by Chris Taylor
“I’m not suggesting it is. But you’ve got to admit, I’m probably right. All the evidence we’ve found so far could be purchased from a Bunning’s. Or a Home Depot. Or any other hardware store, if it came to that. I bet there’s at least a dozen of them out here.”
So what do you propose we do? As far as I know, those shops don’t have individual customer databases and we don’t have a clue who we’re looking for.”
“It could narrow down his location, though. Most people shop at their local stores. It would be unusual for him to travel to a distant suburb to buy his hardware. Whether he bought it especially for his little games or had them in his back shed, they had to have been purchased from somewhere.”
She groaned aloud, searching for elusive connections. Frustration gnawed at her. “I wonder if that’s significant, or are we just clutching at straws?”
Clayton looked down at her, understanding reflected in his eyes. “I know what you’re saying, but I think we need to consider everything, no matter how desperate it makes us feel. The fact that the paint hit the shelves not long before Angelina disappeared seems to be a coincidence.”
His expression changed to one of grim determination. “But I don’t believe in coincidences. Not when they’re teamed up with dead bodies.”
Ellie sighed and glanced at her watch. “We’d better get moving if we’re going to meet the professor’s plane. I called the airline a little while ago. They’re expecting it to land on time.”
“Let’s get to it then. Now that we have found foreign DNA on one of our victims, I won’t need much of an excuse to demand a sample from Mr Boston.”
* * *
Clayton scanned the throng of passengers pouring out through the arrivals gate at Sydney’s Mascot Airport and looked for Stewart Boston. A picture of the professor had been supplied to them by the university. He could have picked him up at the airport, but he was hoping Boston might lead them to the place where he’d taken the girls. According to the forensic reports, Josie Ward hadn’t been killed where she’d been found. He had to have some hidey-hole where he carried out his savagery—if he had carried out the savagery. That was yet to be decided.
Clayton glanced over at Ellie where she stood a few feet away. She wore a fitted skirt that ended just above her knees and conformed to the roundness of her butt. Slim, shapely legs were encased in black nylon stockings ending in ankle-length leather boots with chunky two-inch heels. She casually strode back and forth amongst the people who waited for the arrivals. His eyes tracked the gentle movement of her butt. When he realized what he was doing, he dragged his gaze away.
“Get a grip, Munro,” he muttered under his breath, forgetting for a moment that his words had been captured by the microphone pinned discreetly to the lapel of his jacket.
Ellie half-turned and frowned at him, but otherwise remained silent. Clayton refocused his attention on the arriving passengers.
“There he is.” Ellie’s words sounded through Clayton’s earpiece. He looked toward the arrivals gate and spied the man who’d just appeared in the entryway.
She was right. It was Stewart Boston. He wore a loose flowered shirt and a pair of dark board shorts. On his feet were some leather flip-flops. Wispy blond hair hung around his face. He didn’t look like a man who’d left murder and mayhem behind him, but Clayton had learned long ago how deceiving looks could be.
The man turned to a young woman who walked a few feet behind him. She had a knapsack slung over one shoulder and leaned toward him as he spoke. They were too far away to hear what was said. A short time later, the woman headed toward the exit and Boston turned toward the luggage carousels.
Clayton wondered whether the woman was significant or if she was merely another passenger. Their plan only allowed for the following of one of them. Without evidence to the contrary, he had no reason to suspect the woman had anything to do with Stewart Boston or the investigation.
He glanced over at Ellie. “He’s heading toward the baggage claim.”
She shot him a quick look. “You tail him. I’ll go and get the car. Let me know which direction he takes out of the airport.”
Clayton grimaced. Their plan was to follow Boston, regardless of his mode of departure. If he took a train or the bus, Clayton would board with him. If he left in his own transport, or had a friend collect him, Ellie would follow in the car. Either way, they hoped to keep him within sight until he arrived at his destination.
“I’ll call you as soon as I know where he’s going.”
