Dead Certain (20 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

“I’m not sure I like this idea.” Sean leaned back in his chair, frowning.

“Dana will be with me. I swear, Sean, I am not going to do anything stupid. Especially after Marian’s service this morning.” Amanda gave her head a quick shake.

The church service had been short and not especially sweet, and it had been apparent that Marian’s niece was merely going through the expected motions. The graveside service had been closed to all but family—meaning the niece—leaving all of Marian’s friends and colleagues in Broeder feeling slightly, well,
slighted.
So while the niece and the minister stood at the grave, old friends gathered in Marian’s favorite restaurant for a long lunch during which they laughed and cried together while trading favorite memories of the deceased.

“It was just like an old-fashioned Irish wake,” Amanda told Sean. “And after seeing everyone this morning, well, I just want to get back to work. I want to open my shop again. I need to do something besides sit around Greer’s house, as I did all day yesterday, or have Dana trailing after me in the grocery store.”

“She’s going to be trailing after you, regardless.”

“Yeah, well, she has a job to do, and so do I.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get going. Dana is waiting for me outside. And yes, before you ask, she’s right at the door.”

“I guess I’ll see you at dinner, then. I’m thinking we should maybe go out tonight, seeing as Steve will be home from his trip. He and Greer might like some time alone.” He paused, considering. “Of course, they have been married for a long time. Maybe it’s no big deal. . . .”

Amanda laughed. “Maybe it is. Dinner out sounds like a good idea. I’ll just come back here with Dana, then, when I close up the shop for the day. I can’t wait till this is over, though, and I can just hop in my car and go where I want without checking in with you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

She left his office, and he went to the door to watch her walk down the hall.

“Amanda,” he called after her.

When she turned to him, he said, “Do I have to say, ‘Let me know if anything seems out of place’ or ‘Call me if anyone’s hanging around’?”

“No, you don’t have to say any of those things.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He heard the front door clang closed, then went to the window and watched the car until it was a speck at the end of the road, feeling just a little anxious. He’d never admit it, but he didn’t believe that anyone would keep as close an eye on Amanda as he would. Thinking about there being someone out there who wanted to kill her unsettled him in ways that were beyond his experience. He’d cared about victims before—of course he had—but never on this level, never to this degree, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with what he was feeling or what to do about it. He figured that maybe, at this point, just keeping her alive was a damned good start.

He walked back to his office thinking that it was a little frightening to realize that caring about someone gave her power over you. He wondered if Amanda had a clue as to just how powerful she was.

It was twenty after four when Sean’s phone buzzed.

“Chief Benson from the Carleton P.D. is on line three for you, Sean,” Joyce announced.

“Thanks.” Sean hit the button for line three. “Bob, how are you?”

“Good, good, Sean. How are things in Broeder?”

“All right. No complaints.”

“Glad to hear it.” Benson paused for a moment, then said, “Sean, we had a shooting here Saturday night. Hairdresser closing up her shop apparently was surprised by a robber. Shot and killed her, clean as a whistle.”

“I heard about that.”

“Ran the bullet through Drugfire. There was a match.” He paused. “You want to take a guess on what it matched up with?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Your antiques dealer who got shot a few weeks back? Same gun killed my hairdresser, Sean.”

“Same gun . . .” Sean’s mind raced. “You’re sure, Bob? Positive?”

“It was a clear match. The striations on the bullets are identical.”

“Son of a bitch,” Sean muttered thoughtfully.

“You have any suspects?”

“None. We have nothing. The only thing we have is another homicide that we believe is connected.” Sean filled him in on Marian’s murder and explained the connection that Marian and Derek had with Amanda.

“So you’ve got two vics who were threatened by a guy who is serving time for stalking a woman who just happened to be a close friend of both victims.” Benson seemed to be contemplating this. “And you’ve got a con who doesn’t appear to have any contact with anyone except his mother.”

“That’s about all I’ve got.”

“She a good shot, the mother?”

“My guess is the closest she ever comes to firearms is watching
Law and Order.
”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

“Yeah, we looked into her and into the sister who visited him a few times, but there’s just nothing there. I don’t think the sister gives a damn about the brother. She made it real clear that she thought he was a creep and a sicko. Pretty sure those were the words she used.”

“Sounds like a charming family,” Bob Benson said dryly. “Your shooting victim, he was shot clean, right? No other wounds? No robbery?”

