Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (27 page)

He hadn’t been expecting the blonde beauty who opened the door.

“Yes?” She peeked out from behind a door chain. Vaughn saw striking blue eyes, nearly level with his own, and impossibly full lips. “Do I know you?” She had a thick Eastern European accent.

Vaughn said, “Christopher Vaughn. I’m investigating the Arnie Feldman murder, Mrs. Bremburg. I’d like to talk to you for a few moments about your ex-husband, Jack.”

She stood there and, for a second, Vaughn didn’t think she would let him in. But then he heard the chain slide off and she opened the door. “I thought I was finished with this,” she said.

The slice of her face he’d seen through the crack in the door hadn’t done her justice. She was tall and curvy, almost plump, with long, thick, wavy blond hair and full round breasts, probably fake, that pressed against the thin material of a nurse’s aid uniform. Vaughn guessed her age at twenty-five, tops.

“I will be leaving for my work in a few minutes,” she said. “So I hope this will not take long.”

He entered the cramped apartment, and she motioned toward a worn couch in a tiny living room. “Sit, please.” A child’s toys lay scattered on the floor: Barbie dolls in various states of dress, a dollhouse, broken crayons, and a stack of well-used coloring books. Marta said, “My daughter’s things. She is at school.”

Vaughn sat on the couch. Marta pulled a chair from the dinette set perched against a wall, placed it across from Vaughn and sat down gracefully. A small television teetered nearby on a milk crate. A DVD player sat on the floor next to it, beside several battered-looking Disney movie cases. Clearly, Marta had not done well in the divorce.

“I’ll get right to the point, Mrs. Bremburg. What can you tell me about Arnie Feldman?”

Marta’s hand drummed nervously against the arm of the chair. “He is—was—my husband’s lawyer.”

“Had you met him?”

“Of course. Several times.” She glanced at the children’s toys. “Jack and I fought over our daughter, Kira. This Feldman was involved.”

“In creating the custody agreement?”

“I told the police this already,” she said impatiently.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bremburg, but I need to ask you to go through it once more. Please. It could be important.”

She frowned, but continued. “Jack was a bad father. He had...desires. He could not have her in his custody. Mr. Feldman did not believe me or Kira. He thought we were lying.”

Vaughn looked at a framed photo of Kira on the wall. Big, round blue eyes. Longish brown hair. Cute, dimpled smile. She couldn’t have been more than four in that picture. Vaughn pictured a father violating someone that young and felt his own rage awakening. Unconsciously, his hand clenched into a fist.

As though sensing his anger at what had happened to her daughter, Marta said, “Yes, yes, I will cooperate some more.”

Vaughn knew he was treading on fragile ground. Marta assumed he was with the police. Despite the risk, one more glance at that photo told him he didn’t want to dispel that notion unless he had to, in case Arnie’s murder
was
linked to child abuse. But he also didn’t want to repeat questions she’d been asked already. That would only make her suspicious. He decided to hone in on what he really wanted to know: was she capable of having killed Feldman? Was her husband?

“Had you ever been to Feldman’s house?”

“No.”

“Did you despise Arnie Feldman, Mrs. Bremburg?”

The question seemed to catch her off-guard. “He was doing his job. It is my husband I hate.”

“Because of what happened with your daughter?”

Her eyes flared. “Yes. Jack wanted Kira only to hurt
me
.” She turned her head and made a spitting noise. “He is a bad man.”

Softly, Vaughn said, “Why did you marry Jack, Marta?”

She looked at the floor. “Out of love.”

Vaughn doubted that. Perhaps she was angry and bitter after all. Perhaps all divorcees were angry and bitter. But then, that was the nature of all relationships...to end, one way or another. In bitterness or heartbreak.

Though he thought he knew the answer, he said, “Why did you separate?”

“I told police this. He touched Kira...she told me, and I believed her.” She looked up again, conviction in her blue eyes. “At Jack’s house, we lived like princesses. Beautiful bedrooms, a pool, so many clothes.” Marta shook her head wistfully. “Here it is dreary. He will not give us money. That was the agreement. I do not tell the news people what he did and I keep my daughter. I have a new job.” She shrugged. “It is not so bad.”

“If he says he’s innocent, why would he care if you went to the media?”

