Death on Heels (2 page)

“About that plane flight,” Vic said. “It doesn’t make any sense for you to go.” He surveyed the mess of shoes and boots on her bedroom floor and ran one hand through his dark, curly hair. He dangled her one cowboy
boot in the other hand and fiddled with its loose bootheel like a nervous little boy.

“I’m going. I have to be there for the arraignment on Monday.” She stood up and faced him, wiping her hands. “Besides, you’re going.”

“That’s different. I was Sagebrush chief of police when Rae Fowler disappeared. I have to talk to the prosecutor. He wants all his ducks in a row and he might call me to testify. When Tucker goes on trial.”

“For murder.” Lacey gazed mournfully around her bedroom. It was a mess, but there was a bigger one waiting for her in Sagebrush.

A copy of the Associated Press report on Tucker’s arrest lay on the bed. Lacey picked it up. Pictures of the dead women. A picture of Tucker, taken at some rodeo, looking very dashing on his horse. The headlines about the murders had popped up on the Internet when Lacey was at work at
The Eye Street Observer
that morning. The photos jarred her memory back to Sagebrush. She’d called Vic at his office. He’d just heard the news himself.

Only seventeen years old, Rae Fowler was the first alleged victim, found strangled on a lonely country road in Northwest Colorado two years ago. The first of three murders now suddenly charged against Cole Tucker, Lacey’s once-upon-a-time, almost would-be, but never-was, fiancé.

Rae Fowler was a runaway from Denver, pretty and baby faced, in too much of a hurry to start her adult life. She made her way across the state to Sagebrush, where she lied about her age and waitressed in a bar for a few weeks. Then she disappeared.

When her body was found, no one could pinpoint how long she’d been dead or how long she might have been in the company of her killer. The police thought the victims were held captive somewhere, perhaps for as long as a week.

For Sean Victor Donovan, the Fowler murder had been one of those cases that haunts a cop. Even though he left the law enforcement world behind and turned to the more lucrative business of private security in Northern
Virginia, he’d be tormented by Rae Fowler’s murder until it was solved. And now it looked like it was.

“You are over Cole Tucker, aren’t you?” Vic asked.

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“Cole Tucker’s accused of killing three women, Lacey. Three. Not just Rae Fowler. And she was murdered two years ago.”

“Did you know the other two victims?” Lacey leaned against the bed, happy Vic was there, but slightly irritated with him. It was complicated.

“I used to see them around town. By the time Ally and Corazon disappeared, I had moved on to the Steamboat PD, you know, and then back here to Virginia. Nursing my broken heart and all. Surely you’ll recall my broken heart? All your fault, if you remember.”

“Then why was Tucker arrested now? Today?”

“Darlin’, you know after the first forty-eight hours, a typical murder case is colder than Sagebrush in December. Unless the cops find new evidence or—”

“Unless someone talks,” Lacey completed his thought. “Who talked?”

“No idea. They’re keeping it quiet. One of the sheriff’s deputies apparently caught the tip.” Vic moved closer to her. “He told the sheriff, who called the CBI, who alerted the FBI. That’s where the AP caught the story.”

She simply didn’t believe Tucker did it. It wasn’t possible. Lacey read the story again. “It says the bodies were all found partially clothed. All were barefoot. Stop playing with my boot, Vic.”

Vic shifted the boot from hand to hand. Lacey grabbed it from him and set it on the bed. “When we found Rae, she was mostly dressed. No shoes. But she’d been out there in the wind and rain for a while. Hard to say what condition they were in when they were dumped.”

Ally Newport was the second reported victim. At thirty, she was older, presumably wiser, but not quite as pretty as Rae Fowler. Yet dishwater blond Ally was “the belle of the ball,” according to those who had known her. Lacey stared at Ally’s picture: a rather plain face
with blank round eyes, but a wide smile softened the effect.

Vic took the AP wire story and glanced at it. “When Ally hit Sagebrush, she was still acting like she was homecoming queen.”

“She must have grown up the prettiest girl in a very small town,” Lacey said. “Even smaller than Sagebrush. Any boyfriends?”

“Plenty. But nothing serious, and no suspects panned out. This was after I left, you know. Hearsay.”

