Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (31 page)

She eyed the bar two doors down. Maybe someone there could tell her something. Reassuring herself that she still had the knife and the spray, she hurried down the street and opened the bar’s heavy front door. Once inside, she slid into the shadows.

The interior was dark and dank and smelled strongly of stale beer. She could make out a bar on one side. A few men sat on stools, watching with seeming disinterest what was happening at the other side of the room. One or two of the men glanced her way before turning back to the entertainment. Allison followed their gaze. There, on a makeshift stage, two young girls gyrated to an imaginary rhythm, their slim, boyish bodies completely nude. Allison felt ill. These girls couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen.

Nothing outside indicated that this place was a nude bar. She thought of Violet—and Sparky—and was pretty certain this was the type of establishment Sparky would have run. From the outside, it looked like a neighborhood bar, to throw off the cops, but inside...inside would be a special kind of entertainment. Though she wanted to scream, Allison tried to keep her breath even. She hated the thought of Violet working in a dump like this, being ogled by old men, her young body simply a thing to be judged and auctioned to the highest bidder. She hated the thought of these girls being made to live the same sort of life.

Allison scanned the room for another door. Sure enough, toward the back was a stairwell lit faintly by red light. Her nightmarish suspicions were confirmed.

These girls didn’t just dance.

Allison thought of Moore at the restaurant with that teen. Maybe it was no coincidence he kept a property here. This place, right next door, offered easy pickings. For all she knew, he owned the bar and the row house registered to TECHNO. She looked around the bar. She wouldn’t get anything out of these men. Even if they knew Kyle Moore, they would never admit to it.

Allison edged back toward the door, hoping to escape before anyone noticed her.  She felt along the wall for the doorknob and pulled the heavy barrier open just wide enough to slip outside. Once there, she pressed her back against the building and closed her eyes for a second, letting the disgust and anger wash over her. She would call the police and let them know what was happening inside. The image of those girls, so many years and such potential ahead of them, flashed before her eyes, their faces replaced by Violet’s. She needed to get on the road. But if the police could bust this place, something good would come out of her otherwise wasted side trip.

She opened her eyes and reached into her pocket for a tissue. At the same time, a hulking figure rounded the corner and came toward her, head bent over a lit cigarette. He reached the door of the bar, gave Allison a glance, and went inside. Her pulse pounding, Allison walked toward her car. She wanted out of this neighborhood.

She sneezed and wiped the tissue against her face. The sensitive skin around her mouth was already beginning to chap from the friction. She thought of Arnie Feldman, of Vaughn’s description of the murder scene. He had had abrasions on his face, around his mouth. Sasha had said he was bound by duct tape, which also covered his mouth. What if those abrasions were caused when duct tape was ripped off repeatedly?

As though the murderer had been questioning Arnie and removing the tape to let him answer.

Allison opened her car door and got inside, quickly locking the doors. She started the ignition and pulled away from the curb.
Duct tape
. If the police were right and Maggie and Ethan were the killers, why would they question Arnie? They wouldn’t. But someone with something to lose, someone who wanted to know whether Arnie had exposed his secrets,
would
question him. And torture him to get the information he needed.

The inverted cross, burned into Arnie’s chest.

Not a satanic ritual. A very practical attempt to get Arnie to talk.

It was all adding up. The underage girl, Sunny’s painting. Kyle Moore had access through Desiree. And if she could only prove a connection between Kyle and Arnie, she was sure she’d have motive, too.

Allison pushed down on the gas pedal. She needed to get to Lieutenant Helms. It was time to share her suspicions about Kyle Moore.

Thirty—Six

Allison didn’t make it to police headquarters. On the way, her phone rang. It was a very distraught Desiree asking to meet her. Now.

“I need your advice,” Desiree said. “I wasn’t totally honest with you before. About Maggie. There’s more to the story. It’s Kyle. I don’t know what to do about Kyle.”

Allison’s mind raced. This might just be the break they needed. She didn’t completely trust Desiree, but the woman sounded desperate. She should send her right to the police. But what if the police didn’t listen? Allison turned off the exit that would lead to her office building. She gave Desiree directions to First Impressions.

“How quickly can you get there?” Allison said.

“Twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

After Desiree hung up, Allison pulled over to the curb and put her head against the back of the seat. Her temples throbbed. She thought of Maggie, alone in detention. Of her mother, alone in her own head. Of Jamie, trapped in a physical prison. And of her house, and how right it had felt a few days before, waking up to Jason.

