Cold Fear (38 page)

Her eyes flashed. Smart women hated their intellect questioned.

“The killer knew where you buried Beverley Sandal because they probably followed you that night. They knew Beverley was wearing that bracelet because she was wearing it when they killed her. A few days ago they dug it up and put it on a fresh victim.”

Realization dawned on Isadora’s face. One of her hands rose to cover her mouth. The look in her eyes was one of complete and utter devastation.

He didn’t care. “You said your dad was trying to tell your mom that the dead girl wasn’t what she thought?”

She jerked her head in a sharp nod.

“She should have listened to him.”

Isadora said nothing. Just looked at him with a shattered gaze.

“Did someone else have access to his car?”

“I have no idea.” She searched his face. “You really think he might not have done it?” Her voice was an anguished whisper that sliced him open. But she didn’t weep. No tears fell.

He ran his hand through his hair. Her self-contained torment got to him, but he couldn’t afford to let her distract him any more than he’d already been distracted. He had work to do. Isadora Campbell had slowed him down.

“There may be way too many serial killers in this world, Dr. Campbell—trust me, I know—but to have two, right here in Rosetown? Killing women in exactly the same manner? It’s the same guy, which is something you could have confirmed for me days ago if only you’d told me the truth.”

She seemed to shrivel in front of him, but it pushed her away from him, and he needed her far, far away from him now.

His phone rang. He listened for a moment and then hung up. “Another woman was reported missing.”
And it’s your fault
seemed to reverberate unspoken around the room.

He let it.

He grabbed his jacket, shoes, and left without reminding her to lock up or saying goodbye. It was too late for goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I
ZZY SAT ON
the couch, stunned. The shaking in her limbs was so bad she couldn’t stand without falling over. Her father might be innocent. Her dad might not have killed the poor woman who’d been in the trunk of his car.

The knowledge took a moment to settle in. Her father had been innocent, and she and her mother were the criminals—along with some insidious murderer who, if Linc was correct, was still plying his evil trade. It was insanity, and yet a weight lifted off with that knowledge, only to be replaced by grief and remorse at how they’d desecrated a good man’s memory.

The trembling in her limbs eased as she took a few deep breaths. She had no idea what would happen next, but at some point, when Lincoln Frazer could be bothered, he’d have her arrested and sent to jail. Which was fine. She blinked away the tears that wanted to form.

Maybe it wasn’t fine, but it was okay. She was a strong person, she’d get through it. Move on.

Would the medical board take away her license? Would anyone hire someone who’d done what she had done? Would the Army take her back? She didn’t know. All her knowledge and training might go to waste. She could help people, but she might never be allowed to again.

God, she felt cold. Her teeth actually chattered, and she went into the bedroom to chase down her socks. She ignored the messy bed where Lincoln Frazer had made love to her for long enough to convince her he might have feelings for her, before he’d booted her to the curb.

She’d told him she’d helped her mom hide two murders. What had she expected?

Exactly what she’d got.

What she hadn’t expected was that it would hurt quite so much. That his coldness would rip into her flesh and tear out what was left of her heart. His reaction had reaffirmed all the reasons she’d kept quiet all these years. But that was cowardice, what she’d done was wrong, and he so obviously tried to do the right thing all the time. She hoped he sent someone else to arrest her. The thought of him taking her in, maybe having to listen to him confess the awful error of screwing her senseless a couple times before he found out the despicable truth. Nausea churned in her stomach.

Whatever happened she hoped he’d sit down and talk to Kit. Explain the situation.

Dammit, she needed to tell Kit herself.

It wasn’t Frazer’s problem—he was here investigating a murder and they’d had a fling, it didn’t mean he was suddenly responsible for the emotional wellbeing of a young woman he barely knew. As awful as the truth was, it was better coming from her, especially with Frazer’s small crumb of comfort that her father might not have been a killer.

Crap. That knowledge would have driven her mother over the edge. She hadn’t believed him when he’d denied it. Love hadn’t been enough to earn her mother’s blind trust even after years of marriage.

