Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “This better be good,” he growled.

  She laughed.

  “How could it be anything but?”

  Kenneth smiled, revealing his large, over-bright, hateful teeth, oblivious to Jill’s cold stare.

  “Tell me, Lilith, what did you bring along in your little bag of tricks?”

  “Something unexpected. You like games, don’t you?” The warm southern lilt ebbed from her voice. Kenneth didn’t seem to notice. He stretched out on the pillows, hands propped behind his head, perfectly content to wait.

  Jill’s pulse raced. She crossed the room. She reached into her purse. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she pulled the gun from its hiding place. Clad only in her bra and panties, she planted her feet in a wide stance, spike heels clawing into the carpet.

  “Okay, I’m ready, Sugar” she said.

  Kenneth’s eyes opened slowly. The smile died on his lips as he caught sight of the gun.

  “What the fuck?” he gasped and scuttled across the bed like a crab. He flattened himself against the headboard. “Lilith?”

  Jill stripped the blond wig from her head and tossed it onto the credenza.

  She liked the fear she saw blazing in his eyes. She liked the way his mouth yawned open in slack-jawed wonder. She liked the cold feel of the gun in her hand.

  “You can call me Jill,” she said.

  Recognition flashed across his face. He raised his hands in supplication as she took aim.

  “Surprise,” she said, and squeezed the trigger.

  40

  Detective Luka Petrovich stepped through the heavy glass doors into the modern lobby of the Quad 55 hotel. Guests swarmed the front desk like bees as Luka breezed by the restaurant, cutting a diagonal swath through the crowd on his way toward the elevator. His hair fell carelessly over his forehead in a dark tangle, compliments of the brisk morning breeze that swept off the harbor through San Francisco’s downtown core.

  “Good morning,” he said to an attractive blonde passing by. She smiled.

  On any other morning, he’d be tempted to stop and exchange pleasantries. But on this particular morning, there was a dead body cooling in the executive suite, so with a grin of his own, he continued on his way.

  Coming to a halt in front of the bank of elevators, he pushed the button and waited for the car to arrive. Seconds before the doors opened, he pulled an almond croissant out of the bakery bag and took a big bite. Confectioner’s sugar dusted his top lip as he chewed on the pastry, savoring the sweet, flaky taste.

  The elevator glided to a smooth stop at the thirty-second floor, and Luka stepped out into the hallway. He could see the police officers milling around the door of the suite. Yellow tape sealed off the crime scene. Luka flashed his ID at the young sentries who stood guard in the hallway, and paused outside the open door. A uniformed officer waited by the windows, staring over at the bed, his fleshy face grim. The sloped bulk of his belly strained at the buttons of his uniformed shirt, and the straight line of bushy eyebrows lent him an old-school air echoed in the downturned caste of his thick lips.

  A forensics technician was poised over the bed, clicking off photographs to document the placement and condition of the body. The flash of the camera punctuated her movements. Luka peered over, admiring the way her jeans clung to her every curve.

  Wadding the remains of the croissant into his mouth, he stepped through the door and into the suite. In no particular rush now, he licked the powdered sugar from his fingers one by one.

  The naked, blood-splattered body was draped across the ivory bedspread, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, arms spread-eagled. Luka gauged the male to be in his mid to late thirties. Dark rust-colored spots studded the carpet and walls. As he moved closer to the bed, a sliver of almond fell from his jacket onto the luxurious carpet at his feet.

  The technician stopped and glanced up from her work to peer over at Luka. Her raven hair was pulled back from her face in a long ponytail down her back, and he could see the familiar high cheekbones and large, dark eyes. Casting him a friendly smile, she shifted the angle of the camera and continued to document the placement of the body.

  Luka had fond memories of Maria Lopez. Well, of her body anyway. She was long and lithe, with perfect, caramel-colored skin. Their no-strings, friends-with-privileges relationship suited them both just fine. It had been months since he’d seen Maria, and, staring at her ass in the form-fitting jeans, he tried to remember why.