She’d been a fool.

Allison dialed Jason’s mobile number. He didn’t pick up. Disappointed, she left a simple message. “I’m ready,” she said. And then she pulled out onto the road and headed to her office.

Vaughn knocked on Allison’s front door. No answer other than Brutus’s menacing bark. He figured that, her car wasn’t parked in the driveway or the garage. He called her cell phone again. No one picked up.

Desiree Moore missing.

Allison missing.

While under normal circumstances, those two facts would be merely a coincidence, this time he knew that wasn’t the case.

He ran to his car, slammed it into reverse, and dialed the number for Lieutenant Helms. Then he called Jason.

Allison climbed the two floors to First Impressions. Once inside, she unlocked the front door and headed straight for her office, where she sat at her desk and cradled her aching head in her hands. The sniffling was now accompanied by aches and chills. She wrapped her coat tighter around her shivering body and willed herself to feel better. She needed her strength and mental clarity.

She was just picking up the phone to try Helms when there was a strong knock at the door.
Desiree, already?
Allison took a deep breath and rose to answer it.

Another knock.

“Coming!”

Allison swung open the door. It was Desiree, and she didn’t wait for an invitation to come inside. She was dressed simply in black pants and a dark gray sweater. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her face was free of makeup. She may have been distraught before, but she was composed now.

“Are you alone?” Desiree said, closing the door.

“I am. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

Desiree nodded. “Can we sit?”

Allison led Desiree to the client room. Desiree carried a heavy duffel bag, which she placed on one of the chairs. It was the same bag she’d had at the art center.

The art center!

In a flash, Allison thought of the pottery tools. The double-handled wires Desiree had used to slice the top off of clay. Feldman’s throat had been sliced by a wire.  All along she’d been suspecting Kyle, but what if...what if it had been Desiree?

But why?

Why would Desiree kill Arnie? Allison gave the woman a second look. She noticed the sneakers and black leather gloves. Outside was chilly, but not gloves chilly. With sudden comprehension, she knew this was no social call. Her heart pounded against her ribcage.

Desiree said, “Sit.” Her voice came out in a low growl.

Quickly, Allison moved toward the front door. She needed to get out of there. Before she made it ten feet, she felt Desiree on top of her, pushing her down. Allison’s forehead hit the floor, hard, just as Desiree’s knee slammed into her spine, knocking the wind out of her. Allison tried to twist around to take a swing at her, but her spine screamed in agony. Allison’s eyes met Desiree’s, but not before Allison saw the gun pointed directly at her skull.

“You’re going to do exactly as I say, Allison. Beginning now.”

Midge slammed her foot on the brake and turned into the parking lot in front of Allison’s building. She parked next to Allison’s Volvo, got out and locked her door. Kit was standing outside First Impressions looking sexy in an orange peplum jacket and skin-tight floral skirt. Not exactly the outfit she’d have chosen for an intervention.

Midge pointed toward Tori’s minivan and Kit nodded, a huge scowl on her face. Kit had gone along with the idea reluctantly, but they needed to do this. For Allison. Allison might balk at first, but in the end, she’d be grateful to know how much they cared.

Kit teetered over on four-inch stilettos. Midge cringed. What was the woman thinking?

“Any day now,” Kit said. “We’re not goddamn detectives. And it’s not like I don’t have a life. I want to be home for CSI.”

“We’re almost ready,” Midge said. “Diane will be here soon.”

Tori walked over and joined them. “All set?”

Kit rolled her eyes. Midge gave her an encouraging smile.

“We do this with love in our hearts, ladies,” Midge said. “Whatever is going on with Allison, we can help her. It’s the least we can do.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Allison said.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

There was a noise at the front door, and Desiree climbed off her, keeping the gun firmly pointed at Allison. “Come in!” she yelled.

A second later, another figure walked inside and then closed and re-locked the door. Wiry frame, red hair, large mole on his face. Kyle Moore. He must’ve been waiting in the shadows outside the door the entire time. Allison cursed her own stupidity. She should have never fallen for Desiree’s phone call.

“Did you get it?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Desiree said.  “Get up!” she commanded. Roughly, Desiree pulled Allison to her feet. Allison’s head was a pulsing, throbbing mess. She didn’t resist when Desiree led her back to the client room and pushed her into a chair.

With gloved hands, Desiree pulled a white envelope from inside her duffel bag. Carefully, she pulled out two pieces of paper. The first she put in front of Allison.

“Sign it.”

