Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) (6 page)

“Sink’s fixed, Al. What else do you need done?”

Ah, yes, she thought. In the here and now, we are friends, at best.

After searching his eyes for a hint of the regret that haunted her, Allison closed the closet door. She had been the one to end it, after all. A faint smiled played itself out on Jason’s lips, but his eyes were guarded.  Disappointed, she headed toward the bathroom.

Jason sat on her bed.  He opened the drawer to her bedside table and rummaged around in the mess, pulling out a pair of nail clippers. He stuffed the tissues and magazines and stray notes back into the drawer and began clipping the already-short nail on his pinky finger.

She glanced at Jason over her shoulder while she struggled with the zipper on the back of her dress. “Zip me up, please.” She backed to the bed.

“Sure.” He pulled the zipper the remaining way up, placed the nail clipper back in the drawer and stood. “Is that all you needed? Because if so, I have a date of my own tonight.”

That stopped her. “Really?” In the two years since the divorce, she’d never heard Jason so much as speak another woman’s name. Allison slipped on her pumps, not liking the feeling of jealousy creeping along the edges of her mind. “So, do I know her?”

He smiled. Dimples creased the skin on each side of his mouth, under the stubble. “Fortunately, no. She’s outside of your extensive social circle.” He turned his head to the side and said, almost bashfully, “She’s an underwear model.”

Allison gave him a look that said
Yeah, right
.

“For department-store catalogs.” He kissed the top of Allison’s head. “Amber something or other.”

“Must be serious. Make sure you learn her last name before the wedding.” She reached out and stroked his cheek. “You’d better shave. You look like a slacker.”

“I am a slacker.”

This time, Allison smiled. Jason was a lot of things—difficult, argumentative, idealistic—but she knew that whatever he did, he did whole-heartedly. His sister Bridget’s death had left a hole in his spirit wide enough for the Titanic to slip through. He’d taken his mom’s side during his parents’ divorce and, eventually, left his dad’s company, where he’d run a small but busy legal department. Allison hadn’t minded the career shift, exactly. But she had minded the new
laissez-fair
attitude that went with it. Just like with Mia, her mentor, it was as though Bridget’s death zapped the will right out of him. Looking back, that accident signaled all of the changes yet to come in their lives. Mia’s divorce. The birth of First Impressions. The rift in her own marriage. 

Just when Allison’s career picked up, Jason’s took a U-turn, going from a high-profile corporate lawyer to an attorney in the DA’s office. Despite what he thought, she hadn’t given a damn about the reduced salary or the diminished prestige. But she did mind that, in her view, he’d given up on his dream of owning his own business. Her Jason had not been a quitter. The Jason who emerged from his family’s troubles had lost sight of his goals.

“Come on,” Jason said. “I gotta go. Walk me downstairs.”

He grabbed her hand. She tried to ignore the familiar warmth of his fingers and the reassuring weight of his arm next to hers. It was too easy to remember the good and forget the bad. The all-night bar tours he’d pulled at the end. The fights over money, this house, his career, and her business. They’d been fencers, always sparring and their fights left emotional wounds.

Neither of them spoke as they made their way downstairs. In the foyer, Jason slipped his sandals back on. Despite the chilly weather, he wore shorts and sandals.

“I got a call today, Jason. One you should know about.” Allison took a deep breath. She knew this would cause Jason pain, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. “From Detective Mark Helms. He’s investigating the death of Arnie Feldman.”

“I read his name in the news. So why does he want to talk with you?”

“I worked with Arnie’s widow a long time ago.” Allison paused. “And he wants to discuss Mia.”

“
Damn
.” Jason’s hands clenched into fists. “My mother called me today. My father stopped by the farm and practically accused her of killing Arnie. Talk about an ass.” Jason shook his head. “If my mother were to murder anyone, it’d be him.”

“How do you know it was murder? The papers didn’t say that.”

“My contacts at the police department.” Jason’s expression darkened. He reached for Allison’s hand, seemed to think better of it, and fiddled instead with his keys. He smiled, but it was a humorless smile, one that made Allison ache to reassure him. Despite his bravado, she knew his parents’ hatred of one another tore at him. Rather than suffer from divided loyalties like many grown children of divorcees, Jason loathed his father and coddled his mother. Mia’s escape to that farm was something Jason still had trouble accepting. It worried him.

Allison wrapped her arms around her chest and leaned against the door. Mia’s behavior worried her, too. She missed Mia. Sometimes desperately. Their relationship had been beyond that of in-laws. Mia had first been her mentor and boss, then her friend and, finally, her surrogate mother. But Allison’s divorce from Jason had been a rude reminder that Mia and Allison had no blood tie—and in the end, Bridget’s tragedy had been the undoing of their relationship, too.

“Besides,” Jason said, breaking Allison’s train of thought.  “Vaughn called me this morning to find out what I knew, which was nothing, so I made some calls. It’s good to have friends in high places.”