“Right. At one point early on I thought there might have been a connection to a piece of pottery the victim had bought on the black market in Europe recently. Thought maybe someone had trailed him to steal it, but that just seems like a dead end. And yeah, it was one clean hit through the head.”

“Same with our hairdresser. One shot to the head. Anything missing from the scene?”

“Nothing that we know of. The victim’s wallet was still in his pocket with a substantial amount of cash in it.”

“Our hairdresser’s cash register was cleaned out except for checks.”

“Nothing personal stolen off the body?” Sean asked.

“A ring her business partner says she never took off is missing. Yours?”

“Nothing at all for the shooting victim, but there was a pendant stolen from the other victim. The woman dealer who was killed in her shop.”

“That the woman who was stabbed?”

“Yes.”

“Seems to me the MO for mine and your first are the same. But the MO for the woman there, there don’t seem to be any similarity at the scene.”

“Except the taking of the jewelry, apparently as souvenirs. Derek England was wearing a ring on each hand and an expensive watch, but they weren’t touched. Why not?” Sean tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Can you fax over a copy of everything you have on this, let me take a look? Maybe something will occur to me.”

“Whatever you need. In turn, maybe you can fax me a copy of your reports. Maybe between the two of us, we can catch this son of a bitch.”

“Maybe we can. I’ll get those reports over to you this afternoon.”

“Mine is on its way. Should start coming through your machine any minute now.”

“I’ll watch for it. And thanks, Bob, for the heads-up.”

Sean went immediately to the small reception area, where, as Benson had promised, the fax machine was already starting to hum. He waited patiently as page after page came through, then, when the signal flashed to indicate that the send was complete, he scooped them up and returned to his office.

Straightening the papers into a neat stack in the center of his desk, Sean began to read the Carleton police reports detailing the investigation into the murder of Connie Paschall.

“Oh, Vinnie, I feel like I’m going to die.” Dolores sobbed into his shirt. “Connie was the best friend I ever had. How could anyone have done such a terrible thing to such a good, sweet person?”

Actually, it had been pretty easy.
He suppressed a grin as he held her and patted her back in what he felt was a comforting gesture.

“She was the sweetest person I ever knew.” Dolores hiccupped. “She never did a thing that hurt anyone.”

Well, not yet maybe, but she had plans to hurt me big-time.
Vince continued patting.

“The bastard even took the ring right off her finger. Can you imagine being so cold? So heartless?” Dolores wiped her face on his shirt and began to wail again.

Pat pat pat.

Finally, when he could not take one more second of weeping and could pat no longer, he took her gently by the shoulders and said, “Dolores, you’re gonna make yourself sick. Now, I understand that you and Connie were close friends. But the last thing she would have wanted is for you to make yourself sick over her dying. It’s time to get a grip, Dee. You gotta get a grip.”

She nodded. Of course Vinnie was right. She rested her head against his shoulder. “You think they’ll catch him?”

“Catch who?” He was looking over the wild mass of blond hair piled on top of her head to the TV where the highlights from last weekend’s NFL games were being played.

“The bastard who shot Connie.” She pushed him away. “Who the hell do you think I’m talking about?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to catch the score of the Jets game.

“Oh, so am I. I shouldn’t take it out on you.” She sighed, then started to cry again. “But it’s just so terrible. . . .”

Vince rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Well, Connie was a nice girl and all. And I know she was your best friend and your partner. But I’ll tell you what I think would be really terrible.” He lowered his voice, searching for his sincere tone. “What would’ve been really terrible is if it hadda been you. Think about it, Dolores. Remember how you were gonna close instead of Connie? You would have, too, if we hadn’t gone out to dinner.”

“Oh, my God, Vinnie, that’s right. Oh, my God. It coulda been me.” She looked up into his eyes and whispered solemnly, “She died for me. Connie, my best friend, died for me.”

Vince flinched.
Let the wailing begin.
As the level of weeping rose louder and louder, he squeezed his eyes closed, wishing he could close his ears just as easily. Something told him this was going to be a long night.

Pat pat pat.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

Sean’s cell phone was ringing in the pocket of his jacket, which at that moment was hanging on the back of his office door. By the time he got to it, the ringing had stopped, and the message
1 missed call
displayed a few seconds later. He viewed the number of the missed call, but did not recognize it, though it was a local area code. He hit the automatic dial button and waited to see who would answer.

“Mercer here,” he said when the call was picked up but the voice was only vaguely familiar. “I’m returning a call to this number.”