Izzy finished pulling on her woolen socks using her good hand and grabbed her cell phone. She dialed Kit but got voicemail. She checked her watch. It was only 4.45 PM so she was probably still on duty at the diner. She checked the tracker app only to discover she couldn’t see Kit’s phone. Dammit.

Unable to settle, she called the diner. Sal answered.

“Can I talk to Kit, Sal? It’s important.”

“I let her go early. Did you hear? Mary Neville is missing so I closed the place down. I swear to God, if anything bad happens to Mary, I’m gonna—”

She cut in. “Did Kit say where she was going?” Sal was from New York and once he started talking he wouldn’t stop, especially when it came to issuing threats.

“Nah. She just took off in her little car.”

Izzy said goodbye to Sal and put the phone down, collapsing onto the sofa.

If Mary Neville had been abducted, then Duncan Cromwell wasn’t the killer. His attack on her had been personal, because of Helena. Did that make her feel better about having the shit kicked out of her?

Not really.

Frustrated, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t even have a car, not that she could drive anywhere if she did. Maybe that’s why Frazer had left her here like this. He knew she was stranded. At least she had her Glock. She went into the bedroom and brought it back into the living room, setting it on the coffee table beside Frazer’s box of photographs.

She needed to get hold of Kit ASAP. She didn’t have Damien Ridgeway’s number, but she had Pastor Rice’s. She called him.

“Izzy! What can I do for you?”

“I know this is probably a weird question, but can you see Kit’s car outside on the street?” she asked.

“Hang on, I’ll go look.” It only took him a moment. “Nope.”

“Darn.”

“Can I do anything to help?” The pastor must have heard her distress along the phone lines.

“Would you call me if she turns up?”

“Of course. Nothing I like more than twitching the drapes.” The man laughed and she tried to respond.

“Thanks, Pastor, I appreciate it.” There was a sharp knock at her door. Her mouth went dry and her hands grew clammy. “Sorry, I have to go.”

*     *     *

F
RAZER DIDN’T REMEMBER
the last time he’d been this angry. Maybe the day in the West Virginian woods when he’d learned not to trust the people giving orders. The anger felt good. It felt righteous. It burned away every scrap of sympathy he felt for Isadora Campbell.

Another woman was missing, and she’d withheld information that could have helped him nail down his profile and find the killer.

He needed to keep telling himself this.

Randall answered on the fifth ring.

“Who’s missing?” Frazer asked.

“Mary Neville. She’s a waitress at the diner in Rosetown.” Where Kit worked. Another goddamn connection to the Campbells. “Hasn’t been seen since she was dropped off at home by a Carl Kent last night. He swears he watched her go into the house and then left.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Are there ever?”

“How do we know she’s missing?”

“She was supposed to visit her sister but didn’t show. Sister went to the house and found signs of a struggle. She called the police straightaway.”

Frazer grimaced. Different MO, but what were the chances of it being unrelated to the current spate of abductions and murders?

“I think I’ve got something.” Frazer heard excitement rising in Randall’s voice. “I checked out all the vehicles that the ALPR couldn’t read the license plates of and I think I found our van.”

“Was it Cromwell’s work van?”

“No. It was a big white panel van. No markings. Someone sprayed the plate with a reflective coating to stop the image analysis program being able to distinguish the numbers from the background.”

“And?” Frazer knew how the spray worked.

“Same van was picked up on cameras in Greenville and in Maysville on the day of Elaine Patterson’s murder.”

“Any ID on the driver?”

“No. He wore a ball cap and dark glasses.”

“So how does this help?” Frazer asked, maneuvering around TV vans that stretched down the main street of Rosetown.

“I recognized the vehicle from a little disco ball that hangs from the rearview mirror. It belongs to Ted Brubaker. Izzy and Kit Campbell’s uncle.”

Who’d had access to Isadora’s father’s vehicle and could easily have watched them bury the bodies all those years ago. Shit. The bell in his head rang—ding, ding, ding.

“We got a signed warrant to go search his property and vehicles. Where are you?”

“Pulling into the parking lot of the police station.”

