Fear Nothing (36 page)

“Were you two dating?”

He grimaced. “These days, I think the proper term would be
fuck buddies
. We got together. You know, when the mood struck.”

“Are there letters? Ones she wrote to you.”

“No. I lied.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, glanced at Adeline. “I was just trying to get your attention. I mean, seriously. After everything my family’s been through, first your sister, then you, blow me off. Is wanting to know the truth about what happened to my cousin really asking too much?”

His voice picked up again, his rage straightening his frame, lending him strength.

“Donnie was your go-between,” Adeline said, her gaze boring into Charlie’s. “That’s the truth, isn’t it Charlie? You used your younger cousin to relay messages to Shana. Where and when to meet. That way, you wouldn’t be seen with her—the crazy girl—too often.”

D.D. thought he might deny it, then Charlie muttered hoarsely: “Yes.”

“What happened that night?” D.D. asked, though at this stage, she figured she knew.

“Shana was becoming more . . . freakish. I mean, in the beginning, I’d never met a girl so frank about sex. When she wanted it, she wanted it. No apologies, no pretenses. Hell, she started the whole thing by turning to me one day and asking me if I wanted to fuck. So we did.

“But then I heard about Mrs. Davies, her foster mom, catching her with Samuel, not once, but twice, and that started to creep me out a bit. How many boys in the neighborhood was she screwing? Not like she’d say. So I decided it was time to cool things off. We were supposed to meet that evening. Five o’clock, at the lilac bushes. Maybe hang out, grab a pizza.

“I asked Donnie to meet her instead.” Charlie paused. His voice had grown thick. He swallowed, continued. “I asked Donnie to, um, break things off.”

“You sent your twelve-year-old cousin to break up with your fuck buddy?” D.D. asked, voice incredulous.

Charlie Sgarzi gazed down at the dark pavement. “Yes.”

“And then?”

“She killed him.” Charlie looked up. “I was stupid. Sent my cousin to do what I didn’t have the courage to do, and she got mad and killed him. Then my aunt drank herself to death, and my uncle swallowed his own gun, and my parents fell apart. ’Cause I was a coward. Spent all my time trying to look so tough, when in the end, I was simply an asshole. And everyone I loved paid the price.”

“You didn’t see anything that night?” Phil pressed.

“Wasn’t even in the neighborhood. Had met up with some buddies of mine and hightailed it over to the mini-mart. Wanted to be far away . . . just in case.”

“That’s why you’re working on the book, isn’t it?” Adeline asked quietly. “Because it’s finally time to tell the truth.”

A muscle twitched in Charlie’s jaw. “Probably. I hadn’t gotten that far with confronting myself. But yeah, I figure there’s a reason I decided to write the book after my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer; I’d never want to embarrass her while she was still alive. But if I coulda gotten the advance now, to help out with her care. Then finish up the book . . . afterward. I could tell the truth. Just . . . lay it all out there. No one to hurt but me, and who the hell knows, maybe the truth can set a man free.

“I don’t sleep so well at night,” he finished up softly. “I mean, it’s been thirty fucking years, and I still can’t fall asleep without having nightmares of Shana prancing around with my cousin’s bloody ear. I’m an asshole. I know that, okay? But she’s still the monster here.”

“Who did she hang out with back then?” Phil asked. “Other than you?”

“Sam, of course. He was into her, too. And not in a good way. He, like, actually thought they were an item. Boyfriend, girlfriend, long-lost souls. At least I was never that crazy.”

“Anyone else?”

“One of my friends, Steven, had an older brother, Shep. Rumor was, Shana and Shep would hook up, smoke dope. Shana wasn’t one to talk. She more like demanded. I want. I need. When you’re a fourteen-year-old boy and the demand in question is sex, you don’t think much of it. But in hindsight . . . She was scary. None of us mattered. It was always just about her. Until I said no. At which point, apparently she lost it. Maybe no one had ever told her no before.”

“Did you really release the details of your mother’s death in your blog?” D.D. asked.

“The public has a right to know.” Charlie’s voice grew heated. “You’re holding things back. Like, the whole social engineering. And Shana Day having some kind of connection to this new killing machine. Three women are dead in seven weeks. And you don’t even have a suspect.”

