Alex spread the pages on the coverlet. The pictures weren't clear.
“Here's Dracula with a young woman at a party in New York. It's dated about a year after the original Kiki died.”
Emilie and I stared at the grainy photo. My granddaughter shivered. Hunter with a pretty little blonde by his side. The caption identified him as “Dr.” Randall Hunter, but he had yet to finish medical school. The girl wasn't identified, but she wasn't Lydia-Marie, either.
“We need to find her.”
“Good luck,” Emilie said.
I raised an eyebrow, but she concentrated on the papers and didn't look up.
“Hey, I got this far, didn't I?” Alex sulked.
“You did, indeed.” Without Alex's digging, we wouldn't have so much on Hunter's background. “Go on.”
The next was a news article with a lovely studio portrait announcing the engagement of one “Randall Andrew Hunter, M.D. to Lydia-Marie Mendoza of Vera Cruz.”
Vera Cruz? According to Mrs. Goodman, Lydia-Marie was from Pittsburgh.
What was amazing was how little Lydia-Marie looked like Kiki—darker hair, rounder eyes, and a very different mouth. Why would she undergo plastic surgery when she was a natural beauty?
“Okay. Here's the wedding picture. Lydia-Marie is Kiki, complete with blond hair. Just like Mrs. Goodman said.” Emilie and I already knew about the transformation, but seeing it made Hunter's obsession impossible to ignore.
“Just like Mom. Even to the blond hair.” Emilie and I shivered. Geese walked across my grave.
Alex next handed over a printout from a small-town police station in central Pennsylvania with the barest of details about the death of a young woman, a twenty-two caliber bullet wound behind the right ear. A hiker discovered Jane Doe's skeleton buried in the woods in a shallow grave. The only distinguishing characteristic was evidence of possible plastic surgery on her cheekbones. Or, it could have been marks from an animal.
“That Jane Doe stuff worked.” Alex puffed himself up.
“Lydia-Marie,” Emilie paled but was determined to see the rest. “We've gotta contact those cops and let them know what we suspect.”
“I already did.” Alex was smug. “I haven't heard back yet. It's been a week.”
“If we don't hear by Tuesday, we'll give the police a call, okay?”
“This one's different. Here, Dracula's standing next to a Penn State student at a local hospital charity event. In the caption she's identified as a youth organizer, no name. Could be she's in the picture by accident, though.”
“Why?”
“This girl's black. She'd look dumb as a blonde if she was Dracula's next target.”
“Where is she?” Emilie couldn't wait for Alex Time.
“Disappeared from school. Her parents listed her as missing. After a couple of stories in a local paper, nothing. Guess the papers don't follow stories about missing black women as much as they do for missing white women.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
How had my grandson become so cynical at the ripe young age of eleven? Kids grew up faster in this media-enriched culture than I had.
Alex shrugged. For him, it was probably a truism.
“I found over a dozen stories about Lydia-Marie, the wife of a doctor, and two on the missing black student. It might be accidental, but if she's missing, we should ask. Dontcha think?”
“I think.”
“That's all.”
“That's a lot. You've done a lot.”
Alex's Internet mining continued paying off.
“I found two more police reports of Jane Does killed with a twenty-two and dumped in the woods. One was shot in the head, but the other was shot in the back of the neck. See?”
The woman shot in the head was white, about twenty-four years old, and had been dead for several weeks before a mountain biker found her body. Animals had been at the corpse. What was left were parts of the torso and the head. Possible surgical scars on the face, but again the marks were inconclusive. This time, I shivered. It wasn't Lydia-Marie. It might be the unnamed white girl.
The woman shot in the back of the neck was found in the woods in a shallow grave. This time, though, there were scraps of clothing and a glove nearby. No report of plastic surgery. The woman was either black or Latina. The Penn State student. I just knew it.
“Do they put autopsy reports online?” Emilie asked.
“I haven't found them. I'd have to hack into their systems to get that stuff.”
“No hacking into police records.” Could I make my point any clearer? I could overlook Alex hacking into Hunter's computer but nothing else.
