Don't Be Afraid (17 page)

“Thank you all for coming, ladies and gentlemen,” the chief began, standing behind a wooden podium with the Steerforth crest displayed prominently in gold. He’d placed the American and the Connecticut flags strategically near him so that they framed him in the photos. In his full uniform, he looked like a military general. All that was missing were rows of ribbons on his chest.

He reviewed what they already knew—the body of Meredith Chomsky had been found in a house on Brindle Lane. Police were investigating. Evidence found at the scene indicated that this killing and that of realtor Sheila Sylvester might—he stressed the
might
—be related.

Mark could see that the media had already considered that option. They had the strained quality of dogs being held back by an invisible leash. They waited, though, for the chief to introduce the “two lead detectives on the case” before springing.

“Do you have any suspects in custody?”

“Not at this time.”

“How were the women killed?”

“They were shot with a nail gun.”

The buzz in the room increased with this news. Mark overheard one reporter mutter, “Holy shit!” The questions flew faster. They wanted particulars about the nail gun, which the chief had decreed would not be released. Ditto with crime scene details, leaving the detectives to deflect all those questions to the best of their ability.

Out of the sea of waving hands, Mark picked one, only to stare, aghast, as up stood a wiry man with a shock of red hair. Peter Gibson grinned at him.

“Hello again, detective. Can you tell us what methods the police are using to protect Steerforth from this serial killer?”

Black grabbed the microphone. “No one said anything about a serial killer.”

Gibson looked confused. “Detective Juarez did. When I spoke to you this morning, detective, didn’t you mention that the police would protect the public from this killer?”

Pandemonium erupted. The frenzy of questions increased and the chief stepped back from the podium and let Lieutenant Farley in to try to restore order. “If I could speak,” he said several times into his microphone, face turning an unattractive shade of red. Reduced to shouting, “Settle down!” his voice was hoarse when he finally got the floor.

“Detective Juarez is new to our department,” he said with a strained smile that matched the chief’s. “He’s used to big-city crime and he’s looking with big-city eyes at this.” The chief was nodding behind him and shot Mark a look that told him very clearly that he’d better agree and now.

“The lieutenant is right,” Mark said, “I am new to the department.” The chief’s smile relaxed and Black gave an audible sigh of relief. For one long moment Mark considered leaving it there, not saying anything else. But what the hell—no one else in this investigation would take the lead with this, he might as well. “However,” he continued, “serial killers have been urban, suburban and rural. There is no one demographic.”

“You are so dead,” Black muttered beside him, looking down at the tabletop.

“The killer of both Sheila Sylvester and Meredith Chomsky knew his victims. It is clear from some evidence that he’d been watching them for some time. He had gained access to their homes.”

The reporters were scribbling furiously, the cameras were focused on Mark’s face and he didn’t dare look in the chief’s direction.

“This doesn’t mean it is a serial killer. Just that it’s a possibility,” he added.

“When do you think the killer will strike again?” a TV reporter asked Mark.

“We have no way of knowing if or when that will happen,” the chief said. “We certainly hope it doesn’t.”

“Have you had any communication with the killer?”

“No,” the chief said.

“What does the killer call himself?”

“He doesn’t,” Mark said.

“Does the Toolman take any trophies?” It was Gibson again and that was it. The reporters erupted again, competing with each other to ask questions, all of them using the now unofficial name of the killer.

The chief ended it, stepping back from the podium and conferring with Lieutenant Farley for a moment before exiting.

“That’s all, thank you for coming.” Farley repeated this over and over until the room was empty. Then his smile disappeared and he focused his steely gaze on Juarez.

“You,” he said. “Chief’s office. Now!”

Black hummed an executioner’s song and Mark flipped him the bird.

The chief had taken off his jacket and cap and was sitting behind his massive walnut desk with his arms crossed when Mark entered.

“Sit!”

Mark sat. Was it his imagination or were the chairs in front of the chief’s desk shorter than the one behind it?

Lieutenant Farley was perched like a vulture on the edge of a small filing cabinet behind the chief.

