Don't Cry (22 page)

Cara had seemed completely unaware of his discomfort. Even when he had mentioned that people were staring at them, she hadn't taken the hint.

“They're just jealous, darling.”

Wanting to put an end to the date as soon as possible, he hadn't ordered dessert. Unfortunately, Cara had decided his rush to leave the restaurant was because he wanted her for dessert. Needless to say, she'd been disappointed when he took her home, walked her to her door, and said good night.

“But don't you want to come in?” She had rubbed herself against him.

“I'm afraid I can't,” he'd told her. “I promised Zoe I'd pick her up by eleven.”

All the way from Ooltewah to downtown Chattanooga, J.D. had cursed himself for a fool. He should have suggested lunch instead of dinner when Cara had called him. A mistake he wouldn't make again in the future. God help him, if he'd had any forewarning that Cara would assume that one date would give her any proprietary rights over him, he'd have run like hell before instead of after the date.

Damn it, he couldn't sit out here in his car for the next hour.
Might as well go on in and take your medicine like a good boy.

When he rang the doorbell, Audrey opened the front door and smiled pleasantly. “Well, hi there. We weren't expecting you this early. Actually, Zoe has already put on her pajamas. She seemed to think she'd be spending the night.”

“I don't know why she'd think that.” J.D. grumbled the words quietly as he ran his gaze over Audrey, noticing that she was wearing tan silk pajamas, her initials monogrammed on the breast pocket.

“Oh, I think you know.” Audrey's smile widened. “Did your date end after a good-night kiss at the door?”

“Something like that.”

“Smart lady.”

“No, smart man. I got invited in, Dr. Sherrod. I chose not to accept.”

Audrey laughed. Damn her, she laughed. He had the oddest urge to grab her and shake her. But as he stood there looking at her, at those big hazel eyes and those smiling lips, another even stranger urge hit him.

Don't be an idiot twice in one night.

“Tell Zoe to grab her overnight bag and we'll hit the road so you can go to bed,” J.D. said.

“There's no reason to rush off. Come on in and—”

“Oh my God!” Zoe cried out from the living room.

J.D. and Audrey shared startled gazes and then together they rushed from the foyer into the living room. Staring wide-eyed at the television, Zoe hung halfway between standing and sitting, her rounded eyes glued to the TV. With her mouth still gaping, she flopped back onto the sofa.

“What's the matter?” Audrey asked.

“Zoe?” J.D. asked simultaneously.

“Look.” Zoe pointed to the television. “And listen.” She grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and increased the volume. “That guy just said that those dolls found with the Rocking Chair Killer's victims weren't dolls at all. They were skeletons of real babies.”

J.D. glanced at the TV as the nightly news anchor, James Paul Dill, narrated while a series of old photographs flashed across the screen.

“Two of these skeletons have been identified through DNA testing,” Dill said. “It has been confirmed that they are both Baby Blue toddlers who were kidnapped more than two decades ago and have been identified as Keith Lawson and Chase Wilcox.”

Photos of two golden-haired, blue-eyed toddlers appeared on the screen.

J.D. heard Audrey's indrawn breath and barely resisted the urge to reach for her, instinct urging him to offer support and comfort.

“Did you authorize this information to be released to the press?” She looked at him, demanding an answer.

“No, of course not. Chief Mullins would be the one to make any announcement about the Rocking Chair Killer, and I would have been informed if he planned a press conference. That means somebody leaked classified information.”

One by one, photos of the six missing toddlers presumed kidnapped by Regina Bennett appeared on the screen as the news anchor identified each by name. When Blake Sherrod's photo came up, Audrey swayed slightly. J.D. reached over and grasped her arm to steady her. As if suddenly realizing that J.D. had touched her, Audrey pulled away from him.

“Apparently there is a connection between the Baby Blue kidnappings and the Rocking Chair Killer,” Dill told the TV audience. “It has been confirmed that the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation will be questioning several persons of interest as early as Monday morning.”

“Where the hell did this guy get his info?” If J.D. found out who had leaked the information, he would personally see to it that he or she lost his or her job. “Whoever confirmed this info has to work for either the CPD or the TBI.”

“Our sources were able to obtain the names of the persons of interest,” Dill continued, a self-satisfied expression on his TV-pretty face. “The TBI will be speaking to Jeremy Arden, the Baby Blue toddler who was rescued from his kidnapper twenty-four years ago. And they are searching for a man named Corey Bennett, believed to be the nephew of Regina Bennett, the Baby Blue kidnapper.”

