Before She Dies (14 page)
Charlotte set the crystal down and picked up an angel pendant much like the one Mariah wore. She held the angel up to the light and watched as the afternoon sun made the fake gold sparkle.
Her mind tripped back to when Mariah and she were in their mid-teens. Sooner was just weeks away from birth.
“So who gave you that?” Grace stood at the stove and opened a can of tomato soup, which she poured into a stainless steel pot.
Mariah fingered the angel necklace. “It’s just a present.”
“I can see that. But from who?”
“You are so nosy.”
Grace set the stove on warm and, grabbing a wooden spoon, slowly stirred the soup. “Maybe I have to be to learn anything from you. Lately, you’ve got too many secrets.”
That coaxed a smile. “Mama always said a woman needed secrets if she was gonna keep her man interested.”
“You think that’s working so well for you?”
Mariah stuck up her nose. “It ain’t like you’re a virgin.”
“It was just the one time.”
Mariah laughed. “You’ll get wrinkles and look old before your time if you keep frowning.” She pushed up out of the chair and stretched. “I can’t wait to have this kid out so we can get on with our lives.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?” She wasn’t anxious for the child’s birth.
“I sure do. I want us to run around like we used to.”
Grace dropped her gaze to the soup, which had started to simmer. They’d been a team since day one. But not so much anymore. “I don’t think we’ll ever get back to where we were.”
“The baby won’t change things.”
“The baby changes it all.”
“Charlotte,” Sooner called out. “I’d like you to meet Mark Rogers. He owns Ageless.”
Charlotte set down the angel and looked toward the sound of Sooner’s voice. She found the young woman standing next to a reed-thin guy who was a few inches taller than Sooner. He wore a black T-shirt, faded jeans, white high-top tennis shoes, and long hair tied at the nape of his neck. An endless menagerie of tattoos formed sleeves up and down each arm, and on the side of his neck was the image of devil’s horns. His left earlobe sported ten stud earrings.
Charming.
Sooner grinned proudly and she coaxed Mark forward. “We met at the carnival. He came into my tent and asked me to read his fortune. He said I did a great job and asked if I wanted a more permanent gig.”
“Is that so?”
Davis glanced at Charlotte’s icy stare, and then let it drop to the rings on his fingers. “She can really pull in the crowds.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Charlotte said. “So are you renting space to Sooner or hiring her?”
“He wanted to hire me,” Sooner said. “But I’ve had enough of working for people. I want my own business.”
“Working for him would certainly simplify things for you, Sooner. No social security taxes or business taxes.”
“That stuff can’t be that hard,” Sooner said. “I mean, don’t you go down to the courthouse and just file papers or something? I sure tagged along with Grady enough times when he had to file papers for the carnival.”
“It’s a little more than that. Can I see the space?”
Sooner’s eyes danced with excitement, and for the first time the girl’s youth really shone through. “It’s upstairs. Mark, you want to lead the way?”
“Sure.”
Charlotte could see that Sooner had cast some kind of spell over the guy. And that spell didn’t have anything to do with magic. It was about his hormones clashing with the sight of young full breasts, a sleek figure, and a lovely face.
Following Sooner and Mark, she climbed the narrow staircase to the second level. The space was not subdivided but open. There was one closet and two windows that overlooked a back alley that connected to another set of retail shops. The walls were a pale white and the floors hardwood. It looked more like a storage room than retail space.
“I know it needs work,” Sooner said. “But I think if I paint the walls a pale purple and put down rugs, find the right table and chairs, then I will be in business. Mark said he’d have a sign made for me and put it out front.”
Charlotte had to admire the girl’s ambition, which mirrored her own at that age. “It could be lovely.”
“And I’m thinking once the business takes off and starts to turn a profit, I can start selling a little merchandise. I’ve already talked to Mark, and he said I could if we shared the profits.”
“How generous.” Charlotte walked to the window and stared at the abandoned alley below and the green Dumpster. “So how much is the rent?”
“Fifteen hundred a month.”
“Is there a bathroom up here?”
“Down on the first floor,” Mark said.
“Running water?”
“First floor.”
“And the rent is fifteen hundred a month.” She didn’t hide her disdain. “That’s a lot of debt for you to take on right now, Sooner.”
“It’s what a lot of the other shops in the area are asking,” Mark said.
“He’s right. I’ve checked around, and I know I might be eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a while, but it will be worth it if I can get some steady clients.”
Sooner stared at Charlotte, her eyes wide with excitement while Mark stared only at Sooner. Not surprising. “Mark, do you mind if I speak to Sooner alone?”
He frowned. “What do you want to talk to her about?”
Charlotte’s smile was cool. “I’m her attorney and it’s my job to give her advice about this contract.”
“It’s all legal.”