“Well?” the chief boomed. “What the hell do you have to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, but they can guess the truth—”

The chief’s voice blasted him. “I’m the truth in this department!”

“There is clear evidence that this could be the work of a serial killer.”

“Could be! Emphasis on
could
! It is our job to keep the peace in this community, detective. How do you propose we do that when you go around riling up everyone?”

“I didn’t mean to do that—”

“What did you mean to do? Other than disobey a direct order. I told you to follow my script in there, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you didn’t do that, did you?”

“No, sir.”

The chief nodded. “Damn right you didn’t. Before you opened your big mouth all we had the press clamoring about was two separate killings—”

“They’re connected. Gibson knew it. So does everyone else in there.”

“Shut up!” The chief’s shout stunned Mark. “You’ve done enough talking for one day! I’m putting an official reprimand in your file, detective, and if we weren’t so understaffed, you’d be reassigned to desk duty for the rest of your youth. Got something to say about that, wiseass?”

It took all of Mark’s self-restraint to keep from replying, but he tightened his lips and shook his head.

“Good.” The chief bit the word off and sat back for a moment, staring hard at Juarez. He picked up a piece of paper and waved it at him. “Any idea what this is?”

Mark shook his head and the chief slammed it down on the desk in front of him. It appeared to be a phone number, but before he could read it, the chief snatched it away.

“This is a message from the mayor,” he said, holding it up like a flag. “He wants to talk to me. You know why he wants to talk to me?”

Again, Mark shook his head, though he could have hazarded a guess. He winced as the chief crumpled the message into his fist and pounded it on the desk.

“You! You are the reason he wants to talk to me! The media didn’t know these killings were related until you volunteered that information. Thanks to you, we’ve got them believing in ‘the Toolman.’ They are now clamoring for more information. And when they clamor, the whole town clamors. So instead of looking for a killer, I have to spend my time fielding phone calls from the mayor’s office and other bigwigs in this town who want to know why the hell they weren’t informed that Steerforth had a serial killer on the loose.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

At those words a nasty smile spread across the chief’s face. “No, son, you’re not sorry, not yet, but you’re going to be. Since you’re so convinced that this is the work of a serial killer, you can pull extra shifts until the perp is apprehended.”

Juarez stifled a groan, but he couldn’t hide his dismay entirely. It seemed to please the chief, who actually chuckled.

“Don’t worry, detective, I’m sure you’ll manage to squeeze in some sleep somewhere,” he said cheerily. Then the smile vanished. “Now get out.”

Mark stood up, feeling shaken and pissed. All he’d done was try to do his job; he didn’t deserve this shit.

“I hope your father wasn’t watching TV,” Farley called as Mark walked out the door. “What an embarrassment.”

They’d dubbed him the Toolman. There was the headline across the front page of the local paper. Guy was so surprised when he saw it he felt light-headed.

He’d never had a nickname before Guy, but of course this was different. More like a professional title, really, and he decided he should celebrate. He dialed the office and told them he wouldn’t be in, offering no excuses and ignoring the cold voice of the receptionist. Then he called Braxton Realty.

Getting the information he needed was simple. He pretended he was a client with an appointment and that he suddenly had another property he wanted to visit as well. Could she squeeze him in? The receptionist at Braxton was very helpful, happily filling him in on Amy’s schedule without asking any difficult questions. He jotted it down and then read the newspaper while eating breakfast.

He read all the accounts of the killings, though he was disappointed by how little information was included. Next he watched the morning news shows while sipping his cup of tea. He waited to make sure he caught all the coverage, getting a little frisson of pleasure every time he heard the anchors say “Toolman.”

It was over all too soon. He cleared his breakfast dishes, loading them carefully into the dishwasher, wiped down the table’s surface and washed the nonstick frying pan that he hated to leave in the dishwasher. Then he fetched his scissors and the file box and painstakingly cut out every article in the newspaper.

