Dead Even (10 page)

She never returned his call.

*   *   *

Audra was having the time of her life. In the course of three hours, she had managed to spend every cent of her wedding savings. She had outfitted herself from head to toe, even going back to the matching panties and bras she used to wear. She had gone to Sher's Fashion Gazebo for many of her purchases, even plunking down one hundred dollars for Merle Norman perfume and makeup while she was there. Her last stop was the beauty salon at the mall. She smiled in satisfaction as the girl began styling her hair.

Audra Delaney was back.

Chapter EIGHT

She awakened early, bathed, and dressed with care. It felt good to pamper herself, to allow extra time for such things as makeup and hair. She was surprised at how quickly all the little subtleties of applying makeup had returned to her. She used a pencil to darken her eyebrows just slightly—enough to keep them from disappearing on her face, yet not enough to really be noticeable. She applied eye shadow, then brown mascara to her lashes. The young lady at Merle Norman had been right. By keeping the tones soft and muted, the extra coloring only enhanced her eyes and did not overwhelm them.

She looked good. And she was beginning to feel a confidence she had not felt in years.

Without hesitation she crossed her small apartment and picked up the telephone. She was ready now.

It took her three tries to finally get through to the radio show. At last she heard the announcer. “This is Party Line. Go ahead, please.”

Suddenly nervous, Audra tried to control the trembling in her voice as she spoke through the handkerchief she had placed over the receiver. “Yes, I'm calling in response to the man who was looking for an accent table.” As she said the words, she was again flooded with an overwhelming sense of outrage. She steadied her voice and said the next words with confidence. “I have
just exactly
what that man needs. If he will call 555-1805, I'm
certain
it will be
perfect
for him.”

*   *   *

Across town, the man sat quietly in the kitchen listening to the radio show. He rarely missed it—certainly not during the winter months. An inch of snow had fallen during the night, and the forecast was for continuing cold. Perfect. If he heard about an item he needed, there would be no problem picking it up.

He listened as the third caller began speaking. A familiar tingling sensation ran across the back of his neck as he realized the call was for him. That was one of the reasons he enjoyed the program. All those people calling for him, being so helpful, had no idea who they were talking to. Wouldn't they be surprised if they knew?

Quickly, he grabbed a pencil and jotted down the number the woman left. It wasn't unusual that she had called the program instead of the number he had left. People listening often missed the numbers and called back to the program to relay messages. It sounded like this lady might have just what he wanted. He pulled the telephone toward him and dialed.

The phone was answered on the second ring. “City Morgue.”

He slammed down the phone, checked the number and carefully dialed again. The woman sounded irritated. “Yes. This is the morgue. How can I help you?”

“Uh—did you just call in on Party Line about a table?” he asked.

“No,” she snapped. “I certainly did not. You must have the wrong number.”

He placed the phone back in the cradle and sat staring at the number he had written down. He remembered the woman's voice on the program.
I have just exactly what that man needs.

He reached over and turned the volume back up on the radio. It was probably just a simple mistake. Maybe he hadn't understood her clearly. He would play back his tape at the conclusion of the program.

*   *   *

Mike had been at his desk since seven, and had already managed to go through a pack of cigarettes and half of the station's coffee. His mouth tasted bitter and hot. He pushed away from the desk and walked over to Butch, peering over his shoulder at the computer screen. “Anything yet?”

“No. I've run a check on all rape victims in Kansas, cross-checked it with stabbings, attacks on college girls, and unsolved disappearances. I can't find a common thread. Most of these old crimes have been solved, and the ones that haven't don't fit the m.o. What have you come up with?”

“Simpson was married twice. Both times his wife died under mysterious circumstances. The first supposedly took her own life by an overdose of pills, and the second died in a fire. He had a son by the first wife, and the boy died along with the second wife in the fire. He was twelve years old.”

“Jesus! Wasn't he ever suspected in their deaths?”

“I haven't heard back yet about the first wife, but the sheriff in Greensburg, Kansas, where he was living when the fire occurred, assures me there was no question of his involvement. He had been with some other businessmen all day, and they were with him when he returned home and saw the house on fire. According to the sheriff, Simpson really did make a valiant effort to save his wife and son. He was hospitalized almost two weeks, and received permanent damage to his vocal chords.”

“It was handy that he happened to have witnesses again, wasn't it?”

Mike pulled out his last cigarette, crumpling the pack and tossing it into the trash can by Butch's desk. “Yeah. Especially so, when he just happened to have a half a million dollar insurance policy riding on the wife and kid.”

Butch shook his head in disbelief. “And the insurance company let him get by with that? Surely there was an investigation?”

“Nope. It was the company he worked for—still does, as a matter of fact. It turns out the company had been making a push to get their agents to carry big policies—thought it would help their sales pitch. So no one batted an eye, because Simpson had practically been forced into getting the policy. Also, they have used his story a thousand times in promotional material.”

“He always manages to come out smelling like a rose, doesn't he?”

“Yeah, well, this is all coming from official sources,” Mike answered him. “Sometime in the next few days, I'm heading for Greensburg—talk with a few neighbors, maybe some old friends of the family. The second wife was raised there, and she still has a sister living in the town. I decided not to call her. Thought it might be better if I talked to her in person.”

“I assume they checked the house carefully for a timing device. It wouldn't be too difficult to rig a house to burn at a specified time, giving the arsonist an alibi.”

Mike rubbed his forehead in concentration. “Shit. We all know the statistics are on his side. Nationwide, over eighty-three percent of arson fires are never solved. And they couldn't even definitely rule arson in the Simpson fire. There was evidence of a small fire which caused a faulty gas line to explode, but the fire marshal said it looked like the kid may have set off a fire with his chemistry set, which then triggered the gas line. Absolutely no way to point a finger at Simpson.”