Ellie nodded and walked away. Clayton followed their target, making sure to keep a discreet distance behind him. It was easy enough to do. At that time of the morning, the airport swarmed with travelers.
He watched while Boston collected two suitcases off the carousel and then turned toward the exit. Staying back, Clayton spoke into his microphone.
“He’s heading for the exit, so the train’s out. It’s either the bus, a taxi or a private vehicle.”
“Gotcha. I’m parked in the drop-off zone outside of the Qantas Terminal. Let me know as soon as you know.”
“Copy that.” Clayton followed Boston out of the exit and into the crisp winter morning. The sun shone wanly through the scattering of clouds. A light breeze blew in from Botany Bay and ruffled his hair. People drew their coats around them, but Clayton barely felt its effects.
Boston joined the queue of travelers who waited for a taxi. Clayton hung back and spoke once again to Ellie.
“It looks like he’s catching a cab. Move the car up a bit closer so I can climb in as soon as we know for sure. There’s so much traffic, it will be easy to lose him.”
“Will do,” came the quick reply.
The line for the taxis crawled forward. Boston looked vaguely restless, but that could have been simply because of his wait for a cab. Clayton remembered when he’d flown in a month ago. He’d been lucky then to obtain a cab so quickly.
The security guard pointed to Boston. “You’re up next. Bay number five.”
The professor hauled his suitcases toward the vacant cab. Clayton waited until the driver popped the trunk and Boston tossed his cases in the back before striding away in the direction where Ellie had parked.
“Okay, it looks like he’s taking a cab. It’s a black and white Holden Commodore Sydney Taxi Cab, registration TC 1829. I just saw him load his suitcases into the trunk.”
“Where are you?”
“Right here.” Clayton opened the passenger side door and climbed in. Ellie looked at him, her face tense.
“He’s just pulled out. Up there.”
Ellie accelerated and joined the line of traffic heading out of the airport. Boston’s taxi was two cars in front of them. Clayton drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. The first part of the plan had been a success.
“Do we have Boston’s residential address?” Ellie asked.
“Yep. He lives about a block away from the Penrith campus.”
“So he’s certainly within our killer’s perimeter.”
“Yep.”
Ellie glanced at him, her eyes alight with excitement. “This could be it, then.”
Clayton couldn’t help the surge of anticipation, but tried to remain cautious. “Could be.”
“Let’s hope he puts up a fight. I’m spoiling for an excuse to play dirty.”
Clayton grinned and looked up and down the pint-sized length of her. She looked tough enough to fight a bantam. “Lucky you have me along, then. There’s nothing I enjoy more than playing dirty.”
Her cheeks turned scarlet, and she grinned back at him. His heart did a somersault. His body hardened with need. Christ, he could barely think when she smiled at him like that. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. With a gargantuan effort, he focused his attention back on the road.
“Boston doesn’t look like the type a young girl would be taken in by,” Ellie commented. “I mean, he’s got to be in his fifties and that balding hair and beer belly’s not the most attrac
tive attribute. He looks sleazy, more than anything.”
“Maybe it’s all in his manner. Maybe he has the knack of charming girls into his room or wherever it is he takes them? Don’t forget Ted Bundy could charm the pants off anyone. Even law enforcement officers were taken in by him.”
Ellie shot him a wry look. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll fall into that category.”
A shaft of pleasure surged through him at her compliment. He grinned.
“Are you actually acknowledging my skills, Detective Cooper? Because that’s what it sounded like. You know how they pay me the big bucks… I just want to make sure you get your money’s worth.”
“Humph,” Ellie snorted, her eyes alight with mischief. “Don’t worry about me getting my money’s worth. It’s our erstwhile and completely unsuspecting taxpayers I’m concerned about.”
“Well, worry no more. I’ve been looking forward to chatting to Professor Boston for weeks. Leave him to me.”
“Not on your life, sweet cheeks.”
