Dead Ringer (7 page)

The
woman felt the presence of
Evil
pacing around her like
a caged animal. Unbearable fear and sadness washed over Kendall, tightening her
chest, making her barely able to breathe. She touched her fingertips to her
face and realized that she had been crying in her sleep.

"This
is nuts." Her voice sounded hoarse.

Kendall
swung her legs over the side of the bed. She switched on the bedside light.
"It's a dream. It's a damn dream."

But
it had been so clear, and the feelings had been so real. She swallowed and
stood. The wooden floor felt cold against her bare feet. She glanced longingly
back at her bed but knew her body and mind were too keyed up to sleep.

Kendall
pushed her feet into her slippers. "This is stupid. There is enough in the
daily news to keep me up but I have to dream up phantoms."

She
padded down the hallway past her roommate's closed door, careful to be quiet.
She moved down the staircase, past the parlor and the dining room, and into the
kitchen in the back of the house.

She
flipped on the kitchen lights, which cast an anemic glow over scarred linoleum
floors, chipped counters, and dated appliances.

She
picked up the white teakettle on the stove. At the sink, she switched on the
water, waited as the aging pipes trickled out a weak stream, and then filled
the kettle. "The contractor can't arrive soon enough," she muttered.

She
set the kettle on the stove and switched on the front electric burner, which
was the only one of the four that worked. Then she put a chamomile tea bag into
a porcelain cup and drummed her fingers as she waited for the water to boil.

From
the kitchen window above the sink, Kendall stared into her backyard and the
alley and beyond that into the darkened house behind her. It had sat empty for
the last few months. The sagging real estate market and the cold winter hadn't
helped sales. It would be nice to finally have someone move in.

The
teakettle whistled, snapping her out of her thoughts. She turned to the stove
and poured hot water into her cup.

She
sat at the kitchen table and blew on the steaming mug. The worn walnut table
had belonged to her mother. It didn't fit into the design of the new kitchen
but she planned to keep it anyway. Not in the kitchen, but somewhere in the
house.

When
she was a kid, there were nights when she didn't sleep well. She used to go
into her parents' room and her mother would wake instantly. Her dad would
grumble and ask her what
was the matter
. Her mother
always told him to go back to sleep, and then Kendall and her mom would go to
the kitchen and share tea. At eleven or twelve, drinking tea with Mom felt like
such a grown-up thing to do.

Those
were some of the best times she'd shared with her mother. During those
nighttime sessions they'd talk about the boys at school. They'd gossip about
the neighbors. Those were the moments when Kendall felt the most secure and
most tempted to broach sensitive topics.

"I
hate my hair," twelve-year-old Kendall complained.

Irene
set her cup of steaming tea on the table. She
smiled,
her
brown eyes neutral. They'd had this conversation before and Irene understood
now that no answer would be satisfactory to Kendall. "I like your hair."

Kendall
groaned and glanced at her tea, heavily laced with sugar and milk. "You
always
say that."

Irene
sipped her tea. "But it's stunning.
Rich dark brown, thick,
lush.
I would have killed for hair like that at your age."

"I
like yours. I like blond better." Kendall really didn't care about hair color.
She was trying to ask without asking:
Who do I look like? Where do I come
from? Why was I given up for adoption at the age of three?

"The
grass is always greener." Irene smiled stiffly, realizing instantly where this
was headed. She didn't like this topic and avoided it at all costs.

In
the last year, Kendall had really zeroed in on the differences between them.
Her mother was short, pale, blond and gained weight even when she walked by
food. Kendall, even at twelve, was taller than her mother; her skin was olive,
not pale; and her long, limber body suggested she had a lot of growing to do.
Her parents liked puzzles and books. Kendall craved continued action.

Night-and-day
differences weren't the only reminders of the never discussed adoption. "The
Gallery of Kendall," as her father jokingly called the dozens of framed
pictures of Kendall in their house, documented all of her achievements: dance
recitals, visits to Santa, even Easter egg hunts. But all the pictures were
taken after Kendall had turned three. Once when a neighbor had asked about the
lack of baby pictures, Irene Shaw had lied and blamed the discrepancy on a
house fire that had destroyed all their pictures.

"I
wish I looked more like you," Kendall said, trying a different tactic.

Irene
set her cup down.
"Good heavens, why?
Honey, you are
stunning."

