Don't Cry (24 page)

“If I were to ask you where you were and what you were doing on the nights when our three victims were killed and each one's body staged in a rocking chair with a toddler's skeleton in her arms, could you tell me? Would you have an alibi for all three nights?”

“I don't know. Probably not. I live alone. I don't have any friends. And no girlfriend.”

After a half-hour interview, J.D. opened the office door, thanked Jeremy Arden for his cooperation, and walked him outside where Hart Roberts was waiting. Roberts was alone except for Tam Lovelady and his lawyer. Roberts and Arden glanced at each other, nodded, and then Arden left with his lawyer.

“I'm ready for you now, Mr. Roberts.”

“I'd like to speak to you first,” Tam said.

“All right.” J.D. glanced from Hart Roberts to his lawyer, a fortysomething brunette who looked vaguely familiar. “Why don't you two wait in my office.”

“I hope you don't intend to keep us waiting much longer, Special Agent Cass,” the lady lawyer said.

And then J.D. remembered where he'd met her and who she was. “This shouldn't take long, should it, Officer Lovelady?”

“A few minutes,” Tam replied.

J.D. smiled at the lawyer he had met briefly a couple of months ago when Holly had dragged him off to some social function she simply couldn't miss. Kim Miner was a friend of Holly's, actually more than a friend. Holly considered the woman her mentor and had patterned herself after the lawyer known in legal circles as the Barracuda Bitch. The lady didn't work cheap, which immediately made J.D. wonder who was paying her bill.

“If y'all will go on in, I'll be with you shortly.” J.D. kept his fake smile in place and as soon as Roberts and his lawyer entered his office, J.D. turned to Tam. “Did Garth leave?”

“Wayne took him outside to try to cool him off,” Tam said. “Keeping Hart waiting while you interviewed Jeremy Arden gave Garth plenty of time to work up a head of steam. I'm just glad Wayne was here.”

“And just why is Wayne Sherrod here?” J.D. asked. “As a matter of fact, why are you and Garth here?”

“Garth is Hart's uncle. He's here for moral support, as is Wayne.”

“And you?”

“I'm a friend of the family.”

“So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” J.D. asked.

“I know you've done your homework, that you've learned a great deal about Hart, about his problems with the law, with drugs and alcohol and that he's had emotional issues since he was a kid.” Tam paused, reached out, grasped J.D.'s arm, and said, “Hart Roberts is not your killer.”

“I'm not accusing him of anything. You know what this is. Just an informal interview.”

“If you push him too hard, he—he could break. Emotionally.” She squeezed J.D.'s arm. “I'm asking you to be careful when you question him. Please.”

J.D. realized that Tam Lovelady cared about Hart Roberts, cared a hell of a lot. Maybe even loved him. More than as a friend's brother?

Tam removed her hand from J.D.'s arm.

“Okay. Don't worry. I'll take it easy,” J.D. said, then turned around, went into his office, and closed the door.

For the next twenty-five minutes, he went over most of the same questions with Hart Roberts that he'd asked Jeremy Arden. Roberts said he did own a car, but not an older-model Lincoln. J.D. knew the car he mentioned—an eight-year-old Toyota—was actually registered to his uncle. More questioning revealed that Roberts didn't wear glasses or contacts, but like Arden did own nonprescription sunglasses. He had eaten at Callie's Café several times but couldn't remember ever seeing Whitney Poole, and he said he'd never met either of the other victims.

“Did you ever have any type of contact with Regina Bennett?” J.D. had asked.

“God, no!”

“You never visited her at Moccasin Bend or—”

“Hell, no.” Roberts had laughed then, laughed too hard and too long. Finally, he controlled himself and added, “I'm afraid if I ever visited that place, they'd keep me.”

Later, when asked about an alibi for the nights of the three murders, he'd smirked at J.D. “I'm sure my uncle can give me an alibi. I live with him, but then you know that, don't you.”

When the interview concluded, Tam was waiting for Roberts and Ms. Miner, but Garth Hudson and Wayne Sherrod were nowhere to be seen.

J.D. sat down in the swivel chair behind his desk and immediately began going over both interviews. His gut instincts told him that Audrey's stepbrother was hiding something. But was it something about the Rocking Chair Murders? The man had been more than just normally nervous, and yet he'd been cocky and belligerent at times. J.D. had done his best to ask all the questions he needed to ask without unduly upsetting Roberts, but the guy had been upset before being asked the first question. And although J.D. had done nothing more than casually glance at Roberts's clothes and hands, he'd jumped up and demanded to know why J.D. was inspecting him. Ms. Miner had spoken to him and urged him to be seated again.

“You get a manicure often, Mr. Roberts?”