“I thought we were supposed to arrest Shana Day,” D.D. said innocently.

“Fuck off!” Charlie informed her. “I realize she’s already behind bars and there’s nothing more you can do to her. But maybe if the killer understands you got the connection, he’ll spook, or drop all contact, or go underground or something. . . .”

“None of which helps us catch him.”

“Well, it might save some lives!”

“Grieve,” Phil ordered the man. “Give yourself a day or two to be Janet Sgarzi’s son. While you do that, we’ll do our jobs. Then we’ll talk again. But giving away our case in the paper—”

“Internet.”

“Whatever. Doesn’t help us. We’re making progress. We’re closing in on a suspect.”

“Can I quote you?” Charlie perked up.

“Nope, because you’re honoring your mother, remember?”

Phil escorted Charlie back to the crowd, which had grown quiet in his absence.

Standing alone with Adeline, D.D. stuck her right hand in her pocket for warmth.

“Still think your sister didn’t kill Donnie Johnson?” she asked Adeline.

The doctor didn’t say a word.

Chapter 30

I
RETURNED TO MY CONDO
tired and worn-out. What I wanted most was to kick off my shoes, pour a large glass of wine and stare at a blank wall till the whirlwind of fresh revelations and old fears regarding my sister finally quieted in my mind.

What I discovered was my front door, unlocked and slightly ajar.

I froze in the hall, my grip tightening unconsciously on my purse.

I didn’t have friends or associates. No neighbor had an emergency key to my place. No, in Charlie Sgarzi’s lexicon, fuck buddies had ever met me here.

The Rose Killer.

I stepped back, got out my cell phone and dialed the front desk. Mr. Daniels was on duty.

“Did you let anyone up to my unit?” I inquired. “Maybe a deliveryman, or a long-lost friend.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” he assured me. “I got the message loud and clear after the gas company man . . . woman . . . person. All requests should be run by you first. It’s been a busy day, of course, with guests for other units, a new tenant moving in and a couple of prospective buyers. But no one for you, Dr. Glen. I would’ve directly contacted you if that’d been the case. You have my word.”

I said thank you, then hung up. Multiple guests, prospective buyers requesting tours. Any of them would serve as adequate coverage for the Rose Killer. Requesting my specific condo a second time would’ve drawn suspicion; whereas, requesting to visit an apartment, say, one floor above mine, just a quick stairwell hike away, would work just as well. Or going on a tour . . .
Can I have a moment alone, maybe walk around the building? I’d just like to get a feel for the place.
Then make a quiet sprint for my condo.

I should call Detective D. D. Warren. Take her up on her offer of police protection.

Instead, I pushed the door and let it fall open into the dark, hushed space.

“Honey,” I called out, barely a warble in my voice, “I’m home.”

I snapped on the main light, illuminating the broad sweep of living space. The front door of my apartment opened into a tiled foyer, kitchen to the left, open door to the master bedroom straight ahead, family room to the right. My low-slung black leather sofa appeared the same as always, not a single accent pillow out of place.

I stepped into my condo, left hand on my purse strap, right hand still clutching my cell phone.

The Rose Killer attacked sleeping women, or a cancer-ravaged elderly woman. No direct confrontation but a game of finesse. Watching and scheming behind the victim’s back. Then, the final ambush, armed with chloroform.

Well, I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t elderly. And I’d be damned before I let some murderer scare me out of my own home. I’d been born into a family of worse predators, and I knew it.

Snapping on more lights. Moving toward the kitchen with my back to the wall and my gaze on open territory. Nothing appeared amiss. My sleek furniture, modern décor, offering the same upscale comfort as before.

I should get a weapon. Maybe retrieve a baseball bat or a golf club from my hall closet, except being a woman who’d spent her life avoiding athletics, I didn’t have either one. I could grab a knife from the kitchen. The proverbial butcher’s blade to carry around like the plucky heroine in some horror movie. Only I didn’t trust myself with knives. It would be too easy to cut myself and never know it.

Like the three cat scratches I now bore on my wrist, after it had been nice to sit with a cat on my lap for a change. The soothing hum of its purr. The soft feel of its fur. I’d actually enjoyed the moment, even thought maybe I should get a kitten.

Right up till I walked outside and D.D. announced I was bleeding.