“Don’t. Keep going north and take the first left after you cross the bridge. Chief Tyson organized a news conference in about twenty minutes to keep our media pals otherwise occupied.”

Frazer turned the wheel of his sedan, heading out slowly as reporters eyed him like crocodiles eyed prey. Crossing the bridge, he passed Seth Grundy driving Isadora’s Subaru. The guy raised his hand in greeting. Frazer drove on.

Waves crashed against the bridge’s pillars and sprayed sea foam across his windshield. Frazer turned on the wipers, salt smearing across the glass until the wiper fluid cleared it.

If the killer was Isadora’s uncle, this was going to hit her hard. He remembered that the only thing she’d asked of him was to protect her sister, who was the exact same age she’d been when her mother had put her in an untenable position.

Had Isadora ever had anyone look out for her—ever? The thought punched against his throat, but he didn’t have time to think about it. He was turning down a rutted side road and pulling up behind five squad cars surrounded by officers all wearing bulletproof vests. Randall waved him over, and Frazer got out, retrieving his own vest from his bag and checking his sidearm.

The wind howled through the trees that were bent over from the oncoming storm.

“Feels like a hurricane,” Frazer said to Tyson—who was going to be late for his own press conference.

“This is nothing like a hurricane. We can still stand up.” The man grinned. “This is just a tempest.”

Frazer looked at him from under his brow. Sure. They all crowded together near one of the vehicles. Hank Wright was conspicuously absent. “Two officers around the back, one covering the storm cellar doors. Four more officers on the barn, in case he’s in there with our missing woman.”

That left one officer with the vehicles—in case Brubaker got past all of them, and to stop anyone entering the scene—and four of them, him, Randall, Tyson and a female officer knocking on the front door.

Everyone had their weapons in double-handed grips and pointed at the ground. The female officer carried the breacher in case Brubaker didn’t want to open up.

They jogged over to the porch steps. There were a couple of loose boards and the place needed a fresh coat of paint but it was by no means dilapidated. Storm shutters were on all the windows. Tyson knocked hard and yelled, “Rosetown Police Department. Open up, now!”

Frazer strained to hear anything over the violently lashing trees but couldn’t. He flashed to Isadora’s green eyes as she’d told him her secret.

They’d been full of loneliness.

His throat felt like he’d swallowed thorns. If anyone understood all-encompassing loneliness, it was him.

Why the fuck was he thinking about a woman who’d blatantly lied to him about a murder when he was in the middle of a takedown? He needed to push Isadora out of his head and forget about her. She’d lied to him. She hadn’t trusted him because when it came down to it, she didn’t trust anyone.

And if the word hypocrite reverberated around his skull, that was his problem.

*     *     *

I
ZZY PEEKED THROUGH
the office window to see who was knocking at her door. A bolt of relief shot through her when she saw it wasn’t a police officer there to arrest her. God, what would she do when it was? Run away? Pee her pants?

She shoved her cell phone into her back pocket, went to the door, and opened it.

“Hi, Seth.” He held the keys out to her, and she took them with a grateful smile. “You didn’t have to bring it over, but I appreciate it.” She bit her lip. “How are you going to get home though? I’m not supposed to drive yet.” She held up her cast with a self-pitying grimace.

“I threw a bike in the back. Hope I didn’t get any marks on your upholstery.”

She waved him inside. “It won’t be any worse than wet stinky dog. I really appreciate it. Come on in while I write you a check.”

He hesitated on the threshold and then came inside, wiping his feet on the front mat, bending to take off his shoes.

“Don’t worry about those. I’m going to mop the floors later.”
Assuming I haven’t been arrested for interfering with a police investigation and illegally disposing of dead bodies.
Seriously, how had she ever thought that was okay? No wonder she’d run away to join the Army Medical Corps.

She decided to ignore the fact he was wearing the same black jacket Ted had worn last night.

“You heard anything about that cocksucker, Cromwell?” asked Seth.

“Nothing.” She wasn’t offended by his language. She’d been a captain in the Army. She dug deep in the recesses of her purse for her checkbook. She clicked on her pen and started writing awkwardly with her casted hand. “What do I owe you?”