“I’ll make it fast,” Daniel murmured back, then cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” He’d already introduced himself when he’d taken their statements and whereabouts at the time of Janet’s death Thursday night. A few postured, but all complied. “We’ve tentatively identified the body found in Arcadia Sunday afternoon as that of Janet Bowie.” No one was surprised at this point. “We’ll run confirmatory DNA testing and I’ll schedule a press conference when we have definitive findings.”
Jim Woolf stood up. “What was the official cause of death?”
“I’ll have an official statement as to cause of death tomorrow.” Daniel checked his watch. “I mean later today. Probably after noon.”
The mayor smoothed his tie. “Agent Vartanian, do you have any suspects?”
“We have some leads, Mayor Davis,” Daniel said. That title felt odd. He’d played football with Garth Davis in high school. Garth had been a thickheaded jock back then, one of the last people Daniel would have expected to run for mayor, much less win. But Garth did come from a long line of politicians. Garth’s daddy had been Dutton’s mayor for years. “I’ll have an official statement tomorrow.”
“Toby, how is Mrs. Bowie?” Woolf asked, directing his question to the town’s doctor.
“Resting,” Toby Granville said, but everyone knew that meant “sedated.” Everyone had heard the poor woman’s shrieks when her husband told her the ID was official.
Daniel gestured toward the door. “It’s very late. I’m sure everyone here means to offer their support, but you all need to go home. Please.”
The mayor held back as everyone exited. “Daniel, do you have any suspects?”
Daniel sighed. The day was catching up to him. “Garth . . .”
Davis leaned closer. “I’m going to have all the residents of Dutton calling me as soon as the Review hits their front porches. They’re going to be worried about the safety of their families. Please give me something more to tell them than you’ve got leads.”
“That’s all I can tell you because it’s all we know. We’ve only just identified her in the last two hours. Give us a day, at least.”
Frowning, Davis nodded. “You’ll call my office?”
“I promise.”
Finally everyone was gone and it was just Daniel and Michael and Toby Granville. “I thought they’d never leave,” Michael said, his shoulders sagging wearily.
Granville tugged on his tie. “I’m going to go check on your mother before I head out. You call me if she needs anything during the night.”
Daniel shook both men’s hands. “If there’s anything you or your family needs, Michael, please call me.” He stepped through the Bowies’ front door and was immediately hit by a strong gusty wind. A storm was blowing in, he thought as he looked down the big hill to the street where three additional news vans had now congregated. The reporters swarmed from the vans when they spied him up on the stoop. Like locusts, Daniel thought with an inner wince. He could kind of see Frank’s point, in the smallest of ways.
He steeled himself for the onslaught as he made his way down the hill past a Mercedes, two BMWs, a Rolls-Royce, a Jag, and a Lincoln Town Car to where he’d left his own state-issued vehicle. Reporters from the news van had been interviewing Garth, but they swarmed toward him as he passed by.
“Agent Vartanian, can you comment . . .” Daniel lifted his hand, silencing them.
“We’ve identified the Arcadia victim as Janet Bowie.” Lights flashed as they took their pictures and rolled their video and Daniel put on his best press face.
“Has the congressman been notified?”
Daniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, or I wouldn’t be telling you now. No more comments for tonight. I’ll be scheduling a press conference for tomorrow. Call the PR hotline at GBI headquarters for the time and venue. Good night.”
He started walking and one of the reporters followed. “Agent Vartanian, how does it feel investigating a murder in your hometown just a week after your brother’s murder?”
Daniel stopped and blinked at the young man holding the microphone. Simon hadn’t been murdered. To use that word was an affront to victims and their families everywhere. Simon had been exterminated. But that word was inflammatory in its own right. So Daniel said only, “No comment.” The man opened his mouth to push and Daniel gave him a look so cold the reporter took a physical step back.
“No more questions,” the man said in answer to the threat Daniel had left unvoiced.