Allison scanned the writing. It was a suicide note, full of remorse for belief in a felon and humiliation over her ruined career. It was short and powerful and, Allison hated to admit, almost believable.

She said, “No.”

Desiree pistol-whipped her on the side of the head.

Through the searing pain and sudden haze, Allison managed, “You can go to hell. I’m not signing anything.”

Desiree ignored her. She smoothed the second piece of paper—newsprint between her fingers, curling the edges purposefully. “It won’t do to have this look too fresh, will it? Better to look worn, as though you’d fretted over it.”

Allison didn’t even have to ask. She knew the paper was the news feature that reporter had done, the one in which Catherine McBride called her a fraud. She knew, too, that if Desiree had her way and framed this as a suicide, Hank McBride would add to the story, using her death to buoy his own message about Maggie. She and Maggie would both lose.

Thoughts of Maggie fueled her resolve. They couldn’t be allowed to get away with this. But what could she do? How could she distract them? Her head was pounding. Her spine screamed. She could barely think.

Desiree put the suicide note in front of Allison again. “Sign it. Now.”

“Hurry,” Kyle said. Unlike Desiree, he looked nervous. He held his gun uncertainly. Sweat beaded across his forehead. He was the weak link.

“No one will believe this, Desiree. We know you murdered Feldman and Udele. We know you had access to the McBride house, that Kyle was Arnie’s client. And we’ve told the police already.” She lied, but her only hope was to get them talking. Buy time until she could make a move.

“Arnie wasn’t my attorney,” Kyle said. Allison was surprised to hear a faint stutter. “He was Desiree’s. This is all her fault.”

Desiree came around behind Allison. She jerked Allison’s head back by her hair, hard. Allison bit her lip against the tears welling in her eyes. She needed to think through the fog.
Damn it, Al! Focus!

“Kyle has an addiction,” Desiree was saying. “He’s pathetic.” She leaned down so that her mouth was against Allison’s ear. “He likes to screw young girls.” She straightened up. “Isn’t that right, Kyle? You can’t keep your pecker in your pants, and so here we are.”

“Why are you protecting him?” Allison asked.

Desiree hit Allison’s head with the butt of her gun again. Allison felt a sticky warmth trickle down the side of her face. The shock added to the cyclone in her skull.

Keep her talking, Al.
She whispered, “You still love him.”

“Shut up! I’m protecting Sarah and Megan. From scandal. That’s what good mothers do.”

And killing wouldn’t cause a scandal?
“That’s why you killed Feldman. He was going to tell.” 

“The idiot suddenly got a conscience.”

Kyle said, “That’s because you told him too much. That was stupid—”

“Shut up! Do
not
blame me for your idiocy!” Desiree pointed at the table, at the documents that still sat, unsigned, in front of Allison. “Make her sign them, Kyle. Now!”

Kyle moved closer, his gun trained on Allison’s face. Allison eyed the barrel, wishing she had paid more attention in self-defense class. She kept one hand on the table where Desiree could see it, but let the other one fall to her lap. Inch by inch, she maneuvered it toward her coat pocket. Kyle seemed weak, but she reminded herself of the devastation he and Desiree had wreaked on Feldman. She couldn’t afford to underestimate them.

“Why Udele?” Allison said.

“Why not?” Desiree said.

“So the painting you bought from Sunny, all of those trips to the McBride house...you were simply looking for ways to frame Maggie. Udele was disposable, so you took her out. A great way to lead the authorities to the McBrides, in case the police weren’t sniffing around them already.”

The truth dawned on Allison in one flash of clarity. Desiree had had access to Maggie’s bedroom, to things containing Maggie’s fingerprints. She could have memorized security codes at the Feldman’s. Her daughter Sarah might have even had a key from her days of visiting Ethan. And Udele...poor Udele would have let Desiree in the house willingly, a known and trusted acquaintance of Sunny’s. The monstrosity of what the Moores had done—killing two innocent people, framing a child—was hard to comprehend. As was the hopelessness of her own situation in the hands of these psychos.

“Sign the damn note,” Kyle said.

“No.”

“Kyle! Make her!”

Kyle grabbed Allison’s wrist and yanked her arm behind her back, a surprising show of strength for such a small man. Allison yelped. Kyle reached around and fingered her exposed throat.

“There are a lot of ways to commit suicide,” Desiree said. “You could slit your wrists. You could blow your brains out. Or maybe you’re some kind of masochist and—”

“Just sign the letter, bitch,” Kyle hissed.