He slipped them into acid-free sleeves and put them in the correct order in the file box and carried the box back into his home office, putting it back in the closet. There was the small freezer and he was tempted, so tempted to take it out and play with its contents, but that would have to wait. He had other things to do.

The camera was in his desk drawer and he took it out and hooked it up to his computer. Downloading his latest photos took ten minutes at the most and he enjoyed watching them appear on the screen.

He felt himself growing hard as he rearranged them, enjoying the way shadows enhanced the hollows and light highlighted the texture of bare skin. When he was done, he stored them all in a file marked with just one word:
AMY
.

Every real estate agent knew there were different kinds of customers. Those who were just looking. Call them the “D” group. Those that were just looking, but if something they liked came along they might make an offer. Call them the “C” group. Those that were seriously looking, but very particular about what house they’d buy: the “B” group. And those that were seriously looking and seriously needed a house: the “A” group.

Every realtor wanted “A’s,” but most realtors ended up with lots of people in the “B” and “C” group. The trick of successful realtors, Sheila had taught Amy, was to try to mainly get “A’s” and “B’s”, transform the “B’s” to “A’s”, the “C’s” to “B’s” and avoid the “D’s” like the plague.

There were different categories for the houses, too, of course. The crappy little house that would take a miracle to unload; the nice-size, nice-lot house that showed well until you opened the door and the prospective buyer stepped on the rust orange shag carpeting and realized the place hadn’t been updated since 1975; the house that would sell in a minute if the owner didn’t insist on overpricing it; and the quirky house with the strange layout that lingered on the market long after everything else had sold.

Now Amy had a new category to add to that list: The house that no one wants because a terrible crime has been committed there and it’s carrying bad karma. It was amazing how superstitious some people were. They didn’t want to look at the homes of divorcing couples, or houses with the number 13 in them. They wouldn’t set foot near a home where murder had been committed.

There were others, though, for whom it was the main attraction. They were definitely in the “D” category and Amy had come to think of
them
as ghouls.

“How soon can we see the inside? Will there still be crime scene tape in the bedroom?” The portly man shifted his gaze from the front of Meredith’s house to look at Amy, excitement apparent in his voice and face.

“Another few days. Maybe by the end of the week. I think it definitely has the space you need, Mr. Hanover.”

“Were you the one that found the body?”

Amy schooled her features to hide her repulsion. She needed this sale, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter if what it took was some investment banker cum creepy mystery writer’s interest in buying a home where a crime had actually taken place.

“Yes,” she said. “Is your family going to be arriving this week, Mr. Hanover?”

“What? Oh, yeah, my wife’s flying in with them on Thursday. Listen, I’d really like to interview you about what you saw. Great research for my novel. What do you say?”

Not now, not ever, Amy felt like saying but didn’t. She managed a regretful smile. “Unfortunately I can’t talk about it. I’m part of the police investigation and am really not free to say anything at all.”

“Oh, right,” Mr. Hanover smacked his own head. “Of course you can’t.” He reached one small, manicured hand inside his suit jacket and pulled out a gold business card case. “Let me give you my card,” he said, extracting one. In black ink on a card bordered in what looked like blood, Robert Hanover was printed in big letters. Below it was one word: Writer.

“This is my favorite card,” he said. “Someday I hope to only have to use that one. Once the novel gets optioned then it’s bye-bye banking.”

For a moment, Amy felt sorry for him. She knew all about putting aside your passion to work a job you didn’t really want in order to support a family. On the other hand, she’d worked hard as an artist, not dreaming about being one by visiting museums, but really working at it. And she needed to work at this job, too, and make this sale or she wasn’t going to be able to provide for Emma.

“So why don’t I see if I can get you and your wife in the house on Thursday afternoon. Will that work for you, Mr. Hanover?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, suddenly vague. “Maybe it’s better if I just see it.”

“I realize your wife has seen the pictures, but wouldn’t she like to see the house in person?”

“Well, the truth is, I don’t think Mary Alice will go for this house. Not after what happened.”

Amy bit her lip to prevent the scream from escaping. “But you like the house, right, Mr. Hanover?”

