On the Count of Three, page 22
“We understand you used to be an active member of St. John’s Catholic Church on Northeast Second Street and Northeast First Avenue.” Paige’s voice made it to his ears as if she were speaking from a great distance.
“Yes.” Abigail took another draw on her drink. “What about it?”
“One of the men that Paige showed you was seen at your church,” Zach said, forcing himself back to the moment, back to reality.
Paige held up her screen and the photo of the unsub.
Abigail shook her head. “I’ve never seen him. I told you that.”
“Around the time of Justin’s funeral, did you receive any monetary donations?” Zach asked.
Abigail indicated her surroundings.
Zach and Paige said nothing.
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Yes, okay, I did.”
Zach could have questioned her hesitancy to respond or asked why she had said it that way, but instead, he remained quiet and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
Abigail slid her gaze to him. “My cousin, Agatha…”
Zach nodded to encourage her to continue, but when she didn’t do so of her own accord, he asked, “She gave you money?”
“She gave some to me, but Agatha doesn’t have much money sitting a— Oh, is that why you’re here? Something to do with the money? Am I in trouble for something?”
Paige held up a hand. “Not at all. How much money were you given?”
“I tell you, it helped a lot in the beginning. Justin didn’t have life insurance,” she started, dancing around what Zach wanted to know; he was just waiting for her to say thirty thousand. “You’d think twenty thousand would go far, but it doesn’t,” she said.
“That’s still a lot of money,” Paige pointed out.
It wasn’t the number he’d wanted to hear, but as Paige had said, it was a large sum. What was more interesting was the fact that Abigail didn’t believe her cousin had that kind of money. So where did she get it? “Did you ever ask your cousin where she got all that money?” Zach asked.
“She told me not to worry about it. To see it as a gift from God, but I will never forgive Him for what He took away from me.” Tears fell down her cheeks while rage stormed in her eyes. Not only had she lost her husband and unborn baby, but she’d lost her faith in God.
“Have you ever considered grief counseling?” he asked gently.
“No thanks,” Abigail spat. “Agatha tried to get me to go to some support group for grieving family members.” Abigail was shaking her head adamantly. “That’s not for me.”
“There are other people out there who are trained to help others work through their grief,” Paige said.
“Yeah, and they all cost money. I don’t have any left.” Abigail drained the rest of her drink. “Mark would have been seven this year. If I hadn’t wanted that dumb ice cream, then none of this would have happened. Both of them would still be here.”
Zach figured Mark was the baby she’d lost. As he listened to Abigail, he observed her tense body language. She viewed healing as a threat to her memories, to the life she’d had. Despite all the time that had passed since the accident, she wasn’t ready to heal and move on yet. She’d become comfortable in her pain, likely seeing the walls she’d erected as a cozy cocoon that protected her from opening up and getting hurt again.
“My mom says I should get out and meet someone. She reminds me that I’m still young, but then adds that I won’t be forever.” Abigail’s eyes clouded over. “It’s like she expects me to just replace Justin and Mark, pretend they never existed. At least that lady driver ended up getting hers. Not that it brings my husband and baby back.” Her eyes cleared, and she locked her gaze on Zach, then Paige. “Why are you really here asking questions, showing me pictures?”
“Have you heard about the missing woman?” Zach asked.
Abigail’s eyes widened. “Jenna Kelter, the mayor’s niece? Of course I have. It said on the news that she’d just got released from serving a prison sentence for DUI vehicular homicide.” Abigail lifted her glass to her mouth but then noticed it was empty and set it back down. “Is someone out there targeting people convicted of drinking and driving?”
It hadn’t taken much for Abigail to take that leap. Impressive. “The investigation is still open,” Zach said.
“Well, you don’t have to say anything. I know that’s what brings you here.” Abigail tapped a hand over her heart. “Wait a minute, you don’t think I’m involved with this do you? Or that Agatha is?” Her eyes darted back and forth between them.
Zach squinted. “Why would we think your cousin would be involved in any way?”
“She went crazy when she heard about Marie Sullivan’s murder.”
“Crazy how?” Paige asked.
Abigail frowned. “Just really shaken up. In shock but giddy, saying she got what she deserved.”
Zach wasn’t sure what to make of it. They had their eyes on a male unsub and hadn’t completely dismissed a partnership. If there was a partner, though, they’d thought it was the delivery guy. But what if it was Agatha, a woman? She’d had quite the reaction to Sullivan’s murder from what Abigail had said—and not in a good way. Plus, Agatha hadn’t been forthcoming with Abigail about where she had gotten the money…
“How did the news make you feel?” Paige asked.
Abigail looked at her. “I didn’t have any feelings about it really.”
“So your cousin said Marie Sullivan got what she deserved?” Paige brought up.
“Yes, but so did I.” Abigail sniffed again. Her eyes beaded with fresh tears. “I’m the one who sent him out for ice cream.” Her chin quivered, and she stood. “I’m sorry, but you have to leave.”
Zach and Paige had just cleared the door when it was slammed shut, and Zach heard the bolt lock and the chain slide into place.