"Yeah,
but my skin is so dark compared to yours."

Irene
frowned into her cup. Then in an about-face, she smiled brightly. "You know
what we should do first thing in the morning? Go shopping. I saw the cutest
dress that would look perfect on you."

Her
mother knew the right buttons. Her daughter, unlike her, loved pretty clothes
and shoes. Shopping always distracted Kendall. However, this time the
not-so-subtle evasion wasn't lost on Kendall. She understood without hearing
the words that she'd get no answers. She dropped the subject.

Later,
she went to her father and asked him about her adoption. "You know this kind of
talk upsets your mother."

"But
why don't we ever talk about it? Is something wrong with me? Was my birth
mother some space alien freak?"

Tenderness
in his eyes, he patted her on the shoulder. "You are perfect and don't you ever
believe different. Mom and I love you and that's all you need to worry about."

Her
father had been dead ten years and her mother had been gone a year now. There
was no one left to hurt or disappoint.

And
yet Kendall hadn't initiated a search of her birth parents and hadn't told
anyone, including Nicole, she was adopted.

Questions
about her birth mother had never left her. But even as an adult, voicing
questions about her birth family left her feeling disloyal and afraid.

Kendall
traced the rim of her porcelain cup with the tip of her index finger. She
sipped her tea.

She
made her living asking questions, digging into people's lives and turning the
news into stories people enjoyed. But she couldn't ask the most basic questions
about her own past.
Where had she come from? Where had she lived the first
three years of her life?

Kendall
rubbed her itchy eyes. The weight of it all suddenly felt so heavy on her
shoulders.
"Sleep.
I desperately need sleep."

So
far she'd been able to hide the dark circles under her eyes with makeup. But
soon the television cameras would betray her sleepless nights no matter how
much foundation she caked on.

Rising,
Kendall moved to the sink. She poured her tea down the drain, rinsed out the
cup, and set it on the counter.

"This
is ridiculous. It doesn't matter where I came from. I had great parents and I
have
a great life. The past simply doesn't matter."

But
deep inside her, she sensed that it did.

Thursday, January 10, 10:12
A.M.

The
last forty-eight hours had been frustrating. Jacob and Zack had tracked down
Phil White's town house, but there'd been no sign of him and neighbors reported
they'd not seen him since Friday morning. They'd learned from his boss at the
cable company that he was on vacation, but no one seemed to know where he'd
gone or how to reach him.

Interviewing
Jackie White's church friends and coworkers had been just as elusive. She was
an intensely private woman, and though all seemed to like her no one really
knew much about her. Her cell phone records, bank statements, and credit report
showed nothing out of the ordinary.

Jacob
had gotten a call from the medical examiner's office this morning. Jackie
White's autopsy was happening today.

As
Jacob and Zack strode into the medical examiner's office, Jacob felt himself
tensing. Death was a part of his job but he didn't like this place.
The tile floor.
The chrome.
The smell.
The place had an eerie feeling that he'd never
grown comfortable with.

"God,
I hate the smell of this place," Zack muttered.

Jacob
inhaled through his mouth. "I hear ya."

The
detectives pushed through the double doors into the autopsy room. The tile
floor had a drain in the center. Adjustable lights hung over five different
chrome examining tables, all of which were empty except the one where Dr. Alex
Butler stood.

Dr.
Butler was young, not much older than thirty. He was tall, lean and had a thick
stock of blond hair cut into a crew cut. Blue eyes reflected intelligence. He'd
finished medical school at age twenty and some called him Doogie Howser. He'd
spent several years working in Hawaii for the federal government helping to
identify the remains of missing U.S. servicemen. He had become an expert known
worldwide and could have worked anywhere.

Dr.
Butler turned and glanced at his gloved hands.
"Detectives
Warwick and Kier.
I'd shake your hand, but..."

"No
problem, Dr. Butler," Jacob said. It felt odd calling the guy doctor. He didn't
look old enough to drive. "What do you have?"

"I'm
glad you arrived before I finished." Dr. Butler stepped aside and Jackie
White's nude body came into view. Her chest was open via the coroner's
signature Y-cut. Her vital organs had been removed. Her hair was brushed off
her face.

Zack
expelled a breath.

Jacob
clenched his teeth, determined to view the body as nothing more than evidence.

Dr.
Butler looked nonplussed over the woman lying on the metal table behind him.
This was business as usual to him.