“He is an important man. He does not want any hint of scandal.”

“Aren’t you worried he will do this to another little girl if you don’t pursue it?”

She looked at him defiantly. “My daughter is my main concern, Mr. Vaughn. If I pursue it, as you say, he will take her away from me.”

“Even with Feldman gone?”

“I did not kill Mr. Feldman, if that is what you are thinking. There will always be another Mr. Feldman. Men like my ex-husband have unlimited resources.”

“How about Jack, Mrs. Bremburg? Do you think he could have killed Arnie Feldman?”

Marta shrugged. “Jack is old. Infirm.” She glanced at the picture of her daughter. “Before we married, I was Jack’s nurse.”

Vaughn considered this. “Is Jack retired from his company?”

“He is still on the board of directors,” Marta said. “Or at least he was. He uses...how do you say...computer from home?”

“Remote access?”

“Yes, that.”

Jamie’s voice was suddenly echoing in Vaughn’s brain. Anyone could have impersonated Maggie online. Even an elderly invalid with a grudge.

“Is your ex-husband good with a computer, Marta?”

Marta smiled, and for the first time Vaughn saw something that looked like actual admiration for Jack Bremburg. “Oh yes, Lieutenant. As you Americans say, he is whiz. A real genius on the computer.”

Desiree Moore led Allison to a small, rectangular room lined with books and bric-à-brac.  Three overstuffed arm chairs surrounded a square coffee table stacked with photography books on Ireland, the Mediterranean and impressionist painters. Behind the chairs, white built-in shelving lined with books and pictures covered the wall from floor to ceiling. A lopsided vase, glazed milky red, had been placed on the top shelf. One of Desiree’s pieces?

“Tea or coffee?”

Allison turned her attention back to Desiree. She wasn’t in the mood for either but wanted a chance to look around for a minute or two, uninterrupted, so she said, “Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No problem at all.” Desiree disappeared into the hallway.

Allison’s looked over the length of the bookshelf. She didn’t know what she was searching for, just something that would give her a better sense of who this woman was and how Kyle fit into the scene—if he did. But it all seemed so innocuous.

Undated pictures of Desiree, Kyle and the girls had been placed at odd angles here and there in front of the books. Allison walked closer to get a better view. Many showcased special events: cheerleading tryouts, horse shows, gymnastics finals. In nearly every picture, one of the Moore girls was shown holding a ribbon or trophy, smiling mechanically, with Desiree hovering nearby.

A snapshot of the Moore family in front of an Ocean City Ferris wheel caught Allison’s eye.  In it, the family had carved a spot amidst the typical resort beach crowd—kids in strollers, fathers in Polo shirts, teens looking too cool to care. Although each of the Moores was smiling, they were those perfunctory smiles born of happiness on demand rather than genuine emotion. Neither the forced smiles nor the setting were odd in and of themselves, but when Allison looked at the other photos in the room, she noticed a consistency. No one ever
really
smiled and Kyle always seemed a little bit removed, with Desiree and the girls standing to one side, Kyle on the other. Why? Was that just the unconscious manifestation of a family already falling apart? Or was something more sinister lurking in the Moore household?

“That was taken after Sarah graduated from grade school.” Desiree placed one cup of coffee on the table and then took the photo from Allison’s hand and placed it back on the shelf. “We celebrated with a trip down the shore.” She motioned toward the couch. “Please. Sit.”

Allison sat, but not before she caught a glimpse of a series of titles about child rearing:
Raising Girls
,
Surviving the Teen Years
...and a few others she couldn’t make out.

“Kyle is a reading fanatic. He stocked this library.” She smiled. “I kept the books in the divorce, of course.”

Why “of course”? What did Kyle do, Allison wondered, that caused Desiree to make out so well? Her mind flitted back to Kyle with that young woman—no, girl—at the restaurant. Could Desiree be blackmailing Kyle? She snuck another look at the photos dotting the bookshelves, at the way Desiree positioned herself between Kyle and the girls in almost every one. Was he a child molester? But even if that was the case, and Allison hoped for the sake of the girls it was not, how would that tie in to Arnie’s murder? Or Udele’s murder, for that matter.

“What can I help you with this time, Allison?”