  “Who the hell let you in here?” An officer strode from the window to the center of the suite and confronted Luka. “Don’t you know you’re contaminating the crime scene?” He shook his head and pointed at the almond sliver on the carpet. “Stupid son of a bitch.”

  The muttered words forced the edges of Luka’s lips up into a condescending grin. Maria stared over at the officer and inclined her head toward Luka.

  “Come on, McLean, don’t you know who this is?” Maria’s voice betrayed her own amusement as she met Luka’s eyes.

  “If I knew who the fuck he was, Lopez, would I ask?” He spat the words out through clenched teeth, and Luka didn’t miss the venomous look she shot McLean from behind the lens of her camera.

  “Then allow me to make the introductions. Officer Tom McLean, meet Detective Luka Petrovich. Homicide.”

  Luka smiled at her, and Maria dipped the lens of the camera a fraction, long enough to wink before she turned. He was right. It had been too long since he’d seen her.

  Pausing by the window, Luka pulled his notebook from his coat and noted the location and time of his arrival on the scene. He looked up from his notes and glanced outside. Through the steady haze of drizzle, the outline of the Transamerica Pyramid was partially engulfed by the dull gray fog. He could hear the whine of a streetcar, crammed with commuters on their way to work, as it sped down Union Street. Clusters of pedestrians flooded out of the BART station like ants.

  Smart location, Luka thought. Easy access. There were so many ways the perpetrator could have gotten to and fled from the crime scene.

  “I don’t give a fuck who he is, he’s contaminating my crime scene,” McLean growled. His bushy brows creased together in a deep frown. Luka turned from the window.

  “What have we got?” Luka ignored the reproof, his subtle Russian accent turning his w’s into v’s.

  “Kenneth Cox, white male. Thirty-five years of age. Married. He’s an out-of-town commercial-real-estate hotshot. Found dead this morning by Housekeeping.” McLean’s voice was strained, as if it pained him to have to impart the case facts to a lower life-form. Luka ignored the sulky resentment in his voice.

  “Where’s the maid?”

  “She’s in the room across the hall, calming down. Couldn’t understand a damned word out of her mouth, she was so spooked. Hope you know Spanish.” McLean shot a sidelong glance toward Maria.

  “Anyone else see anything?” Luka was all business now.

  “Not so far, but we’re still interviewing the staff and the other guests.”

  “When did he check in?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Alone?”

  McLean sighed loudly, as if Luka was wasting his precious time. Finally, he nodded.

  “Any outgoing calls from the room?”

  “A few. We’re tracking them down now.”

  “Any messages?”

  “One from his wife, last night about nine p.m.”

  Luka nodded and glanced back over at the body on the bed, wondering if Cox was already dead by that point. Nothing like a call from the wife to spoil the mood.

  “Get me a full background check on our victim.”

  McLean walked him through the scene, tracing the path of the first officers on the scene. Luka documented the entry and exits, furniture placement—anything that could indicate there might have been a struggle.

  “Where was this guy from?” Luka called over to McLean.

  “Miami. He was in town on business.”

  “Doesn�
��t look like there was much of a struggle.” Luka noted the half-empty champagne bottle still sitting in the silver bucket. The ice had turned to water long ago.

  “Glasses?” he asked McLean.

  “One, half empty on the bedside table. The other is on the table. Clean. Like it’s never been used.”

  “The guy isn’t drinking champagne alone, so maybe she washed it before leaving.”

  Luka’s use of a female pronoun was not lost on the officer, and McLean’s furry eyebrows rose slowly. Female perpetrators were rare and almost always involved with the victim in some way.

  “Or maybe it was some woman’s husband who got here in time to break up the action,” McLean offered.

  “Maybe, but in that case, you’d still find two dirty glasses. There’d be more signs of a struggle.”