It was a look Daniel had learned from his father. Freezing men with a single look was one of Arthur Vartanian’s many skills. Daniel didn’t employ the skill often, but when he did, it was effective. “Good night.”
When he got to his car, Daniel closed his eyes. He’d dealt with grieving families for years, and it never got easier. But it was Frank Loomis’s behavior that bothered him the most. Frank had been the closest thing Daniel had had to a real father. God knew Arthur Vartanian hadn’t filled that role. To be the object of Frank’s . . . scorn. It stung.
However, Frank was human, and learning of Arthur Vartanian’s duplicity in Simon’s “first death” must have been hard to take. It made Frank look foolish, and the press had exacerbated it all, making Frank appear a hokey hometown sheriff who couldn’t tie his shoes without help. It was no wonder Frank was angry. I’d be angry, too.
He pulled away from the news vans headed toward Main Street. He was exhausted and he still had to find Lamar Washington’s jazz bar before he finally got to sleep.
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 1:40 a.m.
They were leaving, Alex thought, standing at the window of the bungalow, watching all the cars come down the hill. Wondering from whose house they’d come. She pulled her robe closer, fighting a chill that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
She’d dreamed again. Thunder and lightning. And screams, jagged piercing screams. She’d been at the morgue and the woman on the table had sat up and stared through sightless eyes. But her eyes were Bailey’s, her hand Bailey’s as she reached out, her flesh waxy and . . . dead. And she’d said, “Please. Help me.”
Alex had woken in a cold sweat, shaking so hard she was sure she’d wake Hope. But the child slept heavily. Unsettled, Alex had come out to the living room to pace.
And to worry. Where are you, Bailey? And how do I take care of your baby girl?
“Please, God,” she whispered. “Don’t let me mess this up.”
But there was no return whisper in the dark and Alex stood, watching car after car come down the hill. Then one slowed and stopped in front of her bungalow.
Her stomach tightened in fear and she thought about the gun in the lockbox until she recognized the car and its driver.
Daniel’s car rolled down Main Street, past the park with the carousel, stopping outside Alex’s rented bungalow. He’d lied to her tonight and it was eating him up.
She’d asked him straight out what he knew and he’d told her there was nothing to tell. Which, he averred, was not a total lie. He didn’t have anything to tell her yet. He certainly wouldn’t show her the pictures of her sister being violated. Alex Fallon had been through enough without seeing that.
He thought about Wade Crighton. I’ll see you in hell. Her stepbrother had known Simon, and that could never be good. Wade had tried to rape Alex and for that alone Daniel was glad he was dead. Alex thought she’d kept her story light, but Daniel had seen the truth in her eyes.
And if her stepbrother had tried to molest her once thinking she was Alicia, maybe he’d done so again. Maybe it was Wade in the picture with Alicia Tremaine. The man had two legs, so Daniel was positive it was not Simon, but if they’d known each other . . .
And who were the other girls? It had been nagging him. Maybe they were local girls. Maybe they’d gone to the public school. Daniel wouldn’t have known them, but Simon might have. Daniel wondered if there were any other small-town murders he just hadn’t heard about yet. He wondered if the other girls in the pi
ctures were dead, too.
Give the pictures to Chase. The thought had been circling his mind for a week. He had turned the pictures over to the Philly police, which was the only thing that was letting him get any sleep at all. But Daniel was sure Vito Ciccotelli hadn’t had time to do anything with the envelope full of pictures he’d given him less than two weeks ago. Vito and his partner were still up to their asses cleaning up the mess Simon had left behind.
I’ll see you in hell, Simon. Daniel wondered what messes Wade and Simon had left behind, although any crimes they’d committed would be more than ten years old. He had a brand-new crime. He owed his concentration to Janet Bowie. He needed to find out who hated her enough to kill her in such a way.
Then again, Janet Bowie might have simply been a convenient target and not the object of any rage or revenge. Or . . . Daniel thought of Congressman Bowie. The man had taken some tough stances on controversial issues. Maybe somebody hated him enough to kill his daughter. But why the tie to Alicia? Why now? And why leave a key?