“I didn’t say that it wasn’t. I just want to talk to Sooner about it in private.” Charlotte had devolved an icy stare over the years that left little room for discussion.
Mark, as she expected, dropped his gaze and took a step back. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
Sooner grinned at Mark. “You’re the best, baby.”
He cast her a glance reminiscent of a naughty boy and disappeared down the stairs. Charlotte waited until she heard the steady thud of his high-top shoes move to the front of the door.
“So do you love this place or not?” Sooner said.
“Not.”
Sooner cocked her head. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s expensive. It doesn’t come with a bathroom or running water, and I’ll bet Mark wants you to pay for painting.”
Sooner pouted. “A gallon of paint is not that much money.”
Charlotte shook her head as she scanned the space a second time. “You can do better.”
“Don’t count on it. I don’t have any kind of credit history and I’m just eighteen. No one in this area is willing to take a chance on me. No one. But Mark. He says I’m worth the risk.”
“He wants to get in your pants, Sooner.”
“You think I don’t know that? I do.” She dropped her voice a notch. “And he can do all the wanting he wants, but he ain’t getting nothing.”
“You’re going to be spending a lot of time in this shop alone with him. You don’t know him.”
“I can take care of myself. If Grady taught me anything, it was how to deal with a customer who gets a little out of hand. And believe me, I’ve handled my share at the carnival.”
Charlotte had handled her share as a teenager. Boys, and men for that matter, from town trolling for whatever woman they could find. She’d watched her mother flirt and fence with many and then it had been her and Mariah’s turn. Her mother had managed. She’d managed. Mariah had trouble saying no.
“I want to talk you out of this,” Charlotte said.
“You won’t. I’m leaving the carnival, which means I have to find work.”
“I can help you find a job.”
“I don’t want an office gig with nine-to-five hours. Schedules kill me. I need to do my own thing, and I am signing that lease one way or another. What I need from you is to make sure old Mark isn’t screwing me in some way.”
“So we’re agreed he’s got a bad vibe.”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Oh, totally. I can’t stand him. But he will do for now.”
“How long will you be here?”
“A year. I know I can build a good book of business in that time and find my own place.”
“And then you open your version of Ageless.”
“Something better and classier. But yeah. And then from there I’ll just have to see.”
She stared at the firm set of the girl’s jaw and understood that there’d be no changing the girl’s mind today. The best she could do was look out for the kid. And who was she to say what Sooner could or couldn’t do?
“Do you have the contract?”
Sooner pulled a rumpled piece of paper from her fringed purse. “It’s all yours.”
Charlotte folded the contract, sharply creasing the edge with her fingertips. “I’ll read it tonight and call you in the morning.”
Silver bracelets jangled as Sooner pushed her fingers through her hair. “I was hoping because it was so short you could read it here and I could sign it.”
“I can’t read it now. I’m late for another appointment. But I’ll call you in the morning. Do you have a cell number?” She opened her phone to contacts.
“Mark said he couldn’t wait on this long.” Sooner rattled off the number.
Charlotte typed and saved the number. “I’d bet my last dollar that Mark will wait quite a while for you.”
She grinned. “He does have a thing for me, doesn’t he?”
“He does. And you need to be careful.”
“He’s a scrawny guy.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
Chapter 9
Thursday, October 21, 6 p.m.
He glanced out the coffee shop window to the abandoned Wharf, still blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. He had to concede that life had a strange synchronicity to it. One kill had been left here and another soon would be taken from here.
Vanquishing the witches shouldn’t have been such a thrill for him. But if he were to confess his sins to God, he would admit that the Hunt gave more satisfaction than the final confession.
He spent endless hours watching the witches, learning their patterns, friends and family. He studied the best places to take them. He knew traffic patterns, cameras, and choke points. In the end, he knew all there was to know about his witch and the best way to capture her.
And so it was with this next witch. He sat in the corner of the coffee shop watching her sit at a table with several of her girlfriends, laughing as they all sipped coffee and shared a large slice of chocolate cake.
She was a pretty one. Her dark hair draped over her shoulders and down her back. He knew from his research that she was in her mid-forties. She’d divorced her husband two years ago and moved out of their Arlington home to live in an Alexandria apartment. She taught women’s studies at the local university, drove a green Volvo, liked to buy organic food at the farmer’s market, and visited the library every Friday. He’d read the books he’d seen her reading and watched the movies she watched.
He’d written his final dossier on her last night and felt certain he knew her better than her friends and family.
Planning was his best defense if he never wanted the cops to discover his true work. This kind of meticulous planning had been what he’d done with the last witch and the one before and all the others before her. With each kill he’d honed his skills to razor sharpness.
Excitement bubbled and the energy that always hummed before a kill grew. He laid his fingers over his forearm and squeezed the spot where he’d made a clean cut this morning. Pain shot through him and doused the energy.