“She has a nephew?” Audrey stared at J.D.

He nodded. “Yeah.” J.D. glanced at Zoe. “Why don't you turn that damn thing off? I think we've heard enough.” He knew that the next name on the persons-of-interest list—the list he had compiled—would make Audrey despise him.

“The third person of interest is Hart Roberts, stepson of former police detective Wayne Sherrod. Roberts is also the nephew of Sergeant Garth Hudson, one of the lead detectives on the Rocking Chair Murder cases. Roberts's half brother was the fourth toddler kidnapped in a series of abductions that began twenty-eight years ago and ended with the arrest of Regina Bennett five years later.”

Audrey turned so quickly that her shoulder brushed J.D.'s arm. She glared at him, anger and shock and disappointment apparent in her expression.

“Why would you think that Hart could be involved in any way with those women's murders?” She sucked in a shaky breath. When he reached out to her, she backed away from him. “And don't you dare try to deny that you're the one who put together that persons-of-interest list for the TBI.”

“That's all it is, damn it, just a persons-of-interest list. It doesn't mean—”

“It means that my brother, who is a recovering alcoholic and addict, who has been emotionally fragile since Blake disappeared and his mother committed suicide, is now going to be hounded by the press because people will suspect him of murder.”

“I'm sorry,” J.D. said. “This information was not supposed to go outside the TBI and the CPD.”

“Sorry isn't good enough. Damn you, J.D.!”

“Audrey, please listen to me. Try to understand.”

Zoe tugged on his arm. “Come on, J.D. I think it's time you and I went home.”

He glanced at his daughter and noticed that she had her overnight case in her hand. “Yeah, I think you're right.”

Before J.D. could make his escape, Audrey's phone rang.

“We'll let ourselves out,” Zoe told Audrey, who cast Zoe a you-and-I-are-okay look.

The last thing J.D. heard on their way out the door was Audrey saying, “Yes, Tam, please come over as soon as you can.”

Eileen Campbell came straight from morning church services to her antique shop in East Ridge. Sunday afternoon was a prime time for shoppers, and she made a habit of arriving early to get everything ready before opening time at one o'clock. Taking pride in the shop she had owned with her late husband since the early days of their marriage more than twenty years ago, she didn't leave even the smallest detail to employees. She owned a third of the store's contents, and the remaining two-thirds belonged to people who rented booths from her. Although the items displayed in half a dozen of the rental booths didn't quite meet her high standards, being more or less junk, she was smart enough to know that some customers actually liked junk.

The long straps of her shoulder bag slid down her arm as she clutched the paper sack containing her lunch—a sandwich, pickles, and an apple—with her left hand. Holding her keychain in her right hand, she approached the double front doors, inserted the key, and unlocked her shop. She hurried inside, closed and locked the door behind her, and flipped on the light switches lined up along the wall at the entrance. One by one, the fluorescent lights came on, brightening the dark interior.

Eileen walked around the L-shaped counter that contained the cash register and credit card box as well as stacks of flyers advertising special sales for today. After hiding her purse and lunch sack under the counter and removing her lightweight jacket, she went straight to the utility closet and removed the vacuum cleaner. She vacuumed first and then swept any areas where the vacuum didn't maneuver easily. While she dusted—only her own For Sale items—she checked to make sure no one had disturbed the way in which she had arranged each booth. The correct display was of the utmost importance if you wanted to catch an antiquer's eye.

As she passed by Susan Cornelius's booth, she caught a glimpse of something odd in her peripheral vision. It took a couple of seconds for her brain to register what she'd seen. Merciful Lord, there was someone sitting in one of the antique rocking chairs!

Eileen's heartbeat accelerated as she stopped, turned around, and stared at the unwelcome visitor. How on earth had someone gotten inside the store? She kept the front and back doors locked. And in all the years she had been in business, she'd had only two break-ins, and those had been years ago before she put stickers on the doors and windows and a sign out front stating that the business was protected by a security system. Actually, it wasn't. No way was she going to pay for the system when more than one person had assured her that having the signs and stickers would be enough to warn off potential burglars.

Should she actually confront the person, or should she walk away and hurry back to the front desk where she could call the police? If only she had put her cell phone in her pocket instead of leaving it in her purse, she could make the call immediately.

“Whoever you are, you should know that I've already called the police and they're on their way here now,” Eileen lied.

No response.

Seeing the back of the person's head—long, dark hair—as well as the narrow slope of the shoulders and slenderness of the waist, Eileen decided that the figure sitting in the rocking chair belonged to a woman. Armed with that belief, she ventured toward Susan Cornelius's booth.