He’d put his car in gear when the bungalow door opened and Alex stepped onto the porch and his breath caught in his throat. She wore a sensible robe that covered her from her chin to her toes. It should have made her look dowdy and plain, but all he could think about was what lay underneath. The wind had kicked up, tossing her glossy hair, and she scooped it back with one hand to stare at him across the tiny front yard.
There was no smile on her face. The thought registered as he killed his engine and crossed her yard, single-minded in his intent. To leave her, to drive on by, never entered his mind, only to have now what he’d wanted earlier, what the call from the Fun-N-Sun security chief had kept him from taking. He needed to see that wide-eyed wonder again, the look in her eyes when she’d finally understood what he wanted from her. He needed to see that she wanted him, too.
Without slowing for a greeting, he took the porch stairs in one step, took her face in his hands, covered her mouth with his, and took what he needed. She made a hungry sound deep in her throat and leaned up on her toes, trying to get closer, and the kiss exploded into motion and heat.
She let go of her hair and her robe to clutch at the lapels of his coat, propelling her mouth into his. Daniel let go of her face to pull her arms around his neck. He splayed his hands across her slender back and pulled until her body was flush against him and he took what he wanted as the wind whistled and screamed around them.
It had been too long, was all he could think, all he could hear over the wind and the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Too long since he’d felt like this. Alive. Invincible. Too damn long. Or maybe never.
Too soon she slid back down until her heels hit the porch, ending the kiss and taking her warmth with her. Needing more, he ran his lips over her jaw and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. He shuddered, breathing hard as her hands stroked his hair, soothing. And as his pulse slowed, his mind returned and his cheeks heated in embarrassment at the depth of his need. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, lifting his head. “I don’t normally do things like that.”
She traced his lips with her fingers. “Neither do I. But I needed it tonight. Thank you.”
Annoyance bubbled up through him. “Stop thanking me.” It was almost a snarl and she flinched as if he’d struck her. Feeling about an inch tall, he bowed his head and caught her hand, bringing her fingers back to his lips when she tried to pull away. “I’m sorry. But I don’t want you thinking I’m doing this for any other reason than that I wanted to.” Needed to. “I wanted to,” he repeated. “I wanted you. I still do.”
She drew a breath and he could see her pulse throbbing at the hollow of her throat. The wind was whipping her hair and once again she scooped it back out of her face. “I see.” Her lips curved to lighten her words, but her eyes were stark. Haunted, even.
“What happened?” he demanded.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
Daniel clenched his jaw. “Alex.”
She looked away. “Nothing. I just had a bad dream, that’s all.” She looked back and met his eyes. “I had a bad dream, so I got up. And there you were.”
He pressed his lips to her palm. “I stopped here because I was thinking about you. And there you were. And I couldn’t stop myself.”
She shivered and he glanced down as she shifted, covering one totally bare foot with the other. He frowned. “Alex, you’re not wearing any shoes.”
Her lips curved, sincerely this time. “I wasn’t expecting to stand out on my porch kissing you.” She leaned up and into his mouth, kissing him a good deal more softly than he’d kissed her. “But I liked it.”
And it was suddenly as simple as that. He smiled down at her. “Go back into your house and lock your door and cover your feet. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Six-thirty.”
Chapter Seven
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 1:55 a.m.
Alex closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed. Heart still racing. She brought her hands to her face, smelling his scent that lingered on her palms. She’d almost forgotten how good a man could smell. With a sigh she opened her eyes, then pressed her hands to her mouth to muffle a shriek.
Meredith sat at the table choosing a hat for Mr. Potato Head. She grinned as she plugged the hat in the hole meant for the feet because lips already protruded from the top of the head. “I thought I was gonna have to bring you your shoes.”
Alex ran her tongue over her teeth. “You were sitting there the whole time?”
“Mostly.” Her grin widened. “I heard the car stop outside, then heard you open the door. I was afraid you’d decided to test your new . . . thing.” She lifted a brow.