  Luka was getting a picture in his head of a romantic interlude gone wrong. A lover spurned after learning that her intended was not going to leave his wife?

  “Maybe it wasn’t that kind of date.”

  “Meaning?” Luka’s voice was even as he continued to survey the room.

  “Well, this is San Francisco …”

  The innuendo was clear. They’d have to pursue every angle. Perhaps Kenneth Cox was hiding more than an affair from his wife. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Did you find his wallet? Was there anything missing?”

  “Cash and credit cards seemed to be intact,” McLean answered.

  Taking another long look around the hotel room, Luka saw nothing else that seemed oddly out of place. The crime scene looked too clean for a crime of passion. Careful. Calculated. Whoever did this took their time.

  Luka stepped back toward the bed, his eyes taking in every detail of the body. It looked like one clean shot through the chest. If death wasn’t instantaneous, it didn’t take long for the victim to bleed out. His eyes focused in on the hand dangling off the bed, and he took a step closer.

  “Have you found the guy’s wedding ring?”

  “What?” McLean asked.

  “His wedding ring. It’s missing.”

  “How do you know he was wearing one?”

  Luka gestured toward the victim’s ring finger. “Look, there’s tan line where his wedding ring should have been. If he deliberately removed it, then it’s probably somewhere in this room.”

  McLean shook his head. “No sign of it yet, but we’ll keep looking.”

  Luka scratched his neck and took another look around the hotel room. It was going to be a long day.

  41

  Jill arrived home from the airport late Friday night. The smell of the Christmas tree filled the room with a clean, piney scent. Molly did not come to greet her, and Jill looked up to see two eyes staring down at her from the top of the stairs. The dog’s demeanor was problematic. Even Alex had noticed her response to Jill. He’d asked her if it was possible that Molly was going senile. Seven years old seemed a little young for that kind of behavior, but still, in Alex’s mind, it was the most plausible explanation. Jill had mumbled something mildly reassuring before changing the subject.

  She discarded her suitcase at the foot of the landing and continued through the house into the kitchen. The lights were low, and she could see Alex standing with his back to her, his face reflected in the windowpane as he stared out at the darkened night. A warning flare shot off in her head, and she slowed to a halt.

  There was something about the rigid line of his shoulders that caused her pulse to lurch into an uneven gallop. Grasping the corner of the granite counter top, she broke the silence.

  “Hi.” She sounded casual, but her insides tightened like a vice. No way he knew what she’d been up to in San Francisco. She’d been careful, but still, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling unfurling at the pit of her stomach.

  “How was your flight?” He turned at last. He did not smile, and instinctively, she took a step back, toward the door.

  “Uneventful.” She took in a deep breath, and forced her tone to remain light. “Have you eaten?”

  “Not hungry. Thanks.” The tinkle of ice in his glass drew her gaze to his hands. In the dim light she could see his long fingers wrapped tightly around a tumbler. Alex was drinking alone, a sure sign that whatever he was holding back had him tied up in knots. This had become a more frequent occurrence since he had taken on the Watson case.

  “How was your week?” Rummaging through the refrigerator, she extracted the fixings for a sandwich. Busying her hands was an excellent way to steady her frayed nerves. She couldn’t afford to jump to conclusions. Keeping a cool head was top priority. Besides, if Alex did know her secrets, there would be plenty of time to panic. Decades, as she rotted in jail.

  Silence stretched out between them, and finally Jill looked up. Alex was staring at the empty glass in his hand. Meeting her gaze, he deliberately set it on the island, where it made a soft, clinking sound.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, quelling the flutter of panic in the pit of her stomach.

  Alex shifted his weight and took a step toward her, his hands splayed on the granite countertop.

  “Could we sit?” He gestured toward the table. Jill set the knife down before following him across the room. She sank down into the chair opposite Alex, keeping her eyes glued to his face as she searched for some indication of what was bothering him. Typically Alex didn’t play games.