“Oh, please call me Robert.”

“Robert.” She smiled and tried to make it intimate. “You like this house. This house has the atmosphere you need to write your novel. What can we do to make it work for your wife?”

Twenty minutes later she’d managed to talk Mr. Hanover into taking his wife through the house even if he had to pretend it was another property to get her there. She waved after the cab that was taking him back to the hotel and entered Braxton’s offices feeling the sudden urge to do recreational drugs. An urge that increased when she saw Vikram Padwardan sitting on the couch in reception. He leapt up when he saw her and extended a copy of the local paper in her direction.

“This is not what you promised us, Mrs. Moran,” he said, his pleasant singsong accent at odds with the scowl on his face. “This is not the relaxing country estate of the advertisement. This is scandal.”

The banker and his wife had backed out of the deal on the house where Sheila had died, wealthy enough not to care about the loss of their hand money. Amy’s renewed advertising effort had hit pay dirt with a chemical engineer and his pediatrician wife. They had two children and enough money saved for a down payment to take them out of Newark. It had all seemed golden.

“It will all blow over soon, Mr. Padwardan,” she said in a soothing voice, but he was shaking his head before she was finished.

“No, no it will not. This Toolman label will hang over this house forever. My wife does not want our children to be living in the house of the murder.”

“This will not be known as the house of the murder once you move in, Mr. Padwardan. Believe me, then it will be known as the Padwardan house. This is just a strange coincidence that it happened to be at your house. The murder has no connection to the house itself and the poor victim didn’t live in the house, so it will not stay on in the house.”

He looked skeptical, but he didn’t speak, obviously considering what she had to say. Amy tried to sell it then, working as hard as she’d ever worked to convince him that this wouldn’t taint his house and that there had been many good memories in the house and all he needed to add to this was a few good memories of his own to make it feel like home.

He left pacified, at least, if not 100 percent convinced. Amy felt so exhausted she thought she could probably sleep standing up, but she needed to show another house and not, thank God, either of the crime scene homes. She’d stopped by the office just to grab a few comps and pull the official information on the 1940s-era two-bedroom bungalow that was selling for close to a million because it was just two blocks off the sound.

“You got a call from Detective Black,” the receptionist said, handing over some messages. “Also, Paul called and said Emma’s breathing’s a little ragged.”

“Okay, thanks,” Amy gathered the slips of paper and walked toward her cubicle, mentally planning the rest of her day. She had to show the house—she couldn’t afford not to—but maybe she had enough time to swing by Paul’s house first. He’d been generous enough to offer to watch Emma because Chloe was sick and Amy was without a babysitter.

She’d been reluctant to leave Emma with anyone else, but she’d been desperate and Paul just happened to call when she was trying to decide whether to cancel the showings or take Emma with her. He’d immediately suggested that he babysit and even offered to pick Emma up, but Amy definitely didn’t feel comfortable with that. She drove Emma to his house, which was on the other side of town, a nice, quiet, residential street.

Paul came to the door with Brendan in his arms, and the baby immediately smiled and gurgled at Emma. Amy stayed for twenty minutes, long enough to see that his place was safe and that Emma was happy. Paul explained that he did a lot of telecommuting since his wife’s death so he could be with Brendan. She’d secretly hoped to see a photo of his wife, but the only picture in the living room was a framed, studio shot of an infant Brendan.

Paul walked her to the door when she left, but Emma barely waved, completely preoccupied with rolling a ball to the gurgling, happy baby. For a moment, Amy fantasized that this was her house and her family with her handsome and supportive husband saying goodbye as she headed out to work.

The chaste peck on the cheek he gave her dispelled that notion, but she wondered. He was a nice, attractive man, a good father and had a good job. She wished she felt something more for him.

There was a bottle of wine tied in a red silk bag sitting on her desk. The attached note said simply, “A glass of good wine with a good friend. These are the things you never want to end.” It was signed just as the note with the chocolates, “An Admirer.”