A cat, for God’s sake. All these years later, I still couldn’t even trust the comfort of a goddamn kitty.

And suddenly, I was pissed off. At my gene pool, which had cursed me with a condition that would forever set me apart. Until I spent my days with patients suffering from the one sensation I would give anything to feel. Because there was no Melvin in my life to keep me safe. Meaning I had to say no to everything. Hobbies, walks on the beach. Love. Kids. Kittens.

I lived like a shrink-wrapped toy, forever on a shelf, never taken down to be used and enjoyed, in order to avoid breaking.

I didn’t want to be a toy. I wanted to be a person. A real, live person. With cuts and bruises and battle scars and a broken heart. Someone who lived and laughed and hurt and healed.

I might as well wish for the moon. What was, was. What you couldn’t change, the intelligent, high-functioning person learned to accept.

I looked around my shadowed apartment, and it occurred to me that for once, my unique condition might be my best self-defense. Ambush relied on stunning your victim with an unexpected attack that delivered disabling amounts of pain. But I didn’t feel any pain. The Rose Killer could clock me over the head, punch my stomach, twist an arm. None of it would do my attacker any good. I would just keep coming, no longer my family’s conscience, but now its vengeance, as I chased a killer around my own home with my dark, unblinking eyes.

I checked the pantry. The hall closet. The lavette. Finally, my bedroom. A flip of a switch. My king-size bed coming into view, my gaze dashing immediately to the nightstand . . .

Nothing.

No champagne, no roses, nor fur-lined handcuffs. Not even the rumpled shape of another person’s body having laid upon the mattress.

I frowned. Not much left to check. The walk-in closet, the sprawling master bath . . .

Nothing.

The Rose Killer had been here. I didn’t doubt that. Whether to satiate curiosity or stoke obsession, I had no idea. But the Rose Killer had walked through my condo, maybe rifling my delicates, checking out my favorite foods, before exiting, leaving the front door open just to show off.

I conducted a second sweep of my unit, footsteps steadier, gaze more focused.

After the second pass failed to reveal any monsters lurking under the bed or masked intruders tucked inside a closet, I finally set down my purse, sank down on the edge of my bed and released the breath I hadn’t even been aware I’d been holding.

The Rose Killer had come to see me again. Just as my sister had predicted. This monster, somehow tied to my sister and a thirty-year-old murder.

I didn’t know what to think anymore. If I’d been capable of it, I imagine I would’ve had a headache. Instead, I was tired deep down to my core, as if I couldn’t think another thought, take another step.

Then it occurred to me that the killer had probably sat on my bed. Maybe even laid his or her head upon my pillow, just to see what it would feel like.

I got up, stripped off the top covers, then my sheets. I carried the first bundle down the hall to the stacked washer and dryer. I went heavy on the detergent and even heavier on the bleach.

Then it was into the master bath, where I finally confronted myself in the mirror. I looked paler than I had just this morning. Features gaunter, eyes shadowed. I looked more like my sister. Jail life, living in fear, apparently had the same effect on people.

I switched my attention to my wrist, the three gouges I’d treated in Detective Phil’s vehicle. The scratches appeared shallow, the skin not too ragged around the edges. The wound remained slightly inflamed; I would need to monitor my temperature to help protect against an infection. Now I unbuttoned my fuchsia cardigan to reveal a thin white shell beneath. Then I removed the shell as well, taking in the pale expanse of my shoulders, arms and stomach. I pivoted, this way and that.

A bruise. I didn’t know how, let alone when, but a bruise darkened the back of my left arm. And another abrasion, just above the waistline of my slacks. The cat? Myself carelessly brushing against random sharp objects?

Things I would never know. I just got to log the damage, not necessarily identify the source.

I stepped out of my slacks, letting them puddle to the floor. I found another bruise, this one on the inside of my right thigh. Apparently, playing with two cops wasn’t great for one’s physical well-being.

My fingers ran slowly through my hair, checking my scalp. Then I felt each joint, testing for swelling, because maybe I’d stepped funny off a curb or twisted my ankle getting into a car. I finished by checking my eyes in a magnified mirror, then taking my temperature. The final few checks were fine. Other than the fact a serial killer was stalking me, I was good to go.