He had lifted his hands and shown them to J.D. “I've gotten a few. This one was a gift from a manicurist I'm sort of dating. I can give you her name and number if you—”

“No, thanks.” J.D. had looked him over from head to toe. “Nice suit. Expensive. Looks new.”

“It is.”

“You always dress this way?”

“No, I don't, but my lawyer”—he had glanced at Kim Miner—“advised me to wear a suit and tie today. So I wore the new suit my sister bought me for a recent job interview.”

Audrey had bought him a suit. She was probably paying Kim Miner's exorbitant fees, too. And Garth, Wayne Sherrod, and Tam had accompanied Roberts, acting as his backup team. With so many people in his corner, helping him, supporting him, loving him, why hadn't Roberts been able to get his act together? Why was he, at thirty-three, still such a screwup?

After the interview, Tam had been waiting when J.D. walked Hart and his lawyer to the door. Apparently, Wayne Sherrod had persuaded Garth to go back to police headquarters, which suited J.D. just fine. He didn't want a confrontation with Hart Roberts's uncle.

With Audrey's uncle.

J.D. would have liked to believe that out there somewhere was a man using the name Corey Bennett, a man who fit the same general description of both Jeremy Arden and Hart Roberts. He didn't want to believe that Roberts could possibly be the Rocking Chair Killer. But after today's interviews, he knew without a doubt that he couldn't eliminate either man from his persons-of-interest list. Not yet.

The office door swung open and hit the doorjamb with a bang. J.D. glanced up from behind his desk at the man standing just inside his office. Sergeant Garth Hudson glared at J.D., his facial features stretched tight with anger.

J.D. rose from his chair and faced the other man.

“You don't want to make an enemy out of me, Cass,” Garth told him. “Leave my nephew alone and we'll pretend today's interview never happened.”

“What are you so afraid of?” J.D. asked. “Do you think if I keep digging, I'm going to find out that Hart Roberts is somehow connected to the murders?”

“Damn you, Cass. I'm warning you. Hart is in no way connected to the murders.”

“If that's true, then why are you so bent out of shape about my interviewing him?”

“I've given you fair warning. Leave Hart alone or you'll regret it.”

Hart had used the interview with TBI Special Agent Cass as an excuse to get rip-roaring drunk Monday night. He barely remembered the fight he'd gotten into with some biker who'd come on to Jessica. Uncle Garth had bailed him out of jail this morning and reminded him that what he'd done would keep him front and center on Cass's radar. Once again, his uncle had rescued him. Once again, he had disappointed the man who'd been like a father to him.

“I'm sorry,” he'd said. “I know my apologies aren't worth much, but—”

“Save the apologies. Show me that you're sorry, prove it to me.”

“How?”

“Audrey's waiting outside in her car to take you to a meeting,” Garth had told him. “Go with her and do whatever she tells you to do. If she says go to half a dozen meetings a day, you go. If she says you go back into rehab, you go. If she says jump off the Walnut Street Bridge, you jump.”

“Okay, okay, I get the idea. Audrey is the boss.”

And so he'd gone to the meeting, and afterward, Audrey had picked him up and was now issuing him a list of dos and don'ts. “You're going to, at the very least, one meeting a day. You're staying out of bars. You're going to the employment office and tell them you want a job. You will go to whatever job interviews they send you on, and you're going to work, I don't care if it's sweeping floors or washing dishes.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He saluted her.

“This isn't funny.” She shot him a condemning glare.

“Sorry. I know it's not funny, but lighten up, will you?”

“Do you have any idea how serious it is to be questioned by the TBI? I know you are not involved in any way with the Rocking Chair Murders, but my God, Hart, why give J.D. Cass more ammunition against you?”

Audrey was right. She was always right. Getting drunk and winding up in jail had been a stupid mistake, one more in a long line of stupid mistakes.

“Why don't you just give up on me?” he asked her.

“Damn it, Hart, stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Hell, sis, it seems to be the only thing I'm good at.”

She cast him a sidelong glance and released a heavy, exasperated breath. “One other thing—don't see Jessica Smith again. She's a sweet kid, and if you continue seeing her, she'll wind up getting hurt.”

Hart wanted to protest, wanted to tell Audrey that she had no say-so in who he dated, but he couldn't deny that she was right. He had a history of breaking hearts. “Yeah, you're right. I need to stick to one-night stands with women who know the score.”

“Then you'll end things with Jessica as soon as possible?”

“There really isn't much to end. We've had two dates and a good-night kiss.”

“Good,” Audrey said, then continued with instructions for how he was going to live his life for the immediate future. “I'll drop you at the employment office. Take a cab home. I've arranged for your sponsor to check in on you several times each day for the next week or so. Garth can't baby-sit you, and neither can I. But if you need either of us—”

“You'll come wipe my nose and change my dirty diaper.”