“Why would Vaughn call you about Arnie Feldman’s murder? Because of Helms?”

Jason gave her a strange look. “You’re a funny lady, Al. Maybe Vaughn was just being nosey. You place him up on a pedestal, but he
is
human.”

“I do forget that sometimes.” Allison shook her head. “This whole thing is bizarre. What else do you know about the murder?”

“I know that my mother had nothing to do with it.”

“Of course she didn’t, Jason. But aside from that.”

“Just that you should keep your door locked and the alarm system on. You don’t pay enough attention to security.” He closed her front door, then opened it and jiggled the handle to check the lock. “I wish you’d get over that fear of yours and adopt a puppy. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you so much.”

“Not on your life. Puppies grow up to be dogs.”

Allison balked at even the thought of owning a dog. Although she liked dogs in theory, in reality, they scared her. As a child, her father had kept an ornery wolf-dog mix named Thor as a guard animal. The dog lived in their backyard within the confines of a twenty-by-twenty pen. Even though Allison had been warned a thousand times to stay away from him, she’d thought—wrongly—that he’d never bite
her
. So one day, feeling sorry that he was all alone outside, she’d snuck in the pen with him. Thirty seconds later, he had her pinned up against the fence, his snarl so loud it echoed in her nightmares for weeks.

Her dad dragged Thor away before the dog did any physical harm. But her disobedience brought about the bite of her father’s belt. She still had the scars to prove it.

While logic told her not all dogs were like Thor, she’d decided not to take a chance. Handing Jason the keys that lay on the foyer table, she said, “Is there something in particular that has you worried?”

Jason stepped outside, seemingly impervious to the sharp breeze that whipped through her lawn. “Just be careful,” he said again, making Allison wonder what he wasn’t telling her.

Allison waved good-bye before closing the front door. She glanced at her clock. A half hour before she needed to leave. Enough time to make a call.

She dialed Vaughn’s number. He answered on the first ring.

“What’s up, Allison?”

“Jason said you called him. About Arnie Feldman.”

“I did.”

“Then you know it was a murder.”

“I do.”

Baffled by Vaughn’s clipped answers, Allison said, “Is this a bad time?”

“I’m at the gym.” Vaughn’s voice softened. “But that’s okay. What do you need?”

“Can you do a little more digging? Make a few calls? I told Jason about the call from Detective Helms, and while Jason told me it was a murder, I got the sense he was holding out on me. I want to know what happened.”

She heard him inhale, then a mumbled sound as though he had his hand over the receiver. “I already made a few calls.”

Silence.

“And?”

“The police are questioning the ex-wife. And the widow. But then, you know that.” 

“There’s more.” Allison could tell by his voice he was hiding something, too.

Finally, he said, “Look, Allison, they’re not releasing any details. Everything I know is secondhand.”

“Stop beating around the bush, Vaughn. Just tell me what you heard.”

He sighed. “It looks like ritualistic murder.”

“Meaning?”

“Devil worshipping. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. The whole thing was, or was made to look like, some sort of satanic ritual.”

On the Main Line? That happened to homeless men on the city streets or lonely teenage girls in the boonies. Successful divorce lawyers were not targets of Satanists. And angry, bitter ex-wives killed out of hatred, not to appease Lucifer.

But what if it was true?

She looked around the foyer, at the windows that lined every wall of her house. Would the alarm system be enough of a deterrent to keep out a killer? She felt a sudden chill. She was sure Feldman had an alarm system, too. Everyone in these parts did.

“That makes no sense.”

“Maybe not, but the police are sitting on the details because they don’t want all the Main Line moms to get their thongs in a bunch. But it was most definitely a murder.”

“Where does Mia fit into all of this?”

“Not sure. But one thing is clear. The police are casting a wide net. They will push to solve this as soon as possible. Devil worshipping on the Main Line? Not something you want plastered in the newspapers.”

“What makes the cops think it was Satanism?”

“Hold on, Allison. I can’t discuss this here.” For a moment, Allison heard noise in the background, what sounded like men shouting superimposed over the blare of loud rap music, and then silence. A second later, Vaughn said, “Sorry. I promised my source I would keep this on the down low. Needed to get outside.”

“No problem. You were telling me why the murder seemed like a ritual.”

“Right.” Vaughn huffed out a sigh. “Pentagrams, smeared blood messages, animal feces. No sign of robbery.”

“What’d the messages say?”

“No idea.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Alarm system?”

“Off.”

“Suspects?”

“The ex-wife, Brenda Feldman, is a person of interest. So are Mia and Sasha Feldman, the new wife. But the detective told you that.”

“The satanic stuff doesn’t sound like something a spouse would do.”

“Could’ve been a ploy.”

Allison agreed. “But if you’re a wife—or an ex-wife—why not just hire a hit man? Why go to all that trouble?”

“I don’t know? Crazy people do crazy things.”

Allison wasn’t buying it. “Any chance it was real? That actual devil-worshipping was involved?”

“Really, Allison?”

“Humor me.”