Hesitantly, Eileen made her way around to the front of the booth. Preparing to meet the intruder face-to-face, she picked up an antique brass bed warmer propped against the side of a small walnut bookcase. As Eileen opened her mouth to demand the person get out of the rocking chair and explain what she was doing inside the shop, the words died on her lips and a shrill scream erupted from her throat. The bed warmer fell from Eileen's hand and hit the rug-covered concrete floor with a loud thud.

Sitting there, utterly still and quite obviously dead, an attractive young woman stared sightlessly straight ahead.

“Merciful Lord, merciful Lord.” Eileen wrung her hands together as she turned and ran up the aisle between the booths, heading straight for the telephone to call the police.

 

J.D. was now number one on his daughter's shit list. She had not said two words to him since they left Audrey's house last night. When he had tried to talk to her that morning, she had clamped her mouth shut and glared at him as if he were a monster. He had called Audrey several times, using her home number, her office number, and her cell number. Each time, the call had gone immediately to voice mail. He didn't know if she wasn't answering any calls or just not answering his. Damn it, both Zoe and Audrey were blaming him for something that wasn't his fault. He hadn't been the one to leak the information to the press.

No, but you're the one who put Audrey's stepbrother on your persons-of-interest list.

But no matter how he figured things, there was no denying that Hart Roberts
was
a person of interest. Did J.D. suspect him of being the Rocking Chair Killer? He had no proof of any kind against the man. There was no reason to suspect Roberts of a crime. But J.D.'s gut told him that he couldn't overlook the possibility that Roberts was involved simply because he was Audrey's brother.

Jeremy Arden was a more likely suspect, but J.D. would lay odds that the mysterious Corey Bennett would turn out to be their killer. This guy's true identity was the problem. No one by that name in the Chattanooga area had any connection to Regina Bennett or her aunt and uncle. And if he was their killer, he wouldn't be traveling long distances to kidnap his victims, kill them, and then disappear. No, their killer would probably be living somewhere within a fifty-mile radius. J.D. would bet his pension on it.

He couldn't rule out the possibility that Corey Bennett might be an alias for either Roberts or Arden.

If he thought it would do any good, he'd try calling Audrey again.

Better to wait and give her time to cool off. Eventually her brain would override her emotions. Once she had a chance to think things through logically, she would understand.

And if she didn't understand?

What difference did it make? It wasn't as if he and Audrey were involved. Hell, they weren't even friends. She and Zoe were friends, and he knew that Audrey wouldn't penalize Zoe for anything she thought he had done wrong.

J.D. poured himself a fourth cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table where he'd left his cereal bowl and juice glass from breakfast. Just as he picked up the Sunday paper and stared at the Rocking Chair/Baby Blue headlines on the front page, groaning as he started rereading the article, his phone rang.

For the second time today, his boss was calling. The first time had been at seven o'clock. They had discussed who the possible leak was and how they could smoke the person out into the open. Heads would roll if Phil Hayes found out that someone under his command was the culprit. Identifying the leak wouldn't be easy and might prove impossible.

“It had damn well better be someone at the CPD,” Phil had said. “I'd rather this be Willie Mullins's headache instead of mine. But the bottom line is that we're all taking fire from the press and looking like we're trying to hide information the public should know.”

J.D. answered the phone on the third ring. “What now? More bad news?”

“You could say that. Whitney Poole has shown up.”

“Dead, I assume.”

“You assume correctly.”

“When and where?” J.D. asked.

“Less than an hour ago. She's sitting in a rocking chair inside an antique store. And yeah, she's holding a blanket-wrapped toddler skeleton.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“You're not very popular with Sergeant Hudson or Officer Lovelady,” Phil told him. “But they don't have any choice but to work with you. I told Willie this morning that if they can't be even halfway objective, then he needs to pull them and assign the Rocking Chair Killer cases to another team.”

“They're not going to hand over their cases willingly. And I can't blame either of them for being pissed at me. After all, Hudson is Hart Roberts's uncle and Tam Lovelady is Audrey Sherrod's best friend.”

“You didn't do a damn thing wrong. When you placed Hart Roberts on the persons-of-interest list, you were just doing your job.”

“Try explaining that to them.”
Try explaining it to Audrey.

“You don't owe them an explanation,” Phil told him. “You just continue doing your job and try to ignore their hostility. It won't be the first time you've worked with people you've pissed off.”