“Sean, it’s Evan Crosby. I was just checking in to see how my sister is doing, see what’s going on. She told me about the attack . . .” Evan paused. “How is she?”

“Amanda’s fine. She’s at her shop—and before you ask, yes, someone is with her. We’ve had a watch on her house, but no movement. And the investigation is pretty much at a standstill. No leads, no suspects. If anything, the water just keeps getting muddier.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a call earlier from the chief of police in a neighboring town. A hairdresser was shot and killed in her shop on Saturday night, the cash register emptied.”

“So? Your two killings were not robberies.”

“The hairdresser was killed with the same gun that killed Derek.”

“Any connection to Derek or Marian? Or Amanda?”

“Nothing that we can find. The Carleton P.D. interviewed the woman’s business partner and according to her, the murdered hairdresser not only did not buy antiques, she didn’t like what she called ‘old stuff.’ The business partner didn’t even recall her going in to Broeder for much of anything. No cause to, she says.”

“And Amanda doesn’t know her?”

“Never heard of her, and never had her hair done by either of these women.”

“So maybe it was just a quick robbery. Maybe he’s on the move and he needed some cash. Saw the shop . . . Was the woman in there alone?”

“Yes. It happened close to nine-thirty. She’d had a late appointment and was closing up the shop.”

“So maybe he was passing by, saw the lights on, figured a quick in and out . . .”

“Maybe. Maybe. But it’s the damnedest thing. We know it’s the same guy, but there’s no prints anywhere, nothing to tie them together, except the gun.”

“Maybe he sold the gun—or tossed it—after the Broeder killing.”

“I thought of that, but trust me, it’s the same guy. Took a souvenir from each of the ladies—a piece of jewelry from Marian’s shop, a ring from the hairdresser’s finger—but nothing from Derek, even though he was wearing several good pieces.”

When Evan failed to respond, Sean said, “Evan? You still there?”

“Yeah. Listen, we had a case not long ago down in Lyndon, the damnedest thing. Two killings with the same MO, one different. Two really violent rapes—these women were butchered with a knife—and one shooting, cool as ice. Couldn’t find a motive until we realized that all three victims had a connection to a man down in High Meadow: Vince Giordano. All three of these victims had pissed off Giordano in a major way before he was locked up. At the time of the murders, he was still in prison. No visitors, no mail, no phone calls.”

“Just like Archer Lowell. No apparent contact with the outside, but he sure enough has connections with the victims.”

“It was the same thing in Lyndon. This guy Giordano was locked up tight, no contact with anyone—I mean anyone, except his lawyer—but people connected with him were dropping like flies.”

There was silence on the phone as each man turned it over in his mind.

“Maybe Giordano and Lowell are somehow orchestrating this from prison,” Sean thought aloud.

“Giordano has been out for about six, maybe seven weeks now,” Evan said softly.

“About a month before Derek was murdered,” Sean murmured.

“Trace him. See if you can find out where he’s hanging his hat these days.”

“Parole officer?”

“He wouldn’t be on parole. His conviction was overturned. One of those cases you wish you never heard about.”

“What do you mean?”

“The son of a bitch was guilty as sin and everyone knew it. Unfortunately, the first cop on the scene turned out to be a guy who’d been real sweet on Giordano’s wife back in school, so he planted some evidence, swore he saw Giordano leaving the house that day. The entire prosecution was built around his testimony and the evidence he says he gathered from the scene. But Giordano was miles away by the time that cop showed up at the house, and a crowd of people swore old Vince had been there all afternoon, and they couldn’t tie him to anything the cop said he found at the scene. They had to let the sucker walk. And the sin of it was, he was guilty and everyone in that courtroom knew he was guilty. But every piece of evidence the prosecution presented had been tainted.”

“What had he done?”

“He put a bullet through the back of the heads of his sleeping children, then turned the gun on his wife.”

“Jesus . . .”

“Yeah.” Evan sighed. “Yeah.”

“And this was the guy who committed those other murders you mentioned, the ones in Lyndon?”

“No. They were killed by a man named Curtis Channing.”

“I’m confused. I thought you said all three victims were connected to Giordano. What was the connection to Channing?”

“I was never able to figure that out. But this is all just as weird. Think about it. Three people connected to Lowell. Before that, three people connected to Giordano. Now, Giordano is out, Lowell is in.”

“And Channing?”

“No longer in the picture.”

“Can I get a copy of your file on Channing?”