“Don’t come back!” Abigail wailed through the door.
Paige exhaled deeply. “Why do I feel like shit now?”
“Because we’re not completely callous after all.” Zach gave her a tight smile, taking some comfort in that conclusion himself.
They loaded onto the elevator and headed back to the lobby. “I think the cousin is worth a visit,” Paige said. “Should I update Jack?”
“They do always say to follow the money.” He just hoped to hell it would get them somewhere they wanted to go.
-
Thirty-Seven
Kelly had imagined it several times, and the scenario always played out much the same way: Her doorbell would ring. She’d answer, thinking it was the food delivery guy, Randall, from her favorite mom-and-pop restaurant.
She’d pause the TV show she was watching and prance to the door, eager to dig into a steaming serving of tortilla chips smothered in cheese and piled inches high with ground beef, hot peppers, olives, and diced tomatoes.
But instead of Randall, she’d be facing an officer with a trainee she’d never seen before. They’d both be solemn, the trainee avoiding her eyes. And she’d know why they were there before they said a word. Her breath would catch, her legs would go weak.
“Are you Kelly Marsh?” the lead would ask.
She’d barely nod, invite them inside, and before they’d ask, she’d take a seat. Less of a distance to fall if she passed out from shock. She’d brace herself for the worst pain she could imagine.
They’d introduce themselves, and the training officer would say, “We’re sorry to inform you that your mother, Susan Marsh, is dead.”
The news would impact Kelly with the crushing weight of a sledgehammer, shattering the pieces of her life she’d tried so hard to gather and assemble.
Kelly’s heart was racing as she twisted her hands on the steering wheel of the department car. She was parked in front of the Kelters’ residence. She looked at the house, the Mercedes in the driveway, and thought of the man inside. She was about to wield that sledgehammer, but better her than a stranger.
She knocked on the door, and the curtain in the door’s window was brushed aside. The dead bolt was undone not long afterward, and the door opened. Gordon Kelter stood there with one hand braced on the handle and one on the frame. Behind him, colored lights flickered from a television, but no sound accompanied them. It must have been muted.
“Detective?” Gordon’s eyes clouded over, and his legs buckled beneath him.
Kelly rushed forward to help keep him upright. It was his two hundred pounds against her 125, but she was strong. She guided him inside the house. He started crying, and the primal sound of it stabbed at Kelly’s heart.
There were times when words weren’t enough, and other times, like this one, when they weren’t even needed. She guided him toward the living room. Once he was seated in a sofa chair, she sat on the couch. She perched on the corner of one of its cushions.
She steeled herself. “I’m sorry to have to inform you—”
“She’s dead.” Gordon met her eyes and nodded. “You can tell me.”
“Your wife was murdered,” Kelly delivered sympathetically, though there was no real way of softening the blow.
“She’s really…” Gordon choked on his sobs. “What? When? How? Do you know who did it?”
His response was typical of the situation. The questions often came fast and furious.
Gordon repeated his last question with added emphasis. “Do you know who did this to her?”
“We don’t yet—” she shook her head slowly “—but we will do our best to find the person who’s responsible for her death.”
“And you’re sure it was her?” His eyes were glazed over, like two unseeing marbles.
She’d seen this before: waves of denial and shock ebbing with hope that there’d been a mistake. “You’ll need to make a positive ID, but yes, we are. I’m sorry.”
Gordon made a move to get up. “Take me to her.”
“You won’t want to see her in her current state,” Kelly rushed out.
He went still and asked barely above a whisper, “What did that animal do to her?”
There’d be no good time to tell him that his wife had been decapitated. That part was best left to Lily after the viewing and the legal identification. The lack of a body at that time wouldn’t pose a problem. Kelly had been there for West’s and Sullivan’s presentations to family and knew that with expert placement of pillows and the use of a black sheet, they could create the illusion of a body.
“Let’s not dwell on exactly what happened to her right now,” Kelly said gingerly.
Gordon sniffled, letting that fight go for now. “You think that whoever killed her did it because she messed up once…” He held up an index finger. “Was it one of the men the FBI agents showed me?”
“We don’t know for certain.” Kelly hated to admit to their limitations. She wished she could offer him closure and justice, not just sympathy. “If you can think of anyone who might have—”
“No.” He shot her down before she could finish the thought. “I don’t know anyone who hates her that much. I already told you that when I filed the missing person report. Did you even look at those letters I gave the FBI?”
Her answer was silence.
“What have you been doing?” he snarled. “You didn’t save my Jenna, and now you’re here looking at me to do your job for you.”
The verbal lashing stung, and her heart clenched. She pulled the printed photo of the delivery guy out of a pocket to show Gordon when someone banged on the front door. She jumped up without hesitation, stuffing the photo back into a pocket. “I’ll get that.”
She opened the door to Mayor Conklin. “What are you—”
He brushed past her, as did his two henchmen, Ramirez, a female TV reporter, and a cameraman.
Kelly caught the mayor by the arm. “You can’t be here right now.”
He spun and glowered at her. “You didn’t save my niece.”
Kelly let go of him, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of her. First, she’d failed her mother. She’d never been able to find her; she couldn’t protect her if she didn’t know where she was. She’d failed West and Sullivan. And now she’d failed Kelter. The weight of it was too much to bear. She heaved for breath.
“There have been three decapitations over the span of six years,” the reporter said, drawing Kelly’s eye. She was flat-chested, all of five feet tall with her pointed three-inch heels.
“Get out of this house,” Kelly roared. The last thing she wanted was for Gordon to hear that his wife was decapitated this way.
Stilettos held up a photo of the delivery guy with one hand, and with the other, she pushed a microphone in Kelly’s face. “Do you believe this man is behind the murders?”
If rage were a color, it would be a deep shade of red, and that’s all Kelly was seeing. She hadn’t given Ramirez the photo; he must have gotten it from one of the canvassing officers. She glared at the sergeant. “You share confidential information about open investigations with the media now? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“I can’t reveal my sources, Detective,” Stilettos jumped in as if oblivious that Kelly hadn’t addressed her.
Kelly ripped the foam topper off the microphone and pushed it into the reporter’s chest. “Stuff it.”
The reporter’s mouth gaped open, and Kelly was about to lay into Ramirez some more when she heard the mayor calling out to Gordon. Conklin was weaving his way through the house. Kelly lunged for him, but Ramirez pulled her back.
“You’ve done your job here, Marsh,” Ramirez said. “Now go catch the killer.” The sergeant slipped in a smug smile to the reporter, which curdled Kelly’s stomach.
“What man?” Gordon bypassed the mayor, and he was pawing at the air, almost as though he’d just gone blind. His eyes found Kelly’s just before Stilettos hustled between them and held up the photo of the delivery guy.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Kelly swiped the photo from the woman, tore it into pieces, and stuffed them into a back pocket.
“Hmph. I can just get another one,” the reporter pouted.
Kelly’s guess was that the sulky princess was used to getting her way. Kelly stared her down. “I don’t recommend that you do.”
“Detective?” Gordon called out to her.
“This man, Gordon.” The mayor intervened and pulled a photo from his pocket.
What, had they had the photo mass-printed at a copy center?
The reporter jutted out her chin at Kelly, and she was two seconds away from knocking her block off.
Kelly looked at Gordon. “Mr. Kelter, please don’t—”
He took the photo from the mayor.
“Mr. Kelter, you don’t have to do this right now.” She put her hand over Gordon’s to prevent him from lifting the photo. She turned to the minions. “Some privacy would be nice.” None of them moved. The reporter crossed her arms. She looked back at Gordon, who’d gotten the picture free of her hold. He stared at the photo, eyes wide. The print fell to the floor, and Gordon soon followed.
Kelly tried to catch him but was too late. The reporter gasped, the cameraman kept rolling, and Ramirez called 911.
Kelly balled a fist, tempted to punch something. She got in Conklin’s face, figured she’d try to shut this down by appealing to his main interest. “How do you think it looks to the public that you—” Kelly pressed a fingertip into his chest “—the mayor, have a serial killer on the loose in your city?”
Stilettos became animated, gesturing for her camera guy to keep rolling, never mind the poor man lying on the ground.
“And you.” Kelly fixed a glare on the news crew. “You air even a one-second clip of this and I will bring you up on charges.”
The reporter looked at her cameraman, and he lowered the camera. Kelly sank to her knees to check on Gordon. She could feel the heat of Ramirez’s stare on the back of her head. She wished he’d go ahead and fire her. He’d make it a lot easier for her to leave Miami. But one thing was for certain: she’d be finding justice for the Kelters, the Wests, and the Sullivans—with or without a badge.
-
Thirty-Eight
Jack had taken Zach’s update about Abigail Cole in typical Jack fashion—in stride. It was Marsh’s call about what had transpired with Gordon Kelter that I’d thought was going to give him a heart attack. His face had turned bright red, and a vein had protruded in his forehead. If Marsh hadn’t worked her charm and dished out reassurances that she’d gotten the situation under control, we would have been loaded back into the SUV and on our way to Kelter’s by now. Instead, we were making our way up Ava Jett’s front walk.
Henderson’s e-mailed threat had come through to Jack’s phone, and he’d forwarded it to the rest of us, including Nadia so she could hopefully work her magic and trace its origin.
I read the e-mail on my phone:
You are responsible for inflicting chaos and shall suffer the consequences. Tell the police about this e-mail and you and your family will suffer the consequences.
Jenna Kelter’s disgusting habit made her a murderer. She killed an innocent man and destroyed lives. The aftermath set in motion is irreversible and has destroyed more than just a family.
I looked over at Jack. “This e-mail specifically mentions Kelter. No wonder he was so quick to remember this one particular threat.”
“I thought the same thing,” Jack said.
Jack and I went on to pay a visit to LDS and met with a brick wall. The manager had been adamant that she didn’t recognize any of the men in the photo array, which had been updated to include the delivery guy. To cement her stance that LDS wasn’t involved, she showed us a stack of colored delivery slips. The one the receptionist had signed for had been black-and-white.
