Don't Cry (31 page)

 

J.D. answered his phone after the first ring. “Cass here.”

“Yeah, this here is Eugene Vann.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Vann. Have you taken a good look at the photos I e-mailed you?”
Please, God, please, let him ID either Roberts or Arden as the guy who bought the old Lincoln.

“Sure have. Took my time, just like you said. I wanted to make sure before I called you.”

“And?”

“And I can't say for certain.”

J.D. felt like a tire gone suddenly flat. “You don't recognize either man?”

“Didn't say that. I just said I couldn't be certain, at least not about one of 'em.”

“What do you mean?”

“The picture you got labeled Number One. I don't think it's him. Got the same coloring and all, same look about him, but it ain't him.”

Hart Roberts's photo was labeled #1.

“What about the other photo?” J.D. asked.

“Well, there's where I'm not sure. Could be him. He sure looks more like the fellow I remember than the other guy. But there's something different about him. Could just be the picture, I guess, but there's something not quite the same. Can't put my finger on it. It's like this guy maybe could be a brother to the man I sold the Lincoln to instead of being him.”

“Then the resemblance is strong enough that they could be mistaken for brothers?”

“Yeah, that's what I said. If I saw the man in person, I might be able to say for sure. I thought I could ID him from a picture, but I wouldn't want to swear when I ain't a hundred percent sure.”

“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Vann. I appreciate your help.”

“Any time, Special Agent Cass, any time. I'm a God-fearing, law-abiding citizen and I'm proud to do my part to help out you state boys.”

After the phone call ended, J.D. sat at his desk, his thoughts centered on the best way to use the information. No positive ID that would stand up in court. Nothing that would warrant arresting Jeremy Arden or putting the man in a lineup.

Eugene Vann couldn't be sure that Arden was the man who had bought the old Lincoln from him, but he'd been sure it was not Hart Roberts. Was Jeremy Arden also using the name Corey Bennett? If so, did that mean that Luther Chaney's illegitimate child wasn't Corey Bennett, that whoever the boy was he had nothing to do with the Rocking Chair Murders?

If he eliminated Hart Roberts and concentrated only on keeping tabs on Jeremy Arden and locating Luther Chaney's bastard son, could he be certain that one of them was the man who had already murdered three women and abducted a fourth? Yes, definitely yes, his gut instinct told him. It had to be one or the other, didn't it?

But what if your gut instinct is wrong?

Jeremy had needed a fix last night. Had needed one bad. But he hadn't been able to score, so he'd settled for getting pass-out drunk. The thoughts that had driven him to drink last night had returned this morning, as strong and tormenting as ever.

He couldn't get her off his mind.

Regina Bennett wouldn't die.

No matter how many times he mentally killed her, she kept coming back. Again and again.

Damn you! Get out of my head. Go away and never come back.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he moaned as his stomach rumbled. He was going to throw up again.

Within minutes, he was hanging over the commode, groaning and puking. He knew better than to drink so damn much of the hard stuff. It wasn't as if this hadn't happened to him before more than once. He deserved what he got, even if he was suffering from alcohol poisoning.

Merciful God, he felt like shit.

Fumbling from the toilet to the sink, nearly falling into the wall, Jeremy managed to turn on the faucets and splash cold water on his face.

He had to get hold of himself, had to find a way to separate fact from fiction. His muddled brain kept messing him up, kept telling him things that weren't true.

Or were they?

He stared at himself in the mirror. “Regina Bennett is dead.”

That's right. She's dead. And you didn't kill her. She died in Moccasin Bend.

But what about the other one?

What other one?

Jeremy beat on his head with his fists.

Damn it, you know, you know. The other Regina. The one rocking Cody in her arms.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a mocking bird.
He could hear her singing to him, her voice soft and sweet, her arms tender and caring.

No! She was a monster. She stole me from my real mother. She thought I was Cody. She was going to kill me.

And that's why I have to make her go away. Again and again.

Every time she reappears, I have to get rid of her. I have to make her stop tormenting me. I have to make her get out of my head. If I don't, I'll go crazy.

Jeremy laughed hysterically.

“I'm already freaking crazy,” he said aloud as he dropped to his knees on the bathroom floor. “God help me.”

 

J.D. had been living off coffee and fast food, sleeping no more than four hours at night, and hadn't seen his daughter in five days. He'd been living and breathing the Rocking Chair Killer cases, determined to find the son of a bitch before he killed Somer Ellis. As best he could, he had coordinated his efforts—the TBI's efforts—with Garth and Tam and the CPD. Garth had continued to set aside any hostility he'd felt toward J.D. in order for them to work together to solve this case. Garth Hudson was the only person who was even more determined than J.D. to find their killer before he could kill again.