“Not to change the subject, but how did Miss Delaney react to hearing the news about Simpson?”

“Not good. She took my head off.”

“You didn't tell her we were still on the case, did you?”

“No. But I intend to talk with Markham about that. I think she needs to know.”

Butch nodded his head. “I think so, too. We aren't getting a pretty picture of Simpson. If he thinks she can identify him, he might be able to track her down some way. She should be made aware of the danger.”

“Exactly. I've already contacted everyone I could think of that might give out information, and told them to keep a tight lid on this. I've also advised them to get in touch with me if anyone calls inquiring about her.”

“I hope to hell that's enough!”

Mike took a deep drag on his cigarette, and exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Me too.”

*   *   *

Jason Miller checked the items in the old, patched duffel bag once more. He had managed to amass quite an array of weaponry.
Not weapons, exactly, but close enough. As close as I can get!
He folded two pair of jeans and three shirts, placing them carefully over the items. At the last moment, he remembered underwear and socks, and stuffed them in on top.

“Jason,” his mother called in to the room. “The bus is just up the road. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Momma,” he answered.

She came into the room and watched as he struggled with the zipper. “Are you certain Miss Delaney wants you for three whole days?” she asked him again.

He looked up at her with big, innocent eyes. “Yes, Momma. Like I told you, she wants to give me a whole bunch of tests.” He grinned wide. “She says I'm real smart, and she needs to test me to see if the school is doing everything to help me—” He screwed up his face as though concentrating. “Oh, yeah—to help me reach my full potential.”

“Well, I still don't understand why you need to stay with her. And why didn't you tell me all this last night? Maybe I could have found you some better clothes.”

Jason went over and hugged her. “My clothes are fine, Momma. And I just forgot about it last night. Don't you remember? I went to bed real early.”

The tired woman looked down at her youngest child. There was no question in her mind he was smart. Smarter than all the others combined. “Maybe I should call Miss Delaney and talk with her,” she said.

Jason grabbed up his bag and headed for the door. “No, Momma. She's doing this on her own. You might get her in trouble at school. I'll call you tonight, from her place.” He thought a minute, then added, “If someone from the school is there, like her boyfriend Mr. Alden, we might have to be careful so they won't know about all the extra tests. Just go along with whatever we say. Okay, Momma?”

She bent down and gave him a kiss. If it had been any of her other children, she would have double-checked the information. But Jason was the reliable one, the one she could always depend on. He never got his facts wrong. “Okay, sweetheart. I suppose Miss Delaney knows what she is doing.”

One down, and one to go!
Jason thought as he climbed on the school bus.
But I don't think Miss Delaney is going to be as easy as Momma!

*   *   *

Jeffrey Davidson was twelve years old and in the eighth grade at William's Academy. He considered himself a ladies' man, and fancied even the prettiest teachers at William's were secretly in love with him. There was one teacher who had never caught his eye. He had not thought of her romantically, or any other way, during his four years at the school. This morning he hung around the entrance, as was his wont, waiting to thrill the female population of the school with his presence. At first he couldn't quite place the beauty walking toward him.

“Good morning, Jeffrey,” the vision spoke in passing. “How are you today?”

Then it hit him and he scrambled to fall into step beside her. “Miss Delaney? Wow! What happened to you?”

Audra laughed. “I take that as a compliment, Jeffrey.” She stopped, made an exaggerated pirouette, and grinned broadly at the boy. “So how do you like the new me?” There was no use trying to be coy about the change in her appearance. The difference was too drastic.

“You look fantastic, Miss Delaney!” Jeffrey answered.

She was wearing light gray slacks, pleated in the front, and a bright red blouse with dolman sleeves. Three ruffly tiers of red organza formed the oversized collar on the blouse, and her waist was belted with a thin gold chain. She had discarded her comfortable loafers in favor of two-inch gray heels. Her hair, which she had worn neck-length, straight, with no attempt at styling, was now short and swirled upward, back from her face. The feathering accented her porcelain complexion and large emerald eyes.

By now other students had begun crowding around her, offering their own comments about the transformation. It felt good. As she laughed and joked with them, she realized that for the first time in ten years, she was behaving in a completely natural manner—not hiding behind a wall of self-doubt or self-pity, afraid to be the woman she would have become had the attack not occurred.

She felt a tug on her slacks and looked down to see Jason staring up at her with wide-eyed amazement. “Gosh, Miss Delaney,” he said, “You look pretty! Just like a movie star!”

Audra bent down and gave him a hug. “Well, thank you, Jason. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me!” She noticed the bag. “What are you doing? Moving in?”

“Uh—not exactly. I'll talk to you about it later, okay?”

She looked at him, curiously. “Okay. I have to see the principal, then I'll be right in.”

Mr. Benson glanced up from the pile of papers cluttering his desk and did a double take as Audra walked toward him. “Audra? Good heavens! I hardly recognized you! How beautiful you look!”

Audra laughed and made a little bow. “Thank you, sir.”

“What brought this on, your upcoming wedding?”

“No,” Audra answered honestly. “It was just something I needed to do for myself.”

Benson nodded his head, smiling. “Well, you look like a million bucks. Gerald is a lucky man.”

Audra ignored the reference to her fiancé. “What I came to see you about is the opening for the girls' track coach. Have you found anyone yet?”

Benson shook his head. “No. No one seems to want the extra work, and even if they did, we don't have a woman on the staff who is really qualified.”

“I'll take the job, Mr. Benson. The cross-country runners should be starting practice in a week or so if they hope to be in shape to compete in the spring.”

“It's nice of you to offer, Audra, but we really need an experienced person in that slot. We've about decided to bring in someone part-time from another school.”