She didn't respond to his flippant comment or even glance his way. He couldn't blame her. Hell, he wouldn't blame her if she washed her hands of him completely. But that wasn't Audrey's style. No, she was loyal and steadfast and forgiving. And a natural-born caretaker. She should have gotten married and had kids. She'd make a great mother.

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” Hart admitted. “You and Uncle Garth. I'd be dead by now if you two hadn't taken care of me all these years.”

“We love you, you know that.” She kept her gaze fixed on the road. “You're family. You're my brother.”

“Lucky me. Unlucky you.”

Unlucky Blake, too. If I'd been taking care of him the way I was supposed to, he'd still be alive and all our lives would be so different. So very, very different…

 

J.D. had debated what to do about Garth Hudson's threat.
Leave Hart alone or you'll regret it.
Had the warning been nothing more than an uncle's concern for his nephew, an angry outburst from a man with a reputation as a hothead? J.D. understood only too well how a man could lose his cool and say something he shouldn't. He'd done it more than once himself. But the deciding factor had been obvious—could Sergeant Hudson continue as the senior investigating officer on the Rocking Chair Killer cases and remain objective? J.D. didn't think so. But when he had spoken to his boss late yesterday, Phil had suggested waiting.

“Let's see how things play out over the next few days. Hudson may have cooled off by now. If he's uncooperative and causes any problems for you, then I'll personally talk to Willie Mullins.”

A face-to-face with Garth today had been avoided, partly because Garth had been too busy bailing his nephew out of lockup. Apparently Hart Roberts had gotten drunk and wound up in a brawl with another customer at a local dive. From everything J.D. had learned about Roberts, the man seemed to live his life as if he was on a suicide mission. If there was a wrong choice to be made, the guy made it.

Deciding to work alone in his office all morning, J.D. had come up with the answers to several questions concerning recently acquired information. After lunch, he had gathered up all the info and gone to CPD headquarters. He had to admit that when he found Tam alone in the office she shared with Garth, he had been relieved.

Tam was on the phone when he walked in. She glanced up and motioned for him to take a seat.

“He just walked in,” she said. “Yeah, I'll fill him in.” She paused to listen. “Okay. Call me when you're on your way and I'll meet you there.” She hung up the phone and turned to J.D. “That was Garth.”

J.D. nodded.

“He picked up Whitney Poole's mother from the airport and dropped her off at the Holiday Inn. She lives in Detroit. According to the mom, she and Whitney hadn't seen each other in nearly four years. Whitney and her stepfather didn't get along.”

“Hmm…Still, it had to be hard for the mother to learn her daughter had been murdered.”

“I'm sure it is hard for her. No matter what, there's a bond between a parent and child, right?”

J.D. nodded. What could he say?
I'm still trying to bond with my child.

“Do you have a few minutes or will you be leaving soon?” he asked.

“I'm all yours until Garth calls back.” She looked at J.D. then and said, “I guess you know about Hart, don't you?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Garth's going by his place to check on Hart before he comes back here.”

Then where are y'all going?
he wanted to ask, but didn't. Instead he told her why he was there. “I did some checking about that glow-in-the-dark ‘Smile! Your mother chose life!' bumper sticker, and I'm afraid what I found out won't help us much. They sell them on the Internet at dozens of sites. It seems that one is a popular sticker. Several churches in Hamilton County even ordered them by the hundreds to distribute to their parishioners.”

“Meaning tracing that one particular bumper sticker is highly unlikely.”

“Yeah, that's pretty much a dead end,” J.D. told her. “But we had better luck with the eighties white Lincoln.”

Tam's eyes brightened with interest. “Tell me.”

“I did a cross-check. Eighties white Lincoln with the names of the Rocking Chair Killer's victims, their parents and siblings as well as with the names of the parents and siblings of all the Baby Blue toddlers.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Tam narrowed her gaze and frowned. “Then what?”

“I ran a cross-check with the names Regina Bennett, Corey Bennett, and Luther and Dora Chaney.”

“The aunt and uncle?” Tam's eyes again brightened with interest.

“Bingo. Luther Chaney owned a white 1980 Lincoln Town Car.” J.D. couldn't help smiling. “He bought it used in '82, but there is no record of the car ever being sold again.”

“The uncle died not long after Regina Bennett was arrested, more than twenty-three years ago, so that must mean the aunt kept the car. So, where is the aunt now?”

“Dead,” J.D. said. “Dora Chaney passed away a couple of years ago. Not long after her husband died, she left Sale Creek, moved to Bristol, and remarried. I've put out queries up that way to find out if anyone remembers her and if her second husband is still alive. If we can trace what happened to that old Lincoln, it could lead us straight to our killer.”