He sipped his coffee and dropped his gaze to the paper he’d picked up at the newsstand. He’d not read a word, but for a man alone to come into a coffee shop and to be seen staring at women, well, that was the kind of behavior someone noticed.
In his peripheral vision, he saw the waitress approach. This would be the second time she’d offered to warm up his coffee, and it was his cue to leave.
The waitress, a college kid with blond hair and a pink T-shirt that read
Just Java?,
smiled down at him. “Ready for more?”
Just Java?,
smiled down at him. “Ready for more?”
He leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach, which he’d padded to look fuller. He’d also added gray highlights to his hair and chosen an old tweed jacket more suited for an older man. People rarely, he’d discovered, looked beyond the surface. “No thanks. I’m about done here. Thanks.”
He rose, pulled out a tip that was exactly fifteen percent. To leave more or less would stick in the waitress’s memory, and he didn’t want to stick in anyone’s mind.
As he sauntered out, he glanced back one last time at the witch. She tossed back her head and laughed as did her friends. Let her enjoy her coven a little longer. The inquisition would begin soon enough.
He noticed the hint of blood on the cuff of his shirt and frowned. He’d squeezed too hard and opened the wound. Quickly he cupped his hand over the bloodstain and hurried to his car.
He reached inside his glove box and retrieved gauze, which he always kept on hand. Carefully, he wound it around the wound. He thought back to the table in the café. Could he have left droplets of blood behind?
He couldn’t be sure.
And he had to be sure.
“Damn.”
He glanced at the café, weighing the risk of returning versus hoping that he’d not left traces of blood behind. People remembered blood.
He finished bandaging the wound and pulled the long cuff of his jacket over the bloody sleeve. He got out of the car and resisted jogging back. Instead, he moved slowly, like an older man should.
As he opened the door, the witch and her coven were walking outside. He stepped aside, nodded his head, and waited for them to pass. As they did, he got a whiff of perfume that was so sweet and pure that it caught him off guard. A witch should have a spicy scent. She shouldn’t smell like roses and flowers.
When they passed, he hurried inside to his chair. The waitress had cleared away his table and wiped it clean. He glanced toward the floor and spotted the single drop of blood. Damn. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he knelt down and wiped it up.
“Can I help you?” The waitress had spotted him and returned.
This time he found her cheerful smile and face annoying. “I dropped my handkerchief,” he said as he rose and tucked it in his pocket. “It’s a favorite, and I didn’t want to lose it.” He glanced at her name tag. “Thanks for asking, Katrina.”
She studied him closely for the first time. “Sure. No problem. And thanks for the tip.”
As she turned and walked away, he watched her and wondered if he’d just made a critical error. His return had made an impression. And impressions were a bad thing.
Back in his car, he did not turn on the dome light to supplement the fading afternoon light as he pulled out his notebook and turned the pages until he found a blank one. He wrote down the date, time, and the name
Just Java?
Under that he scribbled the waitress’s name: Katrina. He circled the name three times.
Just Java?
Under that he scribbled the waitress’s name: Katrina. He circled the name three times.
“I might just have to keep an eye on you, Katrina.”
After Charlotte left Ageless, the day moved along in a frenetic blur of meetings, calls, and briefs. It was well after eleven that evening when she finally rose from her desk, set the alarm on her building, and crossed the street to her car.
The drive home along the parkway, which snaked along the Potomac River, was particularly beautiful this evening. The sky was full of stars and the moon cast a soft, simmering glow on the water. The lights on the north bank winked like diamonds.
She was going to miss this drive. But nothing—a home, a lover, or a friendship—lasted forever. This ingrained lesson learned from her nomadic childhood was simple: attachments led only to heartache. And so she’d been careful never to fully invest in people or places. Though she couldn’t mark the day or time when she’d begun to anticipate this drive home, she realized she now did. She wasn’t going to miss the condo as much as the views of the river’s meandering waters, which had a way of washing away the day’s stresses.
She also wasn’t sure when she’d grown to anticipate Daniel Rokov’s touch. The first time she’d suggested the motel room, it had been Mariah’s thirty-sixth birthday. She’d thought a tryst was about basic sex and a need to banish Mariah from her thoughts.
Basic sex. A smile tipped the edge of her lips. Sex with Rokov hadn’t been basic at all. It had been so extraordinary that the memories had lingered through a succession of fifteen-hour days. Finally unable to resist, she’d called him and suggested another round. He’d quickly said yes.
Have dinner with me?
“So tempting. Just not so wise, detective.”