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He rubbed his hands across his face and then sat back with a sober stare. Jill’s anxiety grew.

  “So there’s been a development in the Honeywell case,” he began, voice halting.

  Relief flooded through Jill, the respite so strong that she felt light-headed. The breath she’d been unconsciously holding let out in a rush. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t about the string of dead bodies she’d left behind in California. This was about Alex’s pet case. If she wasn’t so relieved, she might actually be irritated. His whole world seemed to revolve around the damned case. Abby Watson’s damned case.

  “What kind of development? Do you know where he is?”

  “Not exactly.” Alex shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “But we do know where he’s been.”

  Jill cocked her head, eyebrows arching as she tried to grasp his meaning. Where he’d been. Why did it matter, unless it provided some kind of clue to his whereabouts? And why was Alex being so careful in the way he shared this information with her? This sounded like the kind of news they’d talk about over wine. Why did it warrant a family meeting?

  Alex leaned forward, placing an object on the table between them. Jill hitched in a breath as she caught sight of the gun. What the hell?

  “There’s no good way to say this, Jill. Honeywell has been following you. Or at least, he was.” Alex sat back, staring at her as she put the pieces together.

  “What do you mean? Where?” She felt short of breath, and her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat.

  “He sent me pictures of you at Alki Bakery. He must have followed you there.”

  Jill’s lips parted as the image flashed into her head of the man she’d found watching her.

  “Shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes. He had a cell phone …” The words tumbled out in a rush.

  “You saw him?”

  “I caught a guy staring at me. There was something creepy about the look on his face. He didn’t stay long. Once he knew I’d seen him, he dialed a number on his phone and left.”

  “Do you remember what time?”

  “Around ten-thirty I think. Why? Is it important?”

  Alex didn’t answer. His eyes still rested on her, but she could see that his focus had turned inward. Maybe he was putting this information together with a set of assumptions. Whatever it was, he was not sharing.

  “He’s using me to get to you,” she said at last.

  Alex nodded, his eyes shifting to the gun. His hand reached across the table to cover hers, and she could feel the warmth of his fingers penet
rate her skin. The hairs on her arm prickled. Her racing pulse slowed. She knew she should be worried about the psychopath following her, but things would have been so much worse if Alex—

  The thought stopped suddenly as she caught the shift in Alex’s expression. He looked perplexed. There was no other word that seemed to fit.

  Jill eased back in her chair and pulled her hand out from underneath his. Crossing her arms, she waited for him to speak.

  “This is serious, Jill. He’s killed other women—girls.”

  “I know,” she said quickly.

  “Then why don’t you look more worried?”

  Hard as she tried to stifle it, she couldn’t stop the crooked smile that curved her lips.

  “I’m wearing my fear on the inside.”

  He clearly didn’t appreciate the joke, so she continued, nodding toward the pistol.

  “Look, I’m assuming that this is what the gun is about. You want to make sure I can protect myself. I don’t actually think freaking out is going to help the situation or make you feel better. If I’m wrong, let me know, but be warned, it will take me a few minutes to work myself up into a full-blown frenzy.”

  He raked his hands through his hair and shook his head.

  “This isn’t funny, Jill. I want you to start carrying the gun with you. I can’t be with you every second to make sure you’re okay.”

  His lips flattened into a grim line. Her attempts at humor fell flat.

  Jill could read the concern on his face. It was evident in the dark circles under his eyes and the tense lines etched into his forehead. There was no way to put him at ease. No matter what she said, he would worry, so Jill quit trying to reassure him. Instead, she picked up the gun and examined it.

  The grip fit nicely in her hand. Alex had chosen well. She checked the magazine before setting it down again.

  “It’s registered in my name. I’ve picked up ammo.”

  His voice trailed off, as if the surreal nature of the situation gave him pause.

  “Try not to worry. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “I’ll also need your phone.”