Allison caught the thinly-veiled annoyance in Desiree’s voice, but she chose to ignore it. She could hardly blame her. “Thanks for the coffee.” She put down her cup. “I was hoping to read the letters Maggie sent your daughter.”

“I’m not sure I have them any longer.”

Allison doubted the veracity of that statement. Someone who went to the trouble of testing the ink would have kept copies, even if the originals stayed with the police.

“Would you mind checking?”

“Why do you care?”

Allison decided to be honest. “Because I need to understand Maggie. I need to know what she’s capable of.”

Desiree sat there for a moment, an odd expression on her face. Finally, she rose and glided over to a small writing desk in the corner. She pulled a monogrammed keychain from her pocket and unlocked the top drawer. After rummaging for a moment, she pulled a paper-clipped stack of papers out. From this, she separated three sheets of paper and handed them to Allison.

Feeling apprehensive, Allison began to read. The first one was written in black marker, in large, uneven script. It seemed innocuous: mostly ramblings about Ethan and love, with a few four-letter words thrown in here and there. The second letter felt more sinister. At the top was a hand-drawn pentagram in a circle, at the bottom, an anarchy symbol. The letter was short:

Get out of my life, get out of his life. You know what I mean. I can’t take it anymore. By the powers of the mighty Horned One, I will see to it that you can’t hear or speak. I have said my prayer to the god of death and dying. Leave us alone...or else! – Lanomia

Chilled, Allison flipped to the last note. It was slightly longer and written in a dark ink that certainly
looked
like dried blood. The beginning was much the same, orders to leave Maggie alone, orders to leave Ethan alone. At the top, another pentagram. At the end was written:

This is your last warning. Don’t underestimate me. By this blood oath I vow that you will torment me no more. Oh Mighty Horned One, Oh Mighty Hunter, I have cast my wishes, I have made my sacrifices. God of death and dying, hear me.

Again, it was signed Lanomia. Finished, Allison stood and handed the letters back to Desiree. She understood now why the police were focused on Maggie. For a second, her vision fogged and her temples throbbed.
Sacrifices
.
Blood oath
. Oh, Maggie.

Desiree stood up and walked toward the window. She spoke with her back to Allison. “So now you understand.”

Allison found her voice. “I do. This must have been hard on the family, especially your daughter.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Hank McBride was a...well, a bastard to deal with, to put it nicely. He fought us every step of the way. Nothing was his fault. This ordeal caused my divorce. The tension, the stress. It’s my girls who’ve lost out.”

At the mention of divorce, Allison remembered the other part of the reason for her visit. She said gently, “Desiree, I could have sworn I saw Kyle at a restaurant downtown recently. I recognized him from the newspaper.”

“You must have been mistaken.”

“I don’t think so. He was with a young lady, maybe your daughter’s age. But it wasn’t your daughter.”

“I can assure you, it wasn’t Kyle.”

Despite Desiree’s dismissal, Allison sensed she’d hit a nerve. When Desiree turned, Allison saw the other woman’s facial muscles tighten and her eye twitch, ever so slightly. But for all Allison knew, Desiree’s reaction was related to unresolved relationship problems, arguments over visitation schedules, or memories of transgressions.

Allison thought again about the letters. Clearly, Maggie’s waters ran deeper than Allison had originally thought. But still, her gut said there was something she was missing, some piece to all of this that would make events clearer, the puzzle whole. But sadly, Allison had to admit that in her fervor to help another teen, she could have let her imagination run rampant. Perhaps that man had not been Kyle Moore. Perhaps she had been wrong.

“Thanks for your time,” Allison said. She’d promised Vaughn, and herself, that she’d leave this avenue alone if it turned out to be a dead end. And for now, at least, she was staring at a brick wall.

While Desiree retrieved her coat, Allison looked at the parenting books again. Childhood bulimia, anger management, parenting in the computer age. One book caught her eye.

The book wasn’t about child molestation. It wasn’t about parenting at all. The book was called
Satan’s Cohorts: Devil Worship in a New Millennium
.

Vaughn couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding. Like someone was walking on his grave. He’d known Allison for ages, but the woman sitting next to him was not the calm, rational ice queen he was used to. And that left him rattled.

They were in his car, on the way to meet Jamie. He finished describing his meeting with Marta Bremburg, leaving out the part about how gorgeous she was, and waited for Allison to say something.