She pulled through the gated entrance of the Century high-rise complex and parked in the underground garage. She waved to the guard stationed in the lot and then moved through glass doors to the elevator. Seconds passed, and it seemed her briefcase grew heavier with each moment. Her heels dug into her feet, and her back ached. The doors dinged open, and she gladly stepped into the car, which she rode to the top floor.
She unlocked her front door, dropped her briefcase and keys by the entrance as the door clicked closed behind her. A note on a sticky dangled from a large mirror by the entryway. Robert’s card sat on the table, as did the card of a local mover. There was a note taped to the entryway mirror.
Ms. W. Finished repairs on back window and molding in back bedroom. Mr. Delango.
He’d also attached his business card.
Ms. W. Finished repairs on back window and molding in back bedroom. Mr. Delango.
He’d also attached his business card.
Frowning, she studied the bold handwriting. Robert had vouched for him, but still she didn’t like the idea that he’d been in her space.
Shoving aside unease, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen and switched on the lights. Granite. Stainless. Italian marble floors. Custom-painted walls. She’d believed a well-designed kitchen was a matter of status. The few times she’d entertained clients here, the caterer had marveled at the equipment. Any real cook would weep if they knew she kept only frozen meals in the freezer and used the eight-burner professional stove only to heat tea.
She’d bought and decorated this place when she’d landed a few high-rolling clients. At the time, it seemed the money would be coming in forever. She should have known better. If Grady had taught her anything, it was that customers could love you one moment and hate you the next. Believing her own press had been her first mistake.
And then one of those high-rolling clients had seen her as a liability and sent a killer to tie up the loose ends.
It had been three years since the man had come into her office, smiled at her, and then shot her point-blank in the side. She’d managed to escape to the bathroom off her office, barricade herself, and hold on until the cops had arrived.
She rubbed her side, her fingertips feeling the scar through the threadbare shirt. It was no longer pink, angry, and raised, but the scar would always be there. It would always be a reminder to her never to let her guard down.
Charlotte dug a loaf of rye bread from the refrigerator along with fresh slices of ham, cheese, and mustard. She made a simple sandwich and took a big bite as she walked into the living room and out onto her patio. She pulled in a lungful of air and savored this moment.
Her childhood had also taught her to savor the good moments. They could be fleeting and rare, and surviving the rough patches meant savoring the days of smooth sailing. A cool breeze blew off the water. In nine days she’d be living in a rented apartment near the Arlington border. There’d be no views. No doorman. No lap pool. Just a basic roof over her head.
This downward turn annoyed but did not devastate. The firm had several big fish in the pipeline, and if she were very careful with the condo sale profits, she could cover payroll until the new clients generated income.
“Cash flow is King.” How many times had Grady said those exact words? Like it or not, the old buzzard had taught her valuable life lessons.
She finished her sandwich and then moved into her bedroom, where she carefully hung up her clothes and changed into athletic shorts and a T-shirt. Padding barefooted into the living room, she flipped on the lights and glared at the sea of unpacked moving boxes that she’d had delivered last weekend.
The décor of her place had always been simple but elegant. She’d never opted for new and sleek but rather had gravitated toward antiques and older pieces she’d had refurbished. The walls were painted a pale blue, and the couch, one of the few custom pieces, was covered in a toned-down ivory fabric that had cost three hundred dollars a yard. Lovely to look at, but when Charlotte really wanted to relax, she sat on the floor for fear she’d ruin the sofa.
On the other side of the room was a set of built-in bookcases filled with hundreds of books. The books weren’t just for show. She’d read them all, which had always been a point of honor with her. Her name and persona might have been fake, but her intelligence and knowledge were the real deal.
So many books read. And so many books to pack. “They’re not going to pack themselves, Grace.”
Weary muscles and a throbbing headache began to argue that now was not the time to pack. Too tired. Too overstressed. Robert had hired the movers and they would pack most of her belongings, but there were private things she didn’t want them handling.
Determination had her dragging a moving box down the hallway toward the storage closet. Charlotte had never been a big saver or collector, so the closet was in relatively good shape. There was her bike, which she’d ridden only a few times, tennis rackets, and golf clubs. She’d taken up all sports initially to meet clients, but when the work had rolled in, the sports had fallen to the wayside. Now staying in shape was heading to the building’s gym and riding the elliptical trainer or treadmill five days a week.
The right side of the closet was filled with out-of-season overflow wardrobe. An admitted clothes hound, she stared at the collection calculating what she’d spent over the years. The tally made her cringe. She lifted the hanging dresses and suits and carefully rehung them in the wardrobe box.
It took the better part of an hour to carefully reposition each item. As tempting as it was to rush, she knew buying new clothes might not be an option for a good while, and she’d best take care of what she had.
When the box was full, she dragged it back into the living room and grabbed another box. But as she dragged the box toward the closet, her balance tipped out of whack, and for a moment she thought she’d topple over.
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