Armed with Eugene Vann's “could be him” ID of Jeremy Arden as the man who had called himself Corey Bennett, J.D. had at least gotten the CPD to put an around-the-clock tail on the guy. So far—nothing. If he had kidnapped Somer Ellis and was keeping her under lock and key somewhere, he hadn't checked on her in several days. Of course, she might already be dead. But if she was, why hadn't her body shown up?

Then again, maybe Arden wasn't their guy. Maybe Hart Roberts was, despite Eugene Vann's certainty that he wasn't the man who had bought the old Lincoln. Or maybe the real Corey Bennett, Regina Bennett's son, a second child fathered by her uncle, was out there somewhere, a man living under another identity. A judge had finally issued the court order that allowed the TBI to search the sealed birth records, starting with the state of Tennessee, of every male child adopted the year that Dora Chaney married Frank Elmore. If there was a record of Corey Bennett or any child with the last name of either Bennett or Chaney, it was only a matter of time before the TBI secured the information.

J.D. parked the Camaro, killed the engine, and sat there for a few minutes. He had spoken to Zoe once every day, usually at night before her bedtime. Their conversations had been succinct, as if for both of them the daily call was a mere formality. He was trying to be a good dad; she was trying to be the kind of daughter she thought he wanted.

He hadn't seen or spoken to Audrey since Saturday evening. But despite being consumed with the Rocking Chair Killer cases, he had thought quite a bit about her, far more than he should have. At the oddest moments, her pretty face would pop into his mind. Her soft pink mouth curving into a smile. Her smooth, slender neck inviting his touch. Her green-and gold-flecked brown eyes gazing at him with a combination of curiosity and longing.

If you need a woman, there are a lot less dangerous choices. You know damn well that Audrey Sherrod is off-limits. And you know all the reasons why she is.

When Zoe had called and asked him if he could take time from his busy schedule to at least stop by and have dinner with her, why hadn't he told her he couldn't make it? Why had he instantly said, “What time?”

Because he missed his daughter? Sure, that was part of it. Oddly enough, he did miss Zoe. He'd sort of gotten used to having her around. He had been alone most of his life and had convinced himself he liked it that way. J.D. Cass was a loner, a guy who didn't want or need anyone else.

He barely remembered his mother, and his sister Julia had no memory of her at all since she'd left them high and dry when Julia was barely a year old. Sometimes he thought he could remember her laughter, and other times he was sure he remembered the sound of her crying. But what he remembered most about his childhood was their old man. Jed Cass had been a man's man in every sense of the word. Hard as nails. Unemotional but not uncaring. As long as their dad lived, he and Julia had known they could count on him. He'd never once told them he loved them, but he had shown them every day of his life. J.D. had been just shy of nineteen when the old man had died. A freak accident. After an ice storm had downed power lines, Jed Cass, along with the utility company's other electricians, had worked around the clock. On his way home, driving up Fifth Street that freezing-cold February morning, his father had been killed. An enormous overhanging limb from one of the many oak trees that lined the street had broken off from the weight of the ice, hit his truck, and crushed the cab down on him, breaking his neck and killing him instantly.

J.D. had dropped out of college and gotten a job so he could support himself and Julia. Eventually, he'd earned a degree by attending night classes, after going through the academy and being hired by the Memphis PD. He supposed that in some ways, he'd been as much a father to Julia as he had a big brother. So why was it that he couldn't make that father-and-daughter connection with his own daughter?

Julia had been easy. He had loved her always, from the first moment he saw her. She had such a sweet disposition, and never once had she defied him. Zoe wasn't easy. He hadn't loved her instantly. And God knew no one would ever call her sweet. She was far too much like him in every way. And he'd be damned if she didn't defy him every chance she got, although he had to admit that since Audrey had come into their lives, Zoe's behavior had greatly improved.

So get your sorry ass out of the car and go have supper with your daughter. For Zoe's sake, you can spend a couple of hours in Audrey Sherrod's company without her managing to put a ring through your nose.

Now where the hell had that thought come from? What made him think Audrey wanted to put a ring through his nose?

Because it was the women whose strength came wrapped in gentleness who were dangerous to men. Steel magnolias. Velvet steamrollers. Both descriptions fit Audrey. He didn't know how to deal with that type of woman. He had always steered clear of them.

Even his ex-wife had been a tough, in-your-face bitch. That type he knew how to handle. Since his divorce, it had been strictly love 'em and leave 'em. If he'd been smarter, that's what he would have done with Erin. Marrying her had been a huge mistake. But he'd been young and stupid.

Now he was no longer young, and he wasn't going to do anything stupid. He could handle his attraction to Audrey.