“Hope’s asleep. You can call it a gun.”
“Oh,” Meredith said, blinking innocently. “That, too.”
Alex laughed. “You’re so bad.”
“I know.” She waggled her brows. “So was he? Bad, I mean. It sounded bad.”
Alex shot her a guarded look. “He’s very nice.”
“Nice is not nice. Bad is nice. She’ll tell me all,” she said to the potato-head, which looked more like a Picasso-head with every feature out of place. “I have my ways.”
“You scare me sometimes, Mer. Why are you playing with this? Hope’s asleep.”
“Because I like to play with toys. You should try it, Alex. It might relax you a little.”
Alex sat down at the table. “I am relaxed.”
“She lies. She’s wound tighter than a corkscrew,” Meredith said to the potato-head. Then her eyes grew sober. “What are you dreaming, Alex? Still the screams?”
“Yes.” Alex took the toy, aimlessly twirling an ear. “And the body I saw today.”
“I should have gone instead.”
“No, I needed to see for myself that it wasn’t Bailey. But in my dream it is. She sits up and says, ‘Please. Help me.’ ”
“Your subconscious is a powerful force. You want her to be alive, and so do I, but you have to come to terms with what happens if she’s not, or if you never find her at all. Or maybe worse, if you find her and can’t fix her.”
Alex gritted her teeth. “You make me sound like some Dr. Roboto control freak.”
“You are, honey,” Meredith said gently. “Just look.”
Alex looked at the toy in her hands. Meredith’s Picasso-head was no more, every feature now properly placed in the right slot. “This is just a toy,” she said, annoyed.
“No, it’s not,” Meredith said sadly, “but you keep on thinking that if you need to.”
“All right. I like control. I like to have everything neatly labeled. That’s not bad.”
“Nope. And sometimes you get a wild hair and buy a thing.”
“Or kiss a man I just met?”
“That, too, so you aren’t without hope.” Meredith winced a little. “No pun intended.”
“Of course not. But I think that’s exactly why Bailey gave her that name.”
“I agree. These toys are
important, Alex. Don’t discount them. Play takes our minds to a place where our guard comes down. Remember that when you play with Hope.”
“Daniel’s bringing his dog over tomorrow to see if Hope likes animals.”
“That’s nice of him.”
Alex raised a brow. “I thought nice wasn’t nice.”
“Only when it comes to sex, kid. I’m going back to sleep. You should try, too.”
Tuesday, January 30, 4:00 a.m.
Someone was crying. Bailey listened hard. It wasn’t the man in the next cell. She wasn’t sure he was even conscious anymore. No, the weeping came from farther away. She looked up at the ceiling, expecting to see speakers. She saw none, but it didn’t mean they weren’t there. He might try to brainwash her.
Because she hadn’t told him what he wanted to know. Not yet. Not ever.
She closed her eyes. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind. The weeping abruptly stopped and she looked up at the ceiling again. And made herself think of Hope. You’re not losing your mind, Bailey. You can’t. Hope needs you.
It had been the mantra she’d chanted when Hope was a baby, when Bailey had wanted a fix so bad she thought she’d die. Hope needs you. It had gotten her through and would continue to do so. If he doesn’t kill me first. Which was a definite possibility.
Then in the next cell she heard a noise. She held her breath and listened as the sound became a scraping. Someone was scraping at the wall between the two cells.
She pulled herself to her hands and knees, grimacing when the room spun around her. She crawled toward the wall, a few inches at a time, then breathed. And waited.
The scraping stilled, but a tapping took its place, the same rhythm again and again. Code? Dammit. She didn’t know any codes. She hadn’t been a Girl Scout.
It could be a trap. It could be him, trying to trick her.
Or it could be another human. Tentatively she reached into the dark and tapped back. The tapping on the other side stopped and the scraping began again. She’d been wrong. The scraping wasn’t on the wall, it was on the floor. Wincing at the pain in her fingertips, Bailey pushed at the old concrete floor and felt it crumble.