Clayton grinned. A warm glow started low in his belly and gradually spread upwards. Suddenly, the day seemed even brighter.
* * *
Professor Stewart Boston climbed out of the cab and retrieved his suitcases from the trunk. Ellie and Clayton watched from their hiding spot nearby. They’d followed the cab until it came to a halt outside the university’s Penrith campus and now held their breath as they waited for Boston’s next move.
His residence was nearly a block away. It was unlikely he was headed there on foot, lugging two suitcases. The more likely option was that he was going to the office he had on campus.
It was nearly lunch time and the place was crowded with students as they moved between lessons. The professor started up the flight of steps that presumably led to his office.
Ellie shot a look at Clayton. He stared back at her and then nodded. With excitement surging through her, she opened the car door and took off after Boston, Clayton close on her heels.
They caught him at the top of the stairs, just as he was inserting his key into the door to his office.
“Professor Boston? I’m Detective Cooper. This is Federal Agent Munro. We’d like to have a talk to you.”
The professor paled beneath his tan. “F-federal Agent? I-I haven’t done anything wrong. W-why would you want to talk to me?”
Ellie narrowed her eyes at him. “You tell us.”
Boston’s gaze darted from Ellie to Clayton and back again. “C-can we at least do this in my office?”
“Of course,” Ellie replied. “After you.”
Stepping back, she gave the man time to turn the key and edge into his office. Dumping his suitcases by the door, he headed straight for the solitary desk that filled most of the room and seated himself behind it. Perspiration gathered on his lip and he swiped at it with a hand that was less than steady.
Ellie stared at him and his fingers twitched around a pile of papers on his desk. She took one of the chairs that stood opposite and made a show of pulling out her notebook. Clayton remained standing.
“So, Professor Boston, we’d like to talk to you about a couple of your students.” Ellie’s gaze bored into his, but the Professor’s opaque eyes darted away and a shaky hand reached up and brushed a hank of long, pale hair off his face, exposing small patches of scaly, pink scalp.
She couldn’t tell if his hair was gray or dirty blond, or a mixture of both, but the grooves and crevices lining his forehead seemed to indicate he was a man long since removed from his prime. Her earlier assessment of his age as a man in his mid-fifties seemed to be accurate.
“W-what is it you’d like to know, Detective? I’ve been away for a while and I’m still catching up on the paperwork.” His thin shoulders hunched forward and he waved a limp hand in the direction of his desk.
Clayton braced his hands on the laminate and leaned forward, his face inches from the professor’s. “Josie Ward.”
The man shivered under the menace of Clayton’s stare. Sweat popped out on his brow and his eyelids took on a life of their own as he blinked in rapid succession.
“She was one of your students,” Ellie added.
The professor found his voice. “Yes, yes. I know who you mean. Josie. Lovely girl. Very sweet. And so talented. That’s one of her paintings over there. She gave it to me for my birthday.”
Ellie and Clayton turned to look at the wall he’d indicated. A large canvas displaying an abstract array of bright colors dominated the space. Ellie wasn’t an artist and didn’t have a creative bone in her body, but even she felt the uplifting of her spirits as she gazed upon the artwork.
Clayton’s expression remained grim. “You must be pretty close to her if she’s giving you birthday presents.”
“Yes, Detective. We are. Josie is special. Very special.”
Anger darkened Clayton’s eyes and his mouth tightened. “And now she’s lying in a freezer in the morgue.”
A howl of pain escaped the professor’s slack lips and he lowered his chin until it almost rested on his chest. His head moved from side to side. The howling continued.
Ellie’s heart pounded. Was this it? Was he about to confess? Was he their killer? He was creepy enough. She’d been on edge from the moment he’d opened his door. Something about the way his gaze had slid over her from top to bottom, surreptitiously leering at her cleavage had made her skin crawl.
He made her skin crawl.
She glanced at Clayton, who’d gone still. Watching. Waiting. Harsh emotions chased themselves across the chiseled planes of his face.