Finally, she said, “Bremburg’s still a possibility.”

“Right, but he’s old and sick.”

“He could have hired someone.”

“True. And he has the computer know-how,” Vaughn said. “But what’s his motivation, Allison?”

“Blackmail?” Allison was silent for a second. “Same with the Moores.”

“Maggie and Ethan are still the most probable suspects. They had motive
and
opportunity. And don’t forget the physical evidence linking Maggie to the murder scene. Her hair, for one thing”

“What about Sasha? Or Brenda, the ex-wife?”

“Jason said Sasha’s cleared. She finally admitted that she was getting a little workout with the personal trainer when Arnie died. Brenda’s still on the list as a possibility. Claims she was home alone. But the cops don’t seem too interested in her.”

“You can’t dismiss the Moores out of hand, Vaughn. What about the Satan book? Your brother said someone could have been impersonating Maggie online. Yes, the letters were damning, but Maggie’s witch name was on them. What if Kyle figured that out and began impersonating Maggie?”

“The book is just coincidence, Allison. I’m afraid you’re looking for meaning where there is none.” Vaughn pulled into his parking space next to Mrs. T’s five-year-old Toyota and cut the ignition. He turned to watch Allison’s face and saw that thinker’s crease that told him she was still mulling over something.

“Then we have a series of strange coincidences.”

Vaughn decided to try to see things her way, give Allison the benefit of the doubt. “Fine. Maggie and Sarah didn’t get along. There was some adolescent love triangle between them and Ethan Feldman. So what? Maybe Desiree bought that Satan book to read up on the crap Maggie put in her threat letter.”

“How do you explain Kyle at the restaurant?”

Vaughn took a deep breath. He knew he had to play it carefully here. “Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t Kyle Moore.”

“I didn’t imagine that. I recognized him. And then the waiter said his name.”

“Restaurants are loud.”

He saw that set of her jaw that meant she wasn’t giving in on this one. “I know what I heard, Vaughn.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe there was some innocent reason for that rendezvous. The daughter of a client? A woman who looked younger than she was? I don’t know. What I do know is that you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Ask yourself, Allison: Why would Kyle Moore want to murder Arnie Feldman? And why the hell would either of them want to murder Udele?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Motive. You need a motive. And right now you don’t have a clear motive for the Moores. Or Bremburg. That leaves Maggie McBride.”

“Just do me a favor?”

He tensed. “Of course.”

“Watch Desiree’s house for a few days? See if Kyle shows up?”

“Allison—”

“Please? Just humor me.”

Vaughn wondered who was going to humor him when he needed to have Allison committed. “Okay,” he said. “On one condition.”

Allison waited.

“Tell me why you’re so hell-bent on proving Maggie didn’t do this.”

Allison looked out the car window, letting the charged silence hang between them. When she spoke, Vaughn heard resignation, not anger.

“My gut says Maggie’s innocent. My gut may be wrong. I just need to know the truth.” She met his stare, and he glimpsed that iron will of hers again. “We all have devils from the past, Vaughn. It’s time I face up to mine.”

Vaughn nodded. It was a reason he could understand. “Well then,” he said. “You ready to face my past demons? Jamie’s waiting to meet you.”

Thirty—One

Vaughn opened his front door. He said nothing as they entered, his handsome face taut, as though he was trudging toward the inevitable. They walked through a long living room. Two black leather loveseats faced each other on one end, a bold, patterned red carpet between them. Atop the carpet sat a glass and chrome coffee table, its surface bare and spotlessly clean. A large entertainment center stood next to the couches, a flat-screen television and complex stereo system visible behind glass. The room was painted white. No art on the walls.

“This way.”

Allison followed Vaughn through a narrow hallway toward a small kitchen and dining area. Like the living room, the kitchen was tidy—modern but austere. Jamie’s nurse was standing by the stove.

“Mrs. T, meet Allison Campbell. My boss.”

Vaughn put an arm around a large black woman. Her hair had been smoothed back into a neat bun and she wore a faded red apron, the dowdiness of which contrasted strongly with her long, shapely fingernails and ankle-length aqua skirt. Everything about Mrs. T was full and round: her face, her lips, her body. She exuded a motherly aura that was not lost on Allison’s maternally-deprived soul. But Mrs. T’s maternal feelings were clearly for Vaughn, and she was summing Allison up with the intensity of a mama lion protecting her cub.

