more minutes and the duo would be making their way down this road on their nightly walk. Lesbians, he bet, but he needed the tall woman to balance out his scene. According to the one nosy neighbor he’d spoken to, neither had men in their lives, nor did they socialize with anyone. God, did he know how to pick them or what?
He pulled the tube of red goo from the glove compartment and smeared the paint across his eyelid, down his cheek and along his knuckles. Too much and the women might think the coloring wasn’t real. The scant moonlight would help create the illusion of near death.
Charlene was a nurse and Julie worked at a women’s shelter. Sympathetic Lesbos. His plan was pure genius.
Laughter filtered down the road. Here they come! Charlene’s horsey sound grated on his nerves as he slumped in the seat. He slipped a leg out of the open car door and willed his erection to stay down.
He turned his head toward them. “Help...me.”
Charlene and Julie slowed. “You hear something?” It was Julie.
He snuck a glance at the women and moaned extra loud. Charlene took hold of Julie’s arm. “The sound came from that car.”
That’s right, girls. Come here. He slipped the tranquilizer dart into his right pants pocket, ready for use.
Footsteps came toward him. “Ohmigod.” Charlene leaned into the car. “Are you all right, mister?”
His groan came out slow and low, followed by weak cough. “I...can’t see.” His voice cracked at the right spot.