"What
can you tell us?" Jacob's voice sounded rusty. Already he was anxious to get
out of the room.

"Strangulation
was the cause of death." He took the victim's head and turned her face away
from them, exposing her pale neck, marred by finger bruises on both sides. "As
you can see by the bruising he used both hands. Also, the hyoid bone was
broken, as is common in the case of hanging and strangulation. When the bone
breaks, asphyxiation occurs."

Jacob's
impatience rose. Dr. Butler was detailing what they'd already suspected.
"What's special about this case?"

"The
killer had to have been a powerful person. Her larynx was nearly crushed. And
it appears he strangled her from behind. See the finger marks? They point
forward."

Dr.
Butler moved to the body's raw wrists. He lifted her arm. "These marks were
made over several days. She was trying to get loose. There are also rub marks
on her ankles and at the base of her spine."

"The spine?"
Jacob asked.

Dr.
Butler rested his hands on his hips. "My guess is that the killer tied her to a
straight-backed chair with sturdy arms. The hard chair back would have rubbed
into her skin after a couple of days. Also notice the lividity--these purplish,
red marks." When death occurred blood settled at the lowest portion of the
body. "The markings occur in her feet, the underside of her forearms, and her
backside, suggesting she was sitting after she died."

"Lividity
doesn't happen for at least thirty minutes," Jacob said.

Dr.
Butler nodded. "But hers is so dark I think the killer kept her tied to the
chair for at least three to four hours."

The
killer had kept her dead body with him. Why? "When do you think she died?"
Jacob asked.

"Her
liver temp was forty degrees. That's a drop of fifty-nine degrees. Assuming she
lost a degree and a half per hour, and it was a constant thirty degrees
outside, I'd say she's been dead roughly forty hours."

"Death
occurred roughly around six p.m. on Sunday?" Zack asked.

Dr.
Butler nodded. "Give or take."

Jacob
checked his notes. The timeline he'd been able to establish so far didn't fit
what Dr. Butler was telling him. "We stopped by the victim's office yesterday.
The office manager said White e-mailed in on Sunday morning and said she'd have
to take Monday off."

Dr.
Butler shook his head. "That doesn't fit what I've found. If I had to guess,
I'd say she was restrained on Saturday."

"So
the killer sent the e-mails?" Zack speculated.

"Maybe,"
Jacob said.

"Signs of sexual assault?"
Zack asked.

Dr.
Butler shook his head.
"None.
And frankly, I was
expecting it. Preliminary tox screens show that she was loaded with
barbiturates."

"Like
a date-rape drug?"

Dr.
Butler nodded. "That was my thought. The drug would have made her pliable." He
turned the inside of the victim's pale arm upward. Needle marks peppered the
points around her blue-green veins. "This was done over a couple of days."

"How
long before we know what was injected into her?" Zack asked.

"A couple of weeks."

"And
there's a possibility she did this to herself?" Jacob challenged.

"I
don't think so." Dr. Butler shook his head. "That's why I opened her up. Her
heart was a normal weight and size, as was her liver. Have a look."

Jacob
braced and leaned forward.

Zack
held up his hand. "I'll take your word for it."

Dr.
Butler shrugged. "This woman took very good care of herself. Good weight, firm
muscles, healthy heart, no signs of cigarette smoking in the lungs. Good teeth.
She did not use drugs."

Jacob
flexed his fingers. For an instant his gaze darted to the victim's pale, still
face. He thought about the picture taken of her last Halloween.
Smiling.
Vibrant.
Alive.
"So how the hell does she end up tied to a chair,
loaded full of drugs, strangled, and dumped like yesterday's garbage?"

"Have
you talked to her husband yet?" Dr. Butler asked. "The majority of the women I
see murdered are killed by someone they know."

Zack
put his hands in his pockets and rattled the change. "We're still looking for
him."

Tess
pushed through the doors to the autopsy room. Her tight frown mimicked her
brother's. Her long dark hair was tied back. She wore khakis and a dark shirt.
Dark circles smudged the delicate skin under her eyes, a sign she'd been up
last night working on this case. "Your office said I could find you here. I had
to be down here anyway and thought I'd be able to catch you."

The
doctor's gaze darted to Tess. For just an instant, he stared before looking
away.

Zack
nodded to his sister. "Did you find anything unusual on the body?"