“It’s not pretty.”

“Spare me the chivalry. I can take it.”

Allison heard the wail of sirens through the phone. They seemed to go on forever.

When the din quieted, Vaughn said, “Fine. You asked for it.” He waited through another round of sirens before saying, “They found Feldman shirtless, with an upside down cross burned into his chest.”

Allison’s eyes widened. She clutched the mobile tightly. “That’s awful.”

Vaughn said quietly, “You don’t understand. He was alive when this happened. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to scare you. Arnie Feldman bled to death, Allison. But only after he was tortured.”

Seven

Vaughn clicked off the phone, acknowledging the sick feeling that assaulted him whenever he thought of Feldman’s murder. The proximity to Allison’s house was bad enough. The mere suggestion of Mia’s involvement pushed him into hyperdrive.

He tucked the phone into the pocket of his shorts, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the boxing gym in West Philly. He might not be able to make things better for Mia or Allison, but at least here he could do some good.

A thick Puerto Rican with an angel tattooed on his arm dropped a barbell and mumbled
sonofabitch
under his breath as Vaughn passed. The guy looked up and nodded. Vaughn tossed him a nod back, said
Juan
, and kept going. Today was a training day, and the ropes were in the back, past the free weights. The kids were waiting.

The gym, hidden away on the first floor of a converted factory, stunk of body odor and mildew. Originally some investor’s hot idea for a redevelopment project, the idea flopped and the second floor stayed empty. During the rare times that the gym was quiet, Vaughn could hear rodents scurrying along the upper floor. Didn’t bother him. Didn’t bother most of the guys who came here.

Vaughn made his way past a dozen muscular youths lifting along the rear wall. Rap music blared from an iPod docking station set on an old milk crate. Rows of fluorescent lights lined thirty-foot ceilings. In the winter, the cold air that seeped around the bank of industrial windows and the high ceilings meant Vaughn could see his breath. In the summer, the lack of air conditioning meant the place was no escape from hot pavement and Philly humidity.

“Hey Vaughn,” said a small, wiry black kid with a missing ear. “Thought you weren’t coming back.”

Vaughn gave the kid a pretend punch, and said, “What would make you think that, D’Quan?”

D’Quan shrugged.

“Sorry. Had to take a call.”

“A girl?” The boy grinned.

Vaughn laughed. “Something like that. Now mind your business and get warmed up.”

The boy moaned, but he took off into the back of the gym, by the makeshift ring, where two other kids were also waiting. Vaughn barked out a series of warm-up exercises and watched as D’Quan jabbed the speed bag hanging in the corner. The kid was small for his age, but what he lacked in height he made up for in drive. D’Quan’s stepfather had taken that ear off in a drunken fit. Boxing gave D’Quan an outlet for his built-up fury. Without it, the kid was a bomb poised to explode.

Vaughn understood. He’d been the same, once upon a time. Drunk father, timid mother, dangerous streets, smallish kid. As a teen, every time, it had been the same scene. His father would get plastered, hit his mother, and Vaughn would step in, full of youthful pride and protectiveness. He’d get smacked down.
Stupid, worthless boy.
Punch.
Get outta here, Christopher.
Punch.
Come back when you learned some respect for me.

The memory of his father’s words tasted like gun metal in his mouth and Vaughn tried to focus instead on the kids in front of him.  No use reliving the past. Jamie’s condition was enough of a reminder of how stupid he’d once been.

His work with the kids at the boxing gym was a sort of penance. He knew that the rigid schedule he imposed on himself created the sense of order he needed to get through each day. Discipline equaled order equaled peace. And Lord knew, after three years of juvie, then Jamie and the horrors that had followed, he needed peace.

Jamie. Vaughn hoped the nurse would stay till he returned. He’d asked her to, he was sure of it. Yes, he remembered now, she agreed to sleep in the spare bedroom. Angela. Sweet, kind Angela. Vaughn shook his head. He was letting himself get soft. But the lonely longing in his gut told him he wouldn’t go straight home. Not tonight. Tonight he’d go where he was welcome.

After two hours with D’Quan and the other kids, Vaughn wiped his forehead with the square white towel and headed for the small locker room. A quick shower later he was dressed and heading outside. It was a new moon, and streetlights pierced the unrelenting darkness, exposing garbage that had accumulated in little wind-swept piles on the sidewalks. Not wanting to draw attention to his car, Vaughn had purposefully parked the BMW as far from a light as possible. But the darkness pressed down on him and the wind screamed. Even inside the car, the other luxury he allowed himself, a tough chill seeped around the windows and doors.

He thought about Allison and the Feldman murder. What he’d learned about the murder had scared him, for Allison more than Mia. The murder had taken place right in her backyard. And the police had no concrete leads. He wondered if it was just a coincidence that Hank McBride contacted Allison so soon after a Main Line murder. There was no reason to think they were connected, but still. Man, he thought, you’re getting paranoid.

But Vaughn had acquired a sense about people from his years