“Where's the antique store?”

“East Ridge. Slater Road. The whole street is lined with antique shops. The one you're looking for is called One Man's Treasure.”

“I'm on my way.”

“One more thing—there may be a witness.”

“A witness to what?”

“To our guy putting the body inside the antique store.”

“I hope this supposed eyewitness is more helpful than the last one was.”

 

Garth avoided J.D. as if he had the plague. That suited J.D. just fine. Considering the fact that both he and Sergeant Hudson had reputations as hotheads, it was best if they didn't wind up in a confrontation, possibly even a physical altercation. If Garth threw the first punch, there was no way J.D. would turn the other cheek or simply walk away. It wasn't in his nature. Maturity had taught him not to start a fight, the way he'd occasionally done when he was younger, but he sure as hell wouldn't walk away from a fight the other guy started.

Tam had met him when he first arrived on the scene at One Man's Treasure. “You're not to go anywhere near Sergeant Hudson. You'll deal strictly with me. Understand? Those are the chief's orders.”

“I'm surprised you're speaking to me.”

“Either I work with you or Dad…the chief will have to take Garth and me off the Rocking Chair Killer cases,” Tam had admitted.

In the past half hour, J.D. had done his best to stay out of the way of the experts while police and civilian specialists investigated the crime scene. He spoke with the officers first on the scene, had a few words with ME Pete Tipton, and inspected Whitney Poole's body sitting serenely in the antique rocking chair. A toddler skeleton, wrapped securely in a blue blanket, rested in Whitney's arms. Mother and child. Posed almost identically to the previous two victims.

“Do you want to speak to Eileen Campbell?” Tam asked.

“Who?”

“The owner of the antique shop?”

“Not now. Maybe later.”

“A window at the back was smashed,” Tam said. “We figure he broke the glass, reached inside, and opened it. Then he crawled in and unlocked the door from the inside.”

“Why didn't the security system go off?”

“She doesn't have a security system. Just stickers and a sign claiming she does.”

“How would he know that?”

“Maybe he took a chance. If the alarm went off, he could have made a run for it and been gone before the police arrived.”

“Maybe.”

J.D. glanced around at the crowd gathered just beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Reporters and curiosity seekers. Passersby. People who had intended to shop for antiques that afternoon. What were the odds that the killer was among the onlookers, blending in without being noticed?

“What about the witness?” J.D. asked.

“What about him?” Tam's hard gaze told J.D. her attitude toward him hadn't softened in the least.

“Who is he? Where is he?”

“He's a vagrant,” Tam replied. “An old wino who was sleeping it off behind the row of antique stores along this street. His name is…” She paused to refer to her notes. “Henry O'Neal. Fifty-seven. No permanent address.”

“Just what did Henry see?”

“He saw a car pull away from behind One Man's Treasure. Henry was asleep in a bed he'd made from discarded boxes at the back of the store next door. And no, he can't ID the car, except that it looked like an ‘older-model big car.' His exact words.” Tam crossed her arms over her chest. “He has no idea what time it was. He said it was dark.”

“Did he see the man driving the car?”

“A glimpse. He couldn't even give us a description.”

“Then there's no point in my questioning him, is there?”

“Probably not. You can read Officer Grissom's report and my report. We both questioned Henry.” Tam frowned, twisting her mouth and glancing up and down, as if she was considering her next words carefully. “He did see something else.”

That comment got J.D.'s undivided attention. “What did he see?”

“A bumper sticker on the back of the car. He said it glowed in the dark.”

J.D. groaned. “Why couldn't he have seen the license plate, too?”

“He says it was too dark.”

“Anything unusual about the bumper sticker, other than it glowed in the dark?”

“It was a pro-life sticker that read ‘Smile! Your mother chose life!'”

“The sticker could have been there when he bought the car.”

Tam nodded. “It could have been.”

“But you don't think so. You think the killer chose the sticker and put it on the car himself. ‘Smile! Your mother chose life!' is a unique way of saying she didn't kill you, so be happy.”

“Your mother didn't kill you the way Cody Bennett's mother killed him, the way she killed him again and again by taking the lives of other little boys.”

“I get it.” J.D. cleared his throat. “I have some photos in the car that I want the uniformed officers to take a look at and then walk around through the crowd to see if anyone looks familiar. And I think I'll show the same photos to Henry O'Neal.”

“I want to see the photos first,” Tam said.

“Sure. But I can tell you now that you're not going to like the fact that one of the photos is of Hart Roberts.”

Tam glared at him.