After a moment, Mrs. T said, “Please, sit.” She pointed to a small wooden table, already set with one place setting. While she gathered another plate and utensils from the cabinets and drawers, she said to no one in particular, “Flapjacks and sausage. My Ray makes the sausage himself.”

She put a plate of pancakes and the beautifully browned meat in front of Allison and Vaughn.

“Jamie’s working anyway. He had a rough night. Bad dreams again. I’m heading out soon, Christopher, so eat up an’ I’ll clean up this kitchen before I go.”

Allison picked up her fork, still feeling dazed. Despite the nervous tugging in her belly, the food smelled good and she found her plate empty before she knew it.

“His boss, huh?” Mrs. T mumbled to herself while she bustled around the kitchen, picking up dishes, washing surfaces that already looked clean to Allison. “Work and sleep, work and sleep, that’s all Christopher does, you know. That’s not good. You’re his boss, then you should know how hard he works. That’s all I’m saying.”

Vaughn started to say something, but Mrs. T cut him off.

“I’m not being disrespectful, Christopher. Miss Campbell looks like a nice lady. She should know you’re working yourself to the bone.”

Allison stood up. “I agree.” She brought her dish to the sink and stuck it into a tub of soapy water.

“I’ll get that—”

Allison waved her away. “Thank you for breakfast, best sausage I’ve ever had. The least I can do is the dishes.” She said to Vaughn over her shoulder, “Mrs. T is right, you know. All work and no play makes Christopher Vaughn a very dull boy.”

He laughed. “Is that so?”

“It is. Maybe we’ve both been too focused on work.”

“You think?”

“Maybe you need to go out more, take a vacation.”

Mrs. T said, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Allison dried her dish and turned around. Vaughn was staring at her with wariness and surprise.

“And how am I supposed to take a vacation?”

Allison smiled. “Now that I’m finally meeting your brother, I’m sure I could help you out.”

Mrs. T nodded. “That’s right, Christopher. And you give me some notice, I’ll be here every day.” She smiled approvingly at Allison. “You got people, Christopher. It’s time for a vacation. And a nice lady friend.”

Vaughn shook his head, but he looked amused. “Remind me never to get you two together again. You’re a dangerous combination.”

Allison was unprepared for everything about meeting Jamie: the change in atmosphere from the rest of the apartment, the stifling warmth in the room, the faint, mingling odors of disinfectant and scented candles, and, most especially, the man himself.

Vaughn went in alone. She could hear what sounded like a one-sided conversation during which she heard Vaughn explaining to him who she was.

Vaughn’s words were punctuated by silences, which Allison could only believe were filled with Jamie’s side of the exchange, though she heard no other voice. Every so often she heard Vaughn say, “I’m sorry.”

Allison felt jittery. She glanced at her watch. It was still morning, yet it seemed like a whole day had elapsed.

“Allison, ready?”

Vaughn had opened the door to Jamie’s room. He moved back to let Allison through.

“Allison Campbell, meet my brother Jamie. James Emerson Vaughn, former first-string basketball player and class valedictorian. Allison Campbell, image consultant extraordinaire.”

Jamie Vaughn was strapped into a motorized wheelchair at his desk. His painfully thin frame looked too weak to hold up his head. His graying hair was cropped short. He wore silver spectacles that only magnified the bright intelligence in his eyes. His face was attractive, his smile generous. This was Vaughn’s twin alright, but a twisted version of his brother, at once smaller and larger than life.

They stared at each other for a long while, Allison conscious of the tube that ran from Jamie’s body into what looked like an air compressor that hung on the back of the wheelchair. A thousand questions ran through her mind, from the concrete to the metaphysical: How can someone live like this? What are the machines, the technologies, helping Jamie survive? How can Vaughn deal with the guilt, the reminder, the stress, day after day? And how the hell had he managed to hide such a huge piece of his life?

In answer to a question she had not asked, Vaughn said, “Mrs. T is a registered nurse. They all are, the folks who attend to Jamie. He’s as self-sufficient as he can be, but...there are limits.”