She
opened the file in her hands. "There wasn't much. But I did find carpet fibers
on the left side of her coat."

"The left side?"
Dr. Butler asked.

Tess
shrugged.
"As if she'd been dragged over the carpet."

The
doctor nodded.
"Explains the hint of rash on her left arm."

"What
can you tell us about the fibers?" Jacob asked.

Tess
glanced at her notes.
"Standard-grade carpet.
Very new.
And they were pink."

"Pink?"
Zack and Jacob had searched the victim's premises late into the night, along
with another member of the forensics team, who had sealed the house indefinitely.
"When we went through her house there was no sign of pink."

Zack
nodded. "Beige, browns, and antique whites. No color at all."

"Has
her car been found yet?" Tess asked.

"No,"
Jacob said. "But her boss reported that it was a black Jetta, beige interior,
Virginia plates."

Tess
flipped through her notes. "There was no skin under her nails. No chemicals on
her clothes. No fingerprints on her belt buckle."

Jacob's
cell phone vibrated on his hip. He glanced at the number. "Excuse me." He walked
to the corner of the room and flipped open the phone. "Warwick."

He
listened as the patrolman assigned to White's house reported that Phil White
had returned home minutes ago. "Good. Make sure he doesn't leave." He glanced
at Zack. "The husband is home."

Zack
nodded. "Let's go."

"Brett,
I just got an anonymous text message. The sender tells me he knows the name of
the dead woman found by the river," Kendall said as she poked her head in his
office.

He
lifted his gaze from Wednesday night's copy. "What's her name?"

She
flicked the edge of the sticky note in her hand with her index finger. She'd
received tips like this before but they always left her questioning the
sender's agenda. "According to my source her name is Jackie White. I did a
quick check and found that she lives on Mayberry Drive and is a secretary at
Trainer Engineering. Thirty-eight years old.
Separated."
Ferreting out facts quickly was her specialty. She handed him the note.

Brett
glanced at the address of Jackie's employer and her home address. He checked
his watch. "Both places are close. You could make it by both locations before
deadline if you hustle. We have five hours to air."

"I
want to talk to the husband."

He
seemed pleased by her assertiveness. "Go for it. Where's Mike?"

She
smiled, pleased with herself.
"Outside warming up the van."

Brett
grinned. "I should have known." He rose and moved around the desk until he
stood just inches from her. "I knew it was a smart idea to hire you."

Impatience
nipped at her and she feared where this conversation was going. "It was one of
your best." She turned to leave and he caught her arm in his hand. The hold was
gentle, yet insistent. Emotion darkened his eyes. "I miss you, Kendall."

Since
she'd taken the anchor job there'd thankfully been no conversations with Brett
about their past relationship. "Where's this coming from?"

He
glanced down to the hand holding her arm. "It's been chewing on me for a
while."

She
did not want to have this conversation. They were done.
Period.
Gently, she pulled out of his grasp. "This isn't the time."

His
features stiffened. "We need to make the time to talk about us."

"There
is
no us anymore, Brett. That ended last year. And as
I remember, you were glad it ended."

He
brushed an imaginary hair from her shoulder. "Breaking up was a mistake."

At
the time she thought it might have been a mistake, but no longer. "It was the
best move for us." She realized now that Brett only wanted what came easily. He
wanted a relationship filled with happy moments. The hard, sloppy times sent
him running.

"I
don't buy that."

Anger
kindled inside her. There was a time when she'd really needed his support and
he'd refused her pleas of help. "You need to accept it. We're done."

"Are
you seeing someone else?" Accusation peppered his words.

She
didn't like his tone of voice. "That really is none of your business."

He
shoved out a breath. "It's a simple yes or no answer."

"There's
nothing simple about that question."

Brett
looked frustrated. "Why do you have to be so stubborn?"

She
lifted a brow. "I've got a story to cover and don't have time for this."

For
a moment he looked as if he would block her exit, but then he moved aside.

Kendall
exited the office. She hadn't realized that she'd been holding her breath or that
tension had coiled around her spine until she was headed away from him. Brett's
attitude was a bit unnerving and it was something she'd not seen before.

Her
high heels clicked quickly as she hurried down the hallway toward the back
exit. She pushed open the back double doors and found the white news van. Mike
was in the front seat; the engine was running and the heater humming.