“I’ll call the department right now. I was the lead investigator on that case. I’m no longer with the Lyndon P.D., but my ex-partner is still there. I’ll have someone call you when it’s ready for pickup.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I appreciate your keeping my sister alive and well.”

“Nothing is going to happen to Amanda,” Sean assured him.

“I’m counting on that.” Evan paused, then asked, “Have you thought about bringing in the FBI?”

“I’ve thought about it, yes.”

“They have some pretty good agents in the area, Sean. Don’t write off asking for help just because you’re afraid they’re going to take over your case. That hasn’t been my experience.”

“Good to know.”

“Look, if you don’t mind, since I’m already down here, I want to run this past one of their profilers.”

“Evan . . .” Sean’s voice tightened.

“No, no, it’s not what you think. Really. She’s extraordinary. Anne Marie McCall is her name—Dr. McCall. She’s . . . she’s quite amazing. Helped us out immensely when we were trying to get a handle on Channing. I saw her from a distance the other day, so I know she’s down here. She’s teaching a class on behavior.” He sounded more than a little disappointed when he added, “Unfortunately, not the one I’m in.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Like I said, she’s . . . extraordinary.”

“I see.”

“Maybe you do. Anyway, I’d like to discuss this with her, see if she has any insights. Okay with you?”

“Okay. But don’t pull in the FBI, Evan. I’m not ready to throw in the towel.”

“Since only you can bring them on board, you don’t need to worry. I’ll make certain Anne Marie understands that. In the meantime, I’ll give my old partner a call and get them moving on that Channing file. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“No doubt I will. Thanks.”

“Hey, when you see my sister, tell her to hang in there, okay?”

“Will do.” Sean disconnected the call and sat at his desk for a long time, staring into space, wondering if he should be doing something else to move this investigation forward. Should he put in a call to the FBI? Should he be asking for help? Was he putting others in danger by not calling in the feds?

He glanced at the clock over the door. Greer had hung it the day he was named chief. It was a silly squirrel whose tail moved back and forth with every tick of the second hand. It drove him crazy so most times he refused to look at it, but today he couldn’t seem to look away.

He’d review the file from Lyndon on this Curtis Channing, then he’d decide what his next move would be. If it seemed like the FBI was the right choice, that would be his next call. Whether he personally liked it or not.

Dolores Hall was a mess. Here she was, in the front row of chairs set up at the funeral home, and she just could not stop crying. And forget about approaching the coffin, which Connie’s two sisters had wisely left closed. They’d come to bring the body back to Illinois to be buried with their parents in an old family plot, but agreed to have a viewing here in Carleton on Tuesday night for all of Connie’s devoted following.

“It’s only right,” Nancy, the oldest sister, told Dolores. “She’s been doing hair here in Carleton for sixteen years.”

“Half the heads in town,” Dolores had sniffed.

“Then we’ll do a little something here at one of the local funeral parlors. Can you suggest one? Who do you think does the best job?”

“McCardle’s,” Dolores had said without hesitation. “They always call us in to do . . . you know . . . heads. We didn’t especially like the work, but we thought of it as, you know, a public service. . . .”

McCardle’s first floor was jammed with mourners on the night of Connie’s viewing. Dolores stood side-by-side with the sisters, introducing them to the many who’d come to pay their respects to the deceased. Vince stood in the background and watched, amazed at the size of the crowd.

His gaze roamed the room, trying to pick out the undercover police, knowing that they would be in attendance. It was no secret that killers often attend the funerals of their victims, so it followed that the Carleton P.D. would be hanging around, looking for suspects. For this reason, Vince made a point of chatting with the mourners—a lone figure was much more likely to become the object of speculation—and went from time to time to stand by Dolores’s side as if he were an important part of the proceedings.

Which in a way, he was.

He just couldn’t wait until the sisters took the box away and Connie would be gone from his life forever. Then he could get on with things—move in with Dolores on a permanent basis, move out of that dinky little room he was in. He much preferred the comfort of Dee’s bed to the lumpy little thing he’d been sleeping on. Of course, with Dee in such grief and shock these days, he’d barely left her side. Which was just fine with him. It was helping him to solidify his place in her life, move their relationship along.

“Vinnie, you’re my rock,” she’d cried the night before. “I don’t know what I’d have done these past few days without you.”

“I’m here for you, Dolores,” he’d told her solemnly. “I’ll always be here for you. . . .”

At least, for as long as you are useful to me. And after that, well, who knows . . . ?