“We should get so lucky.”

“Who'd think an old wino getting a glimpse of a car the night Whitney Poole's body was placed in the antique store could actually be the one bit of info that might crack this case wide open.”

 

J.D. parked his Camaro, sat in the car for a couple of minutes, and then made himself get out and walk toward the town house. This was the last place on earth he wanted to be, but it seemed he couldn't stay away. Audrey Sherrod was the last person he wanted to see. What made matters even worse was that he suspected Zoe had purposely arranged this little scenario.

“Please, Daddy, you have to stop by Audrey's and get my notebook. My geometry homework is in it and I have to finish it tonight.”

Audrey had picked Zoe up from school that afternoon and they had gone shopping for a Halloween costume for Zoe. All the kids at Baylor dressed in costume for the holiday, but since it was only early October, he hadn't seen the necessity for them to shop so early.

“All the great costumes will be gone,” Zoe had whined. “Besides, if we don't find what I want, Audrey says we can make the outfit ourselves. She knows how to sew. Her friend Tam's mom taught her.”

J.D. had reluctantly agreed to go by Audrey's and pick up the notebook, but he had cautioned Zoe, “Don't let this happen again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

He rang the doorbell and waited. And waited. He rang the bell again. Audrey was at home, or she was supposed to be. He had told Zoe to call her and tell her he was dropping by and why. Just as he rang the doorbell for the third time, he heard a woman scream.

“Audrey! Audrey!” He rang the bell repeatedly and then pounded on the door.

Just as he was about to look for another way in, possibly break out a window, the door opened and Audrey practically threw Zoe's notebook at him. But he didn't pay much attention to the notebook; he was too concerned about Audrey's appearance. Her face was flushed. Long, mussed tendrils of her hair had escaped from their usual neat confinement, one curling at chin level and the other down the back of her neck. It was obvious she'd been crying. And she had that half-dazed look a person has during those first few minutes after awakening.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I heard you scream.”

“I'm fine,” she replied curtly.

“No, you're not. What's wrong?”

When she tried to close the door in his face, he grasped the edge of the door and stuck his foot over the threshold. She didn't try to stop him as he shoved open the door completely and moved toward her.

“Would you please just take Zoe's notebook and leave.”

“Not until you tell me why you screamed.”

She closed her eyes and heaved a heavy, resigned sigh.

J.D. closed the door behind him, and then turned back to Audrey. “You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

“Drinking doesn't solve a person's problems, and it certainly doesn't chase away nightmares.”

“Is that why you screamed, you had a nightmare? It's a little early for bedtime, isn't it?” He glanced at his watch—8:35 P.M.—for emphasis.

“It's been a long day. I didn't sleep well last night and I dozed off on the sofa.” She frowned. “Why am I telling you this? It's none of your business.”

“Don't you recommend talking through your problems, Dr. Sherrod?” He was trying to lighten the mood, but noting her deepening frown, he accepted the fact that she was in no mood for levity. “That must have been some nightmare.”

“If I wanted to talk about my nightmares, it certainly wouldn't be with you.”

Audrey crossed her arms over her chest, the action bringing his attention to her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra underneath that soft, velvety pullover.

“Why not? I'm here. And I'm willing to listen.” He did his best to keep his gaze at eye level, despite the temptation to take another look at her braless breasts.

“You're not leaving until I open up a vein and bleed all over you, are you?”

J.D.'s lips twitched as he tried not to smile. “You certainly have a dramatic way of expressing yourself, Dr. Sherrod.”

“Will you please stop calling me Dr. Sherrod.”

“Are we back on a first-name basis?”

“You really are insufferable, aren't you?”

J.D. slid Zoe's notebook under his arm. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Dr. Sher—Audrey.”

She grumbled something unintelligible under her breath. “I had a nightmare about the day my brother Blake disappeared. There, are you satisfied?”

“What made you scream?”

“The nightmare,” she said, leaving off the obvious “you idiot” at the end of her sentence.

“What about the nightmare was so terrifying?”

“I don't know. I don't remember exactly. I never remember—”

“You've had the dream before?”

“All my life,” she admitted. “Almost every night for months after Blake disappeared, I had nightmares about that day. And then gradually I had them less often, until by the time I was a teenager, I seldom dreamed about it. But now, since these Rocking Chair Murders have taken place, the nightmares have returned.”

“It must be hell to relive that day over and over again,” J.D. said. “I'm sorry. I had no idea. You probably went through therapy, maybe even hypnosis and whatever else you could do to try to figure out what terrifies you about the dreams.”