“’K,” Alex mumbled.
I raised an eyebrow and glared at him.
“How do we get these police departments to pay attention?” Alex asked. “I called one, but they knew I was a kid and blew me off.”
“Figures,” Emilie retorted. “What do we know?”
“Now, now. Just because you're kids doesn't mean you aren't seeing what the professionals missed. After all, they're small-town departments with limited resources.”
“Isn't that the point, Mad Max?” Emilie asked. “All the bodies of the women Alex found, these Jane Does, were hidden in woods where local cops would be handling the investigations.”
“That's true.”
“Then why kill Mom in the city?” Alex asked.
“Because he made a mistake,” Emilie said. “Maybe he's gotten away with so many murders, he got cocky.”
“That could be.” I looked at the timeline. “Let's assume Hunter killed Lydia-Marie, the white girl and the black student. Between Kiki and Lydia-Marie there's almost five years. The white girl came between them. Before Lydia-Marie died, Dracula was with her for two years. The black girl went missing a couple of months after Lydia-Marie. Then there was Mom less than a year later. He's speeding up.”
“How do we know he isn't looking for another Kiki now?” Alex asked.
“He is.”
I didn't like the expression on Emilie's face nor the matter-of-factness of her statement. I told Alex what Hunter said when they first met, about starting plastic surgery on her right away so she'd be perfect by the time she was grown.
Alex fidgeted with the printouts. Something was bothering him, but he didn't seem anxious to talk about it.
“Was he setting Em up if he failed with Mom?”
“No, but he's always on the lookout for the perfect Kiki. He saw something in Em's face he liked.”
I didn't want Alex or Emilie living in fear of Hunter stalking them. I knew something neither of them did. My helpful PI was keeping tabs on Emilie to be sure Hunter didn't come close. I couldn't tell Alex about Tony Ferraiolli's man, because it would have been too juicy a secret to keep. He'd have to blab to his friends.
“Can Johnny help with the cops?”
“Let me try first. Maybe they'll listen to a grandmother.”
“You sure don't act like a grandmother,” Alex said, “most of the time, that is.”
“If I ever start to, you let me know.”
“You bet!” Emilie and Alex chorused in unison.
“Well, would it be too grandmotherly to suggest ice cream sundaes to celebrate Alex's hard work?”
“No!” With a whoop, Alex was off the bed and thundering down the stairs before Emilie and I could move. We followed more quietly.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
I spent another sleepless night thinking about Hunter's victims. We wouldn't get any attention from the rural police without having the gun. What if we gave them the ballistics report on the bullet that killed Merry? If it matched, maybe we could generate enough enthusiasm to get them to look into the cold cases more carefully. We needed the gun to clear them. Most important, we needed it to get Whip off.
First thing in the morning, I called my faceless PI and told him what we suspected. He asked me to leave copies at the front desk of the Comfort Inn out on I-95. I could pick up a copy of Hunte
r's latest movements at the same time.
I made two sets of copies at our local library. I didn't know why, but I didn't want Alex to do it even though his printer made copies. I added more information to one set, sealed the envelope, and asked Johnny to meet me for lunch.
Over burgers I told Johnny about Alex's suspicions. I told him about leaving copies for “Joe the PI.” I put the second envelope on the table beside my coffee cup.
“This one's for me, isn't it, pretty lady?” Johnny could make me feel better even after a sleepless night that left unpacked luggage under my eyes.
“Can you follow up for us? I called two police departments but didn't get much further than Alex did. Each listed a dead Jane Doe ‘killed by person or persons unknown.’ End of story without physical evidence.”
I must have looked discouraged, because Johnny reached across the table and took my hand.
“Which we don't have. Yet.” Johnny patted the back of my hand with his own work-hardened paw.
“Vince gave me the ballistics report.” I left my hand where it was.
“I have a copy?”
“It's in the envelope.”
“What about the report from ‘Joe the PI’?”