Amy slipped the bottle out of the gift bag, smiling as she saw the Quinta Do Crasso label. She’d shared a bottle of this rich red wine with Chris the night she graduated from art school. Only he knew how special this was to her. She thought again about calling him, but as her hand touched the phone the intercom buzzed. Bev’s voice told her that someone was up front to see her.

For a moment Amy didn’t recognize the dark-haired man sifting through magazines in the reception area. He stood up and smiled when he saw her and then she knew him.

“Ryan Grogan,” he said, sticking out a hand. “I’m the paramedic who helped your daughter?”

“Of course!” She shook. “I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”

He was wearing a short leather jacket over a black Henley shirt and blue jeans and this casual look suited him. Very well.

She didn’t realize he’d said something until she saw him grin. Amy blushed and stopped staring.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said I needed to talk to someone about selling a house, can you help?”

“Absolutely.”

Amy could see Bev listening and making no pretense about it, leaning her head on one hand and gawking at them.

“Why don’t we go back to my desk,” Amy said, leading the way through the door. Ryan followed.

“It’s my mom’s house,” he said, taking a seat next to her desk. “She’s getting older and she can’t take care of things like she used to.”

“So she’s ready to sell?”

Ryan made a face. “That’s just it—she isn’t. She thinks she’s fine and she wants to stay there. But she’s getting weaker and I’m afraid she’s going to fall.”

“Are you a co-owner of the house?” Amy said.

Ryan shook his head. “No. It’s all hers. And I know that means I can’t sell it out from under her, but I was wondering if you could talk to her. See if she’ll change her mind.”

Amy was skeptical. “I’ll try, but chances are she’ll refuse to talk with me. What’s her name?”

“Louisa.” He wrote it down on a notepad along with the number. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” He smiled, but made no move to leave.

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” she said. “Another property?”

“No, nothing like that.” He gave a nervous laugh and slapped his hands against his knees. “I’m trying to think of some clever way to do this, but I don’t have one, so I’ll just ask you straight out. Would you like to have lunch some time?”

Amy’s jaw dropped. A man was asking her out on a date. She hadn’t been asked out since she was in college. She pulled herself together. “Okay, I mean, yes, that would be fun.”

He beamed at her. “Great. Great. Well, how about tomorrow?”

It was her turn to laugh. “Let me check my schedule.”

She felt lighter then she had in days when he left, humming to herself as she gathered her papers. A feeling that lasted all the way to the parking lot, only to fade abruptly when she saw the short figure of Detective Black leaning against her car.

“How you doing, Mrs. Moran?” Detective Black straightened up as Amy approached, smiling in a predatory way, the air around him tangy with the smell of the yellow mustard staining his tie.

“Busy,” Amy said, walking around him to open the car door. He moved a hand against hers.

“Wait.”

Amy jerked her hand away. “What do you want?”

“To talk to you.”

“I’ve told you everything I know—”

“You didn’t tell me that you hated Meredith Chomsky.”

“Find me someone who liked her and that’ll be news.”

“She was hassling you about selling her house.”

“So I killed her to make the house sell faster?” Amy laughed.

“You killed her to make sure you held onto the commission.”

Amy hesitated and Black smiled with satisfaction. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, but it sounded weak and Black leapt on it.

“Your colleagues don’t seem to think so.”

“Who would that be?”

Black ignored her. He pulled out a notebook and flipped through it. “According to some of them you’ve been desperate for a big sale since you arrived at Braxton.”

“I’m a real estate agent, detective—we’re all desperate for the big sale.”

“Are all agents photographers?”

“I’m sure you know they aren’t,” Amy said, but her heart quickened, knowing where this was leading.

“You took those pictures, didn’t you, Ms. Moran?”

“No.”

“And you were planting them in Meredith Chomsky’s car when that officer stopped you.”

“No!”

“Do you have a darkroom in your house?”

“Yes.”

“And you develop all your own work?”

“Yes, mostly.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to get a search warrant.”

“You do that.”

Black frowned and stepped closer to Amy. “You don’t want to piss me off, Ms. Moran, you really don’t.”