Cold Justice (12 page)

“So,” Jake asked, “you assume she has done the same again.”

Blackley nodded.

“Do you know if she is currently having an affair?”

“I can’t say for sure. Maybe.”

Annie was confused. “So, Mr. Blackley, if she is having
affairs, why are you still together?”

“I don’t really know.” He paused. “I’m busy a lot. We live
separate lives. She does her thing and I do mine. I expect we’ll get divorced
eventually.”

Annie studied him. She noticed he was still wearing a
wedding ring. He seemed calm about his wife’s disappearance. Could that be
because he had accepted that his wife was unfaithful, and was resigned to it?
Or had he killed his wife in cold blood, and hid her body somewhere? Maybe
buried it, or dumped it in the lake? Was he the killer Mrs. Macy had seen?

Blackley leaned forward and dropped his arms on the desk. “So
let me get this straight. You think the woman murdered may have been Vera?”

Annie nodded. “Perhaps.”

“Then where is she? Where’s her body?”

“We don’t know. If her body had been found, then the police
would be involved. As it is, she’s just missing.”

“Yeah, the police didn’t do much,” Blackley said, leaning
back again.

“Mr. Blackley, can you tell us where you were Sunday
evening?”

Blackley frowned. “You are asking me for an alibi?”

Annie nodded.

“I gave all of this to the police.”

"Yes, I know, but we don’t have that information.”
Annie slipped a notepad and pen from her handbag.

Blackley sighed. “I stayed at the Nights Inn at St.
Catherines. I had a meeting with our regional manager on Friday, and I stayed
for an extra day, and then drove home on Monday morning.”

She looked up at Blackley. “What time did you get home?”

“About two o’clock in the afternoon,” he said, and then
leaned forward. He looked Jake in the eye, and then at Annie. “Look, I didn’t
kill my wife. That is, if she has even been killed.”

Annie wrote the date and time in her notepad.

“We are just trying to piece everything together,” Jake
said. “We don’t necessarily suspect you had anything to do with it. And like
you said, we don’t even know if anything happened to your wife. Hopefully, she
will return.”

Blackley shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t really care if she’s
run off again, but I do hope she’s ok. I don’t love the woman, but I don’t wish
her any harm.”

“Mr. Blackley, would you have a picture of your wife we
could borrow?” Annie asked.

Blackley shook his head. “No, not here. If you drop by the
house I should have something there I can give you.”

Annie nodded. “Ok. And Mr. Blackley, we would like to
contact her friends and family. Could you give us a list of names?”

Blackley nodded and grabbed a pad and pen from the side of
his desk. He wrote for awhile, and then said, “There’s some people here I don’t
have any phone numbers for. You can probably look them up.” He ripped the paper
from the pad and handed it to Annie.

Annie took the list and glanced at it briefly before
slipping it into her handbag. She found a business card and handed it to him. “If
your wife returns, or if you think of anything else, please call us.”

Blackley took the card and glanced at it briefly before
tucking it under the edge of the phone. “Ok,” he said.

They stood and shook hands.

“Thank you, Mr. Blackley,” Annie said as they turned to
leave.

The receptionist didn’t look up as they slipped past her and
made their way out the door to the car. They climbed in and fastened their seat
belts. Annie pushed the key into the ignition and sat back, her hands on the
steering wheel.

Jake looked at Annie. “Do you think he did it?”

Annie stared thoughtfully at the unit in front of them, and
then at Jake. “I don’t know,” she said. “But, did you notice he was still
wearing his wedding ring?”

“Yeah, I saw that. Maybe he’s wearing it to avoid suspicion.”

Annie wrinkled her brow. “Maybe, but if he’s trying so hard
to avoid suspicion, then why would he freely admit he didn’t love his wife, and
she was having affairs?”

“Because that information would come out anyway. Eventually.
So, if he took his ring off, then that might make it look worse for him. Like
everything was final.”

“Maybe.” Annie shrugged. “Or maybe it doesn’t mean anything at
all.”

“And why hasn’t he divorced her?” Jake asked.