I removed my hand, opened Joe's sealed envelope, read the written report, and looked at the stack of photos. I wanted to faint or vomit or both. I handed them to Johnny.
It took a full day to recover from the PI's report. I didn't want Whip to worry more than he already did, so I didn't give him a copy. All he could do was worry—and worry wouldn't help us a whit. I set a copy aside for Vince. When I got to the jail, Whip was once again wrapped in his own cloak of despair and missed my distraction.
More bags under my eyes than at an airport claim area. Even my tried and true remedy—hemorrhoid cream—didn't work.
We were still waiting for a court date. The district attorney tried to block the evidentiary hearing, but the judge who reviewed the filing gave him two days to comply. No more stonewalling or he would have to answer to her. The hearing should unlock the cell door.
I updated Whip about the case we were building against Hunter. Johnny disappeared after our lunch to visit rural police jurisdictions in the Northeast. I finished my report just as Vince walked in and set his briefcase on the table. From his barely controlled excitement, I knew we had the date.
“The district attorney missed the deadline yesterday. I saw the judge an hour ago. We're on the docket for Tuesday.”
I wanted to hug him, but Vince Bodine was the least huggable man I'd ever met. I settled for a huge grin and Whip for a handshake. Vince gave us the schedule of events, the time Whip was to be ready, etc. Maybe it'd all work out. I still harbored doubts about Vincent Bodine being a piranha in court, as my friend the bank president called him. To date, he'd seemed too passive. Now I wondered if a slow and steady tortoise wasn't the right way. Please, just a hint of the piranha, a bit of sharpened teeth, to make me feel better.
“I hope this works,” I said.
“It will. By this time next week, Whip will be a free man.” Vince turned at the door. “Feeling better?”
“Yes. I'll feel great when two things happen.”
“Two things?”
“Yes.” Whip nodded. “When the judge dismisses the case and when the other half of my team proves Hunter killed Merry.”
Whip smiled at me. Vince did, too, because he'd come around on the unlikely possibility we just might find proof of Hunter's guilt. Like a cat finishing a bowl of cream, I grinned back. After all, I knew more than either Whip or Vince about Hunter's activities. I had “Joe the PI's” report.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Late the night before the evidentiary hearing, there was a tiny tap on my closed bedroom door. I was thinking about the New Age book I was reading and somewhat annoyed at the interruption. Given the unnatural state of affairs in which we found ourselves, I had made concessions to my privacy. For one, I no longer slept in the nude but had returned to wearing silk pajamas. For another, I answered every late night tap at the door.
“Yes?” I laid my book on the nightstand.
“Mad Max, it's me, Em,” came a soft whisper.
“Come in.” I was Mad Max again, not Grams. This might be important, but it wasn't a crisis.
“I wouldn't have knocked, but I saw your light on.”
“Dear child, climb under the covers and talk to me.”
Emilie crossed the room after shutting the door. She crawled into my bed and shoved pillows around until she was propped next to me. She laid her head on my shoulder like her mother used to when she was little and I read her to sleep. I kissed her freshly shampooed hair and searched for the baby-clean smell of infancy. It wasn't there.
“Are you happy here, Mad Max?”
“I'm not sure what you mean.” I wanted to know what was bothering her before I tried to answer. No use guessing and being wrong.
“When Auntie Raney was here, I overheard her talking with Auntie Eleanor about your mantra.”
“You mean, ‘I'm not living in the South again and I'm through raising kids.’”
“There's another?” Emilie tickled my side.
“No, only one.” I tickled her back.
“Are you going to leave us? I mean, you're back raising kids again.”
“Not until you don't need me anymore.”
“That could be a long time.” She fell silent for a moment. “I mean, like, even when Dad's out of jail, he travels all the time. He can't stay here and raise us.”
“I've talked with your dad. He's concerned too. Let's get him out of jail first. Then we can have a family conference. Sound okay?”
Emilie nodded against my shoulder. She wasn't very relaxed, though; something else was bothering her.
“Why don't you like living in the South? I mean, you were born near Richmond and grew up here. Didn't you have a happy childhood?”