Professor Boston lifted his head and stared at her. “Sh-she’s dead? H-how?”
“You tell us,” Clayton growled.
Confusion flooded his face. “Y-you can’t think I had anything to do with it? I could never hurt Josie. I swear. It wasn’t me.”
“What about Sally Batten?” Clayton demanded, looking unconvinced.
Bewilderment clouded the pale eyes. “Sally?”
“Yes, Sally Batten,” Ellie replied, her eyes narrowed. “She’s another student of yours. Studying the Impressionists. She takes classes with you on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
A little smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Ah, yes. Sally. Poor, Sally. So much determination, so little talent.” He lifted his gaze to Ellie’s and shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do to change that.”
Anger surged through her at his nonchalance. She caught Clayton’s fierce frown seconds before he exploded.
“She’s been missing for nearly eight weeks. Surely you must have noticed?”
The professor frowned and tilted his head to the side. “Eight weeks? Has it been that long? Yes, I guess you’re right. It probably has. I’ve been away, you see. I’ve lost track of time.”
“Conveniently away, as far as I’m concerned,” Clayton replied, his tone cold steel.
The professor’s voice trembled when he spoke, but he didn’t look away. “You can’t honestly think I have anything to do with it? Those girls must have classes with a number of teachers.”
Clayton leaned forward again, his eyes narrowed on the professor’s face. “Unlucky for you, Professor. You were the only teacher Josie Ward had. At the very least, I’m thinking you’re our prime suspect for her murder.”
What little color Stewart Boston had in his cheeks drained out of his face and his mouth dropped open in shock.
“M-murder? But that’s obscene. I-I couldn’t murder anyone.”
“If I listened to protestations of innocence every time I made an arrest, the jails would be empty,” Clayton stated, pushing away from the desk.
Ellie sat forward in her chair. “Where do you live, Professor?”
He blinked rapidly. She could almost see him trying to re-align his thought processes. “Live?”
“Yes, like when you go home at night. Where do you live?”
“W-why is that important? I-I have a very ill wife. She’s dying. I-I wouldn’t want you disturbing her.”
“Just give her your address, asshole.” Clayton was back looming over the desk, all menacing blond intimidation.
Professor Boston tugged at his hair and licked his lips. His gaze bounced off the surfaces around the room.
“Um, er…”
Clayton gave him a hard stare and perspiration returned to the man’s forehead, the fine sheen of it reflecting pale light from the only window.
“I-I live in Penrith. South Creek Road.”
“That’s not far from the Nepean River, is it?” Ellie asked, her eyes narrowed.
“No, not far. I-I like to go fishing there. It’s a lovely spot.”
She caught Clayton’s gaze and could tell from the look on his face that he’d also made the connection. Anticipation knotted in her gut.
“How well do you know Angelina Caruso? She’s a physiotherapist student here,” Ellie added.
A frown deepened the lines across the professor’s forehead. “Angelina Caruso? I’m not sure that I know that name.”
“When did you last see Sally?” Clayton demanded.
The professor shook his head. “I-I’m not sure about that, either. I’ve been away. I can’t remember. I’d have to check my class roll. I-I can get back to you about that if you like.”
“You do that,” Ellie replied. “I want to hear from you before the day’s over.”
“In the meantime,” Clayton said, sauntering toward the back of the office, “you can start explaining this sculpture collection.”
The professor looked puzzled. Ellie walked over to the wood and glass cabinet that hung on the back wall of the office. Clayton pulled open one of its doors and Ellie’s chest constricted.
Inside were more than a dozen wooden sculptures carved from a pale-colored wood. Adrenaline surged through her and her heart rate spiked. Her gaze locked with Clayton’s.
As a single unit, they turned to face the professor.
“Tell us about the sculptures, Professor,” Ellie demanded, striding back to the desk.
Boston continued to look confused. “Th-the sculptures? Th-they’re mine.”
“Where did you get them from?” Clayton asked, also crowding the desk.