“Could be it’s just like he said. He doesn’t really care.”

“Doesn’t make sense to me either way.” Jake thought a moment
before continuing, “The way I see it, we are going under a bunch of assumptions
here.”

Annie nodded. “I realize that.”

Jake continued, “We are assuming Mrs. Macy saw someone
murdered. We are assuming Mrs. Macy was also murdered. And now, we are assuming
Vera Blackley was the one murdered. And maybe, it was Anderson Blackley who did
it.”

“Yes, and if any of our assumptions are incorrect, then our
whole theory breaks down.”

“Exactly,” Jake said. “If Mrs. Macy didn’t really see
someone murdered, then it’s likely she wasn’t murdered either.”

Annie finished Jake’s thought. “And perhaps Vera Blackley is
alive somewhere.”

“Right. But assuming Mrs. Macy really did see someone
murdered, then who was it, if not Vera Blackley?”

“She’s the only one missing that seems like a possibility.
And here, again, I’m assuming the victim was someone local.”

Jake shrugged. “I dunno. We don’t really have any firm proof
of anything.”

Annie smiled. “Don’t forget about women’s intuition. I just
have a real feeling we’re on the right track.”

“Sure. I agree. I think you’re right, but we need some
proof.”

“That’s a problem,” Annie said as she leaned forward and
turned the key. “We need to find something.”

Chapter 21

Four Days Ago

DR. BORIS HOFFMAN was angry. He knew once Vera had made up
her mind, there was no changing it. He knew she would tell his wife about their
affair. He couldn’t let that happen.

It would ruin him.

The big mansion he lived in. The fancy cars he drove. All
belonged to his wife. She had inherited it from her father, and he would have
no claim to it should she divorce him. Sure, his practice did ok, but it was
struggling. He couldn’t get enough clients to live the lifestyle he wanted.

And now, it was all in danger.

He had to do something.

He had come into the bathroom to get away from her, and
perhaps calm down a bit, to think clearly. He was tempted to just leave and go
home, but that wouldn’t solve his problem.

Could he convince her not to say anything? She could ruin
his life.

He tried to calm down. He splashed water on his face and
looked intently at himself in the mirror, not seeing his true reflection, just
the image of a now desperate man.

He tried to shake it off, and swore at himself for being so
stupid. He should never have gotten involved with a patient. He was caught up
in her charms. She had seduced him, and was now playing with him.

He wiped his face on a towel, and then strode back to the
front room. He saw Vera watching him as he came in. He stopped short and glared
at her as she sat on the couch.

“Have you changed your mind?” she asked calmly. She no
longer looked attractive. She looked devious, and ugly. He hated her now.

He stood still, scowling at her, his hands on his hips. “No,
I haven’t,” he said firmly.

She stood suddenly and stepped toward him, unafraid,
standing a few inches away, her eyes flaming. She pointed to the front door and
demanded, “Then get out of my house.”

He pushed her away viscously. She fell back, flailing wildly
to catch herself. She hit the floor, landing on her back. She looked up at him,
loathing in her eyes, as he stood over her, an uncontrollable wrath sweeping
over him, swallowing him whole, commanding him now.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

He dropped to his knees beside her. His hands reached.
Reaching for her neck. Her throat. She struggled to her knees and rolled away
as he dived for her. A crazed snarl erupted from deep inside as he lunged
again, catching her by the leg as she fought to get away.

I’ve got you now.

She had the wine bottle in her hand, its contents splashing
to the floor as she swung it high. It came down. He felt a jolt run through him
and he fell back, dazed.

She twisted free, tearing her stocking, and stumbled to her
feet.

He hated her. Wanted to kill her.

He shook his head, trying to clear his foggy mind. His head
was sore where the bottle had landed. He paid no attention to the throbbing as
he rose slowly.

Hate. Hate. Kill.

She stood a few feet away, the bottle still in her hand,
high above her head, ready, waiting.

“Get back,” she screamed. “I’ll hit you again.”

They stood, facing one other, studying each other, like
opponents in a ring, looking for an opening, panting, waiting, calculating.