“My childhood was schizophrenic. Kind of like yours. We were happy until my daddy got hurt. He was never the same after his accident. Kinda like your mom's accident and death changed everything. Life was very difficult.”
“You stayed for a long time after.” Emilie seemed to be struggling to fit together pieces of an incomplete puzzle.
“I did indeed. I married your grandfather Norm and raised your mother and Uncle Jack on the other side of Richmond. Even after your grandfather died, I stayed until your mother and Uncle Jack were grown. I met and married Grandpa Frank a few years after Grandpa Norm died. Grandpa Frank was a Richmond native. He loved to travel and infected me with a critical case of itchy feet.”
“Bet it wasn't athlete's foot, was it?”
My turn to tickle Emilie again. “After Grandpa Frank and I moved to New York, I realized I loved living with the rhythms of the city than in the slower life of Richmond.”
“So, do you still hate the South?”
“I don't hate it. You and Alex are here. Where else would I be?”
Emilie was quiet for so long I thought she was sleeping. She wasn't. “It's not over, is it, Mad Max?”
“If you mean your dad's trial? No, it's not, but it should be tomorrow.”
“That's not what I mean. I mean it's not over with Dracula.”
“No. It won't be over until we stop him.” Wanted dead or alive. Long ago I passed beyond wanting anything less than him dead or locked away forever. I couldn't live with myself if he harmed another woman.
“He's looking for the next one.”
“Yes.”
“Why does he try to remake Kiki? Doesn't he know changing our looks will never be enough? Inside, we'll never be Kiki. We're Lydia-Maria and Merry and Em.”
Hmm, Emilie included herself in the list of “Kikis.”
“Because he's mentally ill, dear child. He's broken in spirit. He's obsessed with his memory of Kiki's physical perfection. He gets as close as he can only to realize his new creation is flawed. Like a mad artist, he destroys his masterpiece. If he didn't, he'd ha
ve to accept she's gone. He can't do that.”
Emilie didn't say anything. Again I thought she'd dozed off, but apparently she was thinking. “Do you remember when we talked about closure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Dracula will never get closure. Kinda like Mom and Dr. Silberman. She wouldn't admit she needed help, so Dr. Silberman couldn't help her heal. Dracula won't admit it, either.”
I agreed.
“Dracula hasn't accepted responsibility for what he did in the operating room. He's like a ghost trapped on this side.”
“Except he's alive.” I peeked around the bedroom, looking for Casper or some other kind of ectoplasm. Nothing.
“Physically, maybe. His spirit's dead.”
Hunter wasn't a whole person; he lacked an essential aspect of humanity. “How did you get so world-wise?”
“By watching you and Mom.”
I could add nothing.
“He's not done with me, either,” Emilie whispered. “He wants me next.”
We trembled until the bed shook.
“I won't let him get to you. Do you want to go stay with Grampop and Gramma? Or I can take you and Alex to New York where he'll never find us.”
“If I run away, he'll escape and find someone else to transform into an imperfect Kiki. I can't let that happen.” Emilie's teeth chattered. “I just want him to leave me alone. I feel his presence. It's ice cold. He's like a mad thing in my head.”
This was way too damned creepy. I needed our hippy-dippy medium, but two in the morning wasn't a good time to call.
“Have you seen him?”
“No, but he's seen me. I feel him. Sometimes he's close. Sometimes he's far away.”
“Have you talked to Dr. Schwartz about this?”
“Sure. She's helping me keep him away, but it's not always easy. He won't give up.”
I told her about “Joe the PI.” “I'll have him keep closer tabs on Hunter. He'll protect you too.” I hoped I sounded reassuring, but I sure as hell didn't feel reassured.
Emilie was right. Hunter wouldn't quit. If Whip wasn't released after the hearing, Emilie, Alex, and I were going to New York. My Upper East Side apartment would be safer than Riverbend until this all blew over—or until we had enough proof to put Dracula in jail.
Mad Max: Unintended Consequences Page 23