“And Corazon Reyes?” Lacey pointed to her photo. Corazon was the standout beauty in that unfortunate group. Petite and fine boned, Corazon had long, black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes that twinkled, even in the smudged copy. “What do you know about Corazon?”

“Not much. Other than she was dating Cole Tucker.”

“What?” Lacey snapped to attention.
My Cole?
“That’s not in the news stories!”

“No. But it’s probably common knowledge in town. Brad Owens, the prosecutor, mentioned it when he called me.”

“The story says Corazon’s body was found nine months ago! But they arrested Tucker this morning?”

Vic picked up Lacey’s boot again and absently wiggled the bootheel. He was worrying at it like a loose tooth. “Takes time to put a case together. New evidence apparently came to light. Owens said some things of hers were found out on Tucker’s property.”

Lacey was dizzy at the thought.
Did I ever really know this guy?
“Three women have been found. You think there are more out there?”

“God only knows, darlin’. Big county, size of Connecticut. Good place to hide a body. Five thousand square miles, a lot of it pretty desolate. Bodies don’t always get found. Some turn up a hundred years later. Course, in that case, they go to the state archaeologist, not the cops.”

By then, they’d be mummies, or bleached bones, like the carcasses of dead cows Lacey had seen on the Western Colorado landscape.

“The wire story says the women were strangled,” she said.

Vic nodded. “The hyoid bone was crushed in each case.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s a horrible way to die.” It was intimate and ugly. Lacey pictured someone’s hands around the women’s necks. But then the killer might not have used his hands.
Maybe a rope, or— Stop, Lacey,
she told herself.

Rae Fowler, Ally Newport, and Corazon Reyes. Their murders rocked that little Colorado town with a ripple of horror that grew with each death. In a small town, everyone’s private business seemed more immediate, Lacey knew. In a small town, the news was always personal, from the high school sports to the newest business in town, to random acts of graffiti. The locals took a personal interest in the news.
And there’s little enough of interest in Sagebrush anyway,
Lacey thought.

She recalled her Sagebrush reporting days. People thought nothing of stopping her in the grocery store or at the gas station to offer their personal and sometimes vivid commentary on her news stories. They told her when she got it right or wrong, they told her when they had something to add, and they told her what they thought even when they had nothing to add. It was exhausting.

Murder was not common in Sagebrush, and when it did happen it was most often a domestic dispute gone bad or a bar fight. Lacey remembered only a few murders in the entire county in the two years she had lived and worked there. It wasn’t like Washington, D.C., where murder was so routine most killings didn’t even make it to the pages of the major newspapers. Not even her own paper,
The Eye Street Observer.

In Sagebrush, anyone who ever met Rae or Ally or Corazon—or Tucker—would have a story to tell. Everyone in town would be touched in some way.

“Tucker couldn’t have done this.” She took her boot away from Vic again and set it down on the suitcase to await its mate.

“You have to remember, Lacey, cops don’t arrest people without evidence. Not even small-town cops. I was a cop. I know. Cops hate to end up looking like idiots, believe me.” Vic reached out for her.

“Most of the time.”

“Lacey—”

“Don’t ‘Lacey’ me, Vic Donovan! I dated this guy for two years. Two years! If Cole Tucker is a killer, then I don’t know anything about anybody. I don’t know anything about myself. Or even about
you
. If I’m wrong about Cole, then I’m wrong about
everything.
I’m going to Sagebrush and I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

“And I’m still missing a boot. Damn!”

I should know how to pack by now
, she thought,
so why is this so hard?
She’d even written about how to pack for a weekend getaway, sarcastically of course, in her Fashion Bites and Crime of Fashion columns.

But when it came to preparing for a return trip to Sagebrush, she was at a loss. She was no cowgirl. She picked out jackets, a skirt, some jeans, her faux-fur-lined leather jacket. Her cowboy boots, as soon as she found the one that was MIA. And she had carefully laid out on the padded bench at the foot of the bed a new, yet vintage, outfit.

Something else to give her a shot of strength.