He lunged at her. She stepped aside, twisting, and swung the
bottle. It missed, and went whistling across the room, hitting the floor and
rolling to a stop against the wall.

He lunged again. She moved, and he caught her by the dress.
She pulled away, and left it dangling from his fist. In a rage, he threw it
aside and chased her as she ran wildly from the room.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

Half naked now, she stumbled down the hallway to the
kitchen. He followed, cursing, desperate.

She scrambled for the knife holder on the counter. She
snatched up a large blade and spun around as he reached her. She swung the
weapon wildly. It shaved his head as he ducked, the momentum knocking her off
balance. He swung around behind her, grabbing her around the shoulders.

She still had the knife, and she twisted her arm back over
her shoulder, trying to stab him. “Let go of me,” she shrieked. The knife
barely missed his face as she thrust it at him, again and again.

He pushed her away, and grabbed her arm. The knife hit the
floor. She turned, and with her other fist, hit him desperately across the
face. She broke free as he raised his arm to protect himself. She ran toward the
back door.

Can’t let her get outside. Have to stop her. Now.

He dove. Missed. She was out the door.

He chased after her in a frenzied attempt. He couldn’t let
her get away.

She ran across the back lawn as he pursued frantically.

She was on the next property behind now, heading up the side
of the neighboring house.

He almost had her, his hand reaching for her, brushing
against her back with his fingertips. As she rounded the front corner of the
house, he made a desperate leap and caught her by the hair. She stopped short,
stumbled and was brought to the ground.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

She lay on her back and attempted to scream for help,
struggling and clawing feebly at her attacker as he knelt beside her, his hands
about her throat, gritting his teeth, growling like an animal, squeezing,
squeezing.

Until her final scream was cut short, and all was still and
quiet.

He dropped her lifeless body, rose to his feet, and then
leaned over and grabbed her hands. He dragged her across the grass, back toward
the darkness at the edge of the home.

He had to get her body out of here. Get to safety, before
someone came, and saw.

He heard branches rustling and snapping, coming from the
hedge along the side of the property, near the sidewalk. He looked up from the
shadows. Someone was watching. Someone he knew, and someone who knew him.

It was Abigail Macy. One of his patients.

She stared, open-mouthed, as he looked into her frightened
eyes.

She turned and ran.

He dropped the body and followed instinctively, like a rabid
dog after its prey. He was behind her now, and she glanced over her shoulder.
He was close, and getting closer with each step.

She stumbled the last few feet, crossed the lawn of her
house, and then fell onto the brightly lit front steps of her home.

He stopped suddenly, ducking behind a tree as a car went by.
He looked across the street. A light was coming from a house window. He could
see someone moving about inside. He looked up at a bright streetlight directly
overhead.

His anger had faded enough now for his head to clear. He had
to think logically. He should have waited and planned this a little better. But
he had been furious, and now he had to do something about Abigail Macy. He
cursed at the way his luck had turned. His bad luck, getting worse.

He couldn’t chance doing anything about her now. She may
have recognized him, and he would have to deal with her later. He had more
urgent matters to attend to.

He moved carefully back down the street, keeping in the
shadows as much as possible. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Abigail
digging in her handbag for her key, and then disappear inside the house.

He made it unseen back to the spot where Vera’s body lay beside
the house. He hoped the sounds of the struggle hadn’t been heard. He listened
for a while. All was quiet. There were no lights in the house beside him. It
was well after midnight, and the city was asleep.

As quietly as possible, he hoisted the body over his
shoulder, and then stumbling under the weight, he carried it back to the
Blackley house, up the steps, across the deck, and into the kitchen.

He carried it through the house and dropped it onto the
floor by the front door. He looked around. The struggle had made a bit of a
mess. He straightened things up, meticulously checking everything. Put the
knife back in the kitchen. Straighten up the coffee table. He found a garbage
bag in the kitchen. He wiped off the empty wine bottle and the glasses with a
dry cloth, and then dumped them into the bag. He found the cork. That went into
the bag as well.