 

Zoe had helped Audrey put a beef roast and vegetables in the Crock-Pot before they left that morning. All they'd had to do was prepare a green salad and pop some store-bought rolls into the oven for dinner. She would have preferred not to see J.D. again so soon, not until she had gotten any foolish notions about him out of her mind. But Zoe wanted to see her father. And Audrey believed that whether he knew it or not, J.D. needed to see his daughter.

She had stayed in the kitchen and let Zoe answer the door and spend some one-on-one time with her father before dinner. When Zoe and J.D. had entered the kitchen, he had nodded, said hello, and thanked her for inviting him to dinner.

“Something sure smells good,” he'd said.

During dinner, Audrey managed to keep a pleasant smile in place and held up her end of the conversation. Zoe took the lead by telling J.D. about school, this new boy she liked, and an upcoming field trip tomorrow.

“This boy you keep talking about—?” J.D. asked.

“Noah Brady,” Zoe said.

“Yeah, about this Noah Brady—?”

For a second time, Zoe cut J.D. off midsentence. “You'll approve of him. He's fifteen. He doesn't have a car or a driver's license, of course. He doesn't drink or smoke or do drugs. His dad's a banker and his mother is a professor at UTC.”

“He's fifteen, huh?” J.D.'s lips twitched. “Sounds about right.”

“So, you don't have any objection to our going to a movie together, do you? Maybe this weekend?”

“I'd take Zoe and Noah's mom would bring him; we'd drop the kids off and then pick them up when the movie's over,” Audrey explained.

“Sounds as if you two already have this all worked out.” He looked at Audrey. “I trust your judgment. If you think it's okay, then—”

Jumping to her feet, Zoe shoved back her chair and hurled herself at J.D. Audrey couldn't help laughing at the shocked look on his face when Zoe actually hugged him.

Pulling back and smiling at her father, Zoe said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I promise I'll behave myself and not get into any trouble.”

J.D. cleared his throat and then grinned, but he didn't say anything. Audrey suspected that despite evidence to the contrary, J.D. Cass was not an uncaring, insensitive brute.

“May I be excused?” Zoe asked Audrey. “I want to call Noah and tell him that we're definitely on for Saturday night.”

“Go call him,” Audrey said. “And I'll double-check with his mother in the morning to coordinate—”

Zoe ran out of the kitchen before Audrey finished her sentence, leaving Audrey and J.D. alone. For several minutes, neither of them spoke, but when the tension grew unbearable, Audrey asked if he'd care for dessert.

“Just cookies, I'm afraid,” she told him.

He patted his stomach. “Nothing for me, thanks. I couldn't eat another bite.”

“Coffee or hot tea or—?”

“No coffee. I've probably drunk enough coffee lately to fill the Tennessee River.”

“I know y'all are working around the clock,” Audrey said. “Tam's been living on Cokes and potato chips.” Audrey paused, considered what she wanted to say, and then said it. “She told me that you're not really looking at Hart as a suspect now. I'm glad you know my stepbrother isn't a killer.”

“He was never a suspect.”

“A person of interest, then.” Audrey got up and began clearing the table.

“He's still a person of interest, but not the focus of our investigation.” J.D. rose to his feet and immediately assisted Audrey by stacking his and Zoe's plates and carrying them to the sink. “I'm sure Tam told you that we've got more information to work with now than we've had at any other time since Jill Scott was abducted and murdered.”

“Yes, she mentioned it. Just in general terms. Nothing confidential. And Tam says Uncle Garth is like a man obsessed. She's never seen him so crazed with finding a killer. Part of what's riding him so hard is probably knowing that if or when this man kills again, the child he places in Somer Ellis's arms will be Blake.”

“Yeah, I'm afraid that's inevitable. Your brother was the fourth Baby Blue toddler and Somer is the fourth kidnap victim.”

“How close are you—the TBI and the CPD—to finding him?”

“Closer than we were, but not nearly close enough. Time's running out.”

Audrey nodded and then glanced away, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes. If he tried to comfort her, if he touched her even in the most innocent way, she wasn't sure how she might react.

For the next five minutes, they worked side by side, clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, and cleaning up in the kitchen. And then, as they were going into the living room, what she had dreaded most happened. He placed his hand on the small of her back as he followed her from one room to the other. The moment he touched her, she froze. When she stopped unexpectedly, the action brought his chest in direct contact with her back.

“Audrey?” His voice was low and deep, his mouth close to her ear.

“J.D., please—”

Zoe burst into the room, all but jumping up and down with excitement. “It's all set. Saturday night. And we even agreed on the movie we want to see. Isn't that fabulous? Oh, and guess what? He said no Dutch treat. This is a real date and he believes the guy should always pay on a real date.”

“He's a smart boy,” J.D. said. “Seems somebody's teaching him the right way to treat a lady.”

Audrey managed to make her legs move forward so that she could walk away from J.D.

“Supper was great, as was the company,” J.D. said. “I hate to eat and run, but—”