Her great-aunt Mimi had selected the pattern in the late 1930s, and even cut out all the pieces: a bolero jacket in green and gold shot velvet, and a moss green velvet skirt. Lacey’s favorite seamstress, Alma Lopez, had finished it, but Lacey hadn’t worn it yet. She found a soft gold sweater in a delicate knit to wear with it. The outfit would go with the cowboy boots; at least Lacey thought it would. The green would enhance her eyes, the gold her highlighted hair. She planned to wear it to the arraignment of a man she once loved, now arrested for murder. But she would accessorize the outfit with the gold Cupid pendant Vic had given her.

Clothes shouldn’t matter when it comes to life or death
, Lacey told herself. But clothes were her armor. Makeup was her war paint. She would need that armor in the
coming days. That’s why she needed the vintage outfit. Her insides might be torn up, her emotions a mess, her imagination full of murdered women; still she had to put on a brave front. At home she always had Aunt Mimi’s trunk to run to for inspiration and consolation. She would have to pack a little of Aunt Mimi with her.

She caught sight of herself and Vic in her dresser mirror. He was dark and angular and she was light and curvy; he was tall and she was petite. He was strong and protective; she was—
what?
she wondered.
Impulsive? Sentimental?
But they fit together well, she thought. And not just physically. The attraction was magnetic. However, at times like this, when they were butting heads, it was a magnetic storm.

Lacey moved the clothes to one side and flopped down on the bed. The fragrant breeze from the open window tickled her nose. It was one of those deceptively warm March days, teasing the Nation’s Capital with the promise of a spring that was still weeks away. Lacey knew she would much rather enjoy springtime on the Potomac than head off to that still-frozen little Colorado town, far west of the Continental Divide.

“Please don’t go.” Vic looked troubled, his green eyes serious, his jaw tight. “It’s going to get ugly before it’s over.” He brushed away the dark brown curl that fell over his forehead.

“Too late. My ticket is bought,” she said.

Vic pulled her up and held her. “It’s really not a good idea.”

Lacey laughed, a little ruefully. “Maybe not, but when has that ever stopped me?”

“When have
I
ever been able to stop you?”

“You wouldn’t want to, Vic. You have way too much fun telling me ‘I told you so.’”

“There is that.” He kissed her hair.

“Tell me. Was Tucker ever on your suspect list when you were in charge of Rae Fowler’s disappearance?”

Vic took a deep breath. “No. Tucker’s name never came up. We focused on a couple of guys. Nothing came of it.” He crossed his arms and frowned.

“Who were they?”
Maybe the cops missed something
, Lacey thought.

“One was a coal miner. The only connection was that he left town right after Rae went missing. Never came back, never located him, never turned up in the system. Then there was Zeke.”

“Zeke? Who’s he?”

“Zeke Yancey. He was the go-to guy whenever I had a bar fight or a drunken brawl in town. Beer, weed, and busted knuckles? You could bet Zeke would be involved. You probably saw him around town back then. He’s a Sagebrusher, born and bred.”

“Okay, the local knucklehead. How was he with women?”

“Mostly they stayed far away from him. Had a history of domestic violence with girlfriends. He was seen bothering Rae on several occasions. Yancey called it flirting. But we couldn’t prove our suspicions. Last I heard he was banned from the Sundance Kid.”

“One of the bars where Ally Newport worked?” The Sundance had a pretty rough reputation, at least the last time Lacey was in town. “Banned for what?”

“Ugly behavior. Zeke is rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.”

“Any official complaints of sexual assault or harassment?”

“Nothing that ever went to trial. I booked him into a cell on many occasions.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

Vic thought for a moment. “Jillie Maycomb used to put up with him when no one else would.”

“Jillie Maycomb? Any relation to Aggie Maycomb, the old bartender at the Little Snake Saloon?”

“Aggie’s daughter. Looks just like her mother.” He winced.

“That’s a shame.” Lacey remembered her. Aggie was skinny and bitter and tough as nails.

“Anyway, when Zeke got kicked out of every other bar in town, he’d crawl back to the Little Snake and hook up with Jillie again. For a week or two.”

“A match made in heaven?” Lacey stretched her back and started refolding her clothes.

“More like drunk-tank hell. I don’t think they even liked each other.”

“What does Zeke look like?”

“Like a drunk. Big, sloppy, week-old stubble. You remember the type.”

Lacey wrinkled her nose. “Blue jeans, flannel shirts, stench of beer?”

“That’s Zeke Yancey.”

“So he was your prime suspect? Not Tucker?”