The Past, page 11
He paused to consider how he could justify a stopover in Tulsa. They’d spoken on the phone a few times, but their relationship didn’t feel the same through the cell towers. Hell, he couldn’t tell if she liked him or not. She wasn’t the easiest person to decipher. Of course, he’d spent more time with Hank than Paige when he worked the case there. A day or two off on the way back sounded good.
He forced himself to concentrate on the new murders again and gazed at the screen in front of him that displayed photos of the victims before the psycho got to them. It helped him remember they were people, not statistics.
Every streetwalker hailed from somewhere. Hanny French, the one called Hilda, grew up in Des Moines, Iowa. Her father pastored a small church, and her mother taught the third grade.
The second victim, called Honey Bun, came from a small town in New Jersey. Her real name was Henrietta Barton. No father in the picture. Her mother a drug addict. Cliché all the way on her. She’d run away into something worse. He shook his head at the hopeless situation.
He studied the photos that revealed how the unknown subject pulverized his victims. If no one told him, he would still know Hilda was murdered first. The snapshots revealed it all: the blows delivered with more force on Honey Bun, the increased number of bashes to her body postmortem, and the escalated fury.
He read a little more and turned off his computer, closed the top, and planned everything he needed to accomplish before he left. If the unsub’s interim remained the same, he would bludgeon the third body over the weekend. He needed to add his last minute items to his go bag, make sure he cleaned perishables from his fridge, and left the trash in the dumpster on his way out. After so many trips to forgotten places, his life felt like a routine.
He stared at the framed art that still sat on the floor. He’d planned to hang it for over a year but constantly went out the door on trips that often lasted months. When he didn’t work cases, he testified at others already solved. He hated to give up on a regular life like most nine to fivers enjoyed, but he might not have time for a relationship. In his heart he hoped he did. He’d like to give it a go with Paige. She was smart, fearless, and a beauty in one terrific package. Like his, her apartment walls were bare. They had a lot in common.
He walked to the window. The evening sky spit a few flakes. The wind whipped them in diagonal dances as they eventually landed on the ground. He watched his reflection in the window pane and spotted the disarray in his black hair. He finger combed it back in place and made up his mind. I’ll stopover in Tulsa.
Sweat beaded on his back while James Silsby focused on the switchblade tucked inside his boot. He bought it to kill the asshole who murdered Marcia, but he might have to use it on this son of a bitch.
The man who stood before him didn’t look like an assassin—more like a tall nerd. The important issue, was he here to do serious damage or swap fists? He could handle a beating and probably deserved one. After all, he’d taken a man’s life. He didn’t mean to, but he did.
The man’s challenge hung in the fumy night air. He no longer wanted a drink. He needed one, to the exclusion of everything else. Thank God, he didn’t have that option.
The stranger took the decision from his control. He saw the gun come up in the man’s right hand. He heard the words. “David Renfrow was my brother.” The muzzle flashed in his peripheral vision as he hit the ground and rolled away from the shot. He grabbed the knife and flicked the switch. The blast penetrated his ears. When he came up in a sitting position, he hurled the blade into the stranger with enough force to stop his heart. Son of a bitch. The man collapsed, and he rolled away from the body. Gunpowder from the fired shot overwhelmed his sense of smell, and his ears still rang.
He pushed himself up, stood over the corpse, pulled the steel out, and wiped the bloody edge on the man’s shirt. In an instant, his life had turned violent again. He didn’t take time to feel for a pulse. His own blood raced through his veins, but he made himself drive quietly from the parking lot. A minute or so later, he wrapped the dagger in a paper napkin from his front seat.
For the next ten miles his eyes searched the rearview mirror for any lights that didn’t belong, especially flashing ones. He saw a rest area ahead and took the exit. Once he stopped, he reached over and took a cleaning kit from his glove compartment. This particular one he’d made special for his switchblade. He got out, locked the door, and walked to the restroom.
The florescent lights hurt his eyes while he moved into a stall. He sat down and ran a hand through his hair. He relived the scene from two years earlier. The man was tough, but he had a mouth, which he ran more than any asshole he’d ever met. That mouth had started the fight that ended in the creep’s death—a death that still weighed heavily on his conscience. Cuervo had numbed the guilt for a time. The cleaning kit rattled as his hand began to shake. He swallowed hard.
He got up, flushed the toilet he hadn’t used, and pushed every door open to make sure no one lurked inside a stall. He checked for cameras as he walked to the sink. He laid the plastic box down, opened it, and took out the small screwdriver. He took the knife completely apart and scrubbed each piece. A small bottle contained bleach, which he poured over them. Three minutes later, he scrubbed the chemical off the parts. He blew each component with the hand dryer, carefully reassembled the weapon, and inserted it back in its sheath still strapped to his ankle.
Proper procedures seemed tedious, but lazy men got convicted. If the law found him now, at least his weapon didn’t contain viable DNA. He used the urinal and left. San Diego was still over two hundred miles away. The darkness outside matched his mood. He walked toward his car.
He got in the Impala, placed the cleaning kit back in the glove box, and locked it. Still, something gnawed at him. He pulled onto the interstate. A partial detail of what he’d done still resided in the Chevy. He needed to be thorough.
At the third exit off the interstate, he drove into the desert a ways and stopped. From here, he could see every star in the blackened sky. He got out of the car, dry sand blowing across his face. The breeze would erase his tire and foot prints quickly.
He moved to the trunk of his Impala and removed a shovel. Fifty feet from the road, he dug a hole several feet deep and left his light for a marker. He went back for the special kit he’d made and removed it from the compartment. Once he put it in the ground, he covered and smoothed the dirt. The wind should do the rest. He grabbed the flashlight, got back into his car, and drove toward his destination.
Dawn swept over the mountains as he passed the El Cajon city limit sign. His head ached from no sleep. The thirst for tequila never abated throughout the night, and his eyes felt gritty. The trucking company would wait for a few hours. He needed a cheap motel that accepted cash and rest before he continued his search.
Paige struggled with familiar dreams throughout the night and felt relieved the phone awakened her. Bill’s voice on the other end brought her to attention. “Mark Bader’s a known loan shark. His business covers a good portion of southern California. Your information’s correct on him. He has an office at The Faded Pea restaurant. From what I could find out, I think he owns the place he frequents.”
“Hello to you, too.” She placed her hand over her mouth to cover a yawn.
“You sound half asleep.”
“I was, but I’m glad you called. I have a lot to accomplish today. Did you find any more information about Tom McCall?”
“Not much so far. It appears he moved from town to town a lot. The gaps are consistent. I assume he used various identities. I may need to use creative thinking to trace his movements. His truth can’t hide from me forever, but not every state required fingerprints back then. Might take time.”
“All right. You work on him, and I can check out our moneyman. The way traffic backs up out here, it may take me a while. Give me a call later to let me know how your search progresses. A change in events occurred here. I may need the murder book more than ever. Any chance you can get it?”
“I’ll see, but I have other work to do.”
“I really appreciate the help. Do what you can. I’ll squeeze more info from their prime suspect. I promise a steak dinner when I get back. How’s Hank?”
“Ornery. He misses the job.”
“I know. I’ve made efforts to involve him on a few cases. You know, ask his advice, but he won’t take the bait. I’m not sure what to try next.”
“The problem is he knows you’re good enough you don’t need his help.”
“Well I’ve got to try something. He puts bourbon in everything he drinks. We already know liquor didn’t worked out for Bobby’s dad. Besides, he’s not supposed to drink with his heart condition. Did he let you spend the night?”
“Yeah. I didn’t give him much choice, but we talked. You’re right. We need to find him something to do, or at least, get him away from the house more.”
“After I get back, we’ll conspire against him. Surely we can figure a plan of some kind.”
“While I eat the steak dinner you owe me.”
“It’s a deal.”
She grinned, disconnected, and flipped the covers back. The smile lingered. She stretched for a few seconds and climbed out. She checked the time. If she skipped breakfast, she could go for a short run. Her workout clothes from the night before smelled, so she decided to wear old jeans and her sleep T-shirt. They’d do. She hoped Greta would launder them before she arrived back later in the day.
She used the door to the garage and pushed the button to activate the overhead. She took off down the drive to the gorgeous view the Pacific offered. Once she completed two quick miles, she headed for the shower.
When she came out, Josh sat on her bed. Her body jerked and the towel slipped lower on her breasts.
“What the hell? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I was afraid you’d leave without me.” Josh watched the top edge along the terrycloth.
“I planned to, but I had another idea. We need to get a different car. The two you own stand out too much. I think a brown one, several years old. A Chevy, Ford, maybe a Toyota. What do you think?”
“I think in LA you stick out if you don’t drive a Porsche.” His eyes never left her cleavage.
“Ha-ha. I’m serious. We can use an old junker if it doesn’t smoke. I may need to do stakeout work or tail someone. Something nondescript.” She grabbed clean clothes from her bag and secured the towel with her left hand. Her underwear slid to the floor.
“I haven’t seen any of those in . . . in maybe never. Do you actually wear those?” Josh laughed aloud.
Her face flamed. She picked them up and walked with purpose into the bathroom. Once she closed the door firmly behind her, she clicked the lock.
Several minutes later she came out and sat in the chair across from her bed. She put on her socks and shoes and refused to let him intimidate her. “So I don’t wear sexy panties. What business is it of yours? You won’t see them anymore. Hank always bought me those when I was young. I never saw a reason to change.” She shrugged.
“He bought you old lady panties. Surely, men have commented on them before.”
“I don’t care if you’re not a fan of plain cotton briefs. Not your concern.” She gave him a pointed look. Her cheeks burned.
He shook his head, but the grin still spread across his face. “I suppose you’re right.” He opened his mouth to say more, but she cut him off.
“The investigation needs our attention.” She walked out of the room and to the garage, where she climbed into the Porsche’s driver’s seat. Josh’s expression implied she should give him the keys.
“This time I know the way. Besides, I might never get another chance to drive a Porsche again. So I’ll take advantage while I can.” She patted the steering wheel and smiled at him like she’d already won the battle.
He hesitated a few seconds and got in the passenger’s side. “Where’re we going?”
“I need to verify a few details with Ben.”
“What type of details?”
She glanced his way. “Questions I have that you need to let me get answered. Remember, what you don’t know, you can’t testify to. You’ve got to trust me a little, if this . . . whatever you call it, will get us anywhere. I need to talk to Ben without you.”
She backed up and stomped the gas pedal when she took off through the gate to the drive. Josh grabbed the door handle. His knuckles turned white. She chuckled.
They’d turned her life upside down. The time had come to get a little back.
The vehicle performed like she imagined an Indy car would. She sprinted a short stint with a heavy gas pedal and eased their speed to five miles past the limit. She slowed for heavier traffic. Before long she parked in front of the jail and got out. Josh came around, climbed in, and drove away to find parking until she finished with Ben.
She saw McCall’s expression change once he recognized her. He couldn’t hide the disappointment as they brought him into the room behind the clear thick partition. She hoped it didn’t mean he had ideas about Caroline. He wasn’t the right guy for her. Caroline was the real deal when it came to her beliefs. She figured she didn’t get through to Ben before.
If Caroline got hurt over this trip, she’d be pissed at herself. She brought her friend out here to help him. Guilt leaned heavy on her heart. If Ben imagined he could play with Caroline and throw her aside like he did other women, she’d set him straight.
He sat down. She did likewise. He lifted the phone and waited for her to speak. She wanted to scream at him her suspicions, but they needed to come last, after she got what she wanted from him.
She sat quietly for another moment before she finally spoke. “I need answers to a few more questions. Did Jacob Carston visit you yet?”
He nodded.
“Did you agree to hire him?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need the best answers you can remember. What clothes did you wear the night the police arrived?”
“I hadn’t been home long. I still wore my brown slacks and a gold Polo shirt. Why? Is it important?” He chewed the side of his lip.
The clothes didn’t match the description for the ones Hannah Evans said the killer wore.
“It could be. Did you mean you hadn’t been home long from Tony’s, or did you mean you went out for the evening or something?”
“Both, actually, but earlier. I went to The Grove for a few items. I ate dinner and drove home. I hadn’t changed yet before the doorbell rang.”
“So you didn’t change at any time from the period when you went to The Grove and the time the police arrived?”
“No. What’s this about?” He lifted his right brow and tilted his head a little.
“I need to get your timeline in perspective. While you walked around at The Grove, did anyone want a picture with you? Did someone recognize you? Anyone who could prove your alibi?”
“I don’t remember, but people approach me every time I go out. I don’t think about it anymore.”
“Where did you eat?”
“The Cheesecake Factory.”
“What time?”
“I’m not sure. Seven or eight. I’m just not sure.” He shrugged.
“Think about it later. If you remember anything, let me know.” She switched the receiver to her other hand. She wanted to verify he didn’t lie to her. “Now, after I get discovery, the clothes you wore will show brown slacks and a gold Polo shirt, right?”
He nodded.
“What brand were the pants?”
“Armani. What does it matter?” He shrugged again.
“Because whoever killed your father would be covered in brains and blood. So their clothes would be too. You can’t inflict so much damage to someone and not coat yourself with the evidence.”
“My clothes were clean. A little sand and sea water on the cuffs, but nothing more.”
“This could help you in court. We’ll see what happens. How about the murder weapon? Did you see one when you got back, before the police got there?”
“No.”
She could tell from his expression he held something back. “No more bullshit. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t give me your innocent look. You already gave yourself away a minute ago. What did you do with the murder weapon?” She watched him for a tell.
“Nothing. I swear.”
“Answer my other question. What are you not telling me? I know there’s something. What is it?”
He hesitated for a moment. “My Slugger’s missing.”
“What do you mean your bat’s missing.”
“I used it out by the pool earlier in the day. I practiced for my next role. After I got back from my walk to Tony’s, I didn’t see it anywhere around the pool or patio area. The police got there so quick. I think it’s gone, but I couldn’t ask them. I figured I was in trouble. I didn’t want them to know I owned what might be the murder weapon.”
She rubbed her thumb along the scratched edge of the table top and sat in quiet thought. “How long ago did you buy the bat?”
“About a week before my old man showed up.”
“So the police can prove you bought a brand new bat.”
“Yes.” He nodded and stared down at his hand.
“Why?”
“I owned an old metal one. My film director wanted me to practice with a new bat. One closer to the real weight I would use in the film. So I went out and bought a Louisville Slugger like the one used in the screenplay.”
“Did you use a credit card?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” He rolled his eyes at her.
“No, everyone doesn’t. The credit card will link it back to you. The police run a credit check first thing. So by now they already know you bought one. Which was right before your father died, almost like you knew he would show up. Believe me, it’s what I’d think if I investigated this case. It shows premeditation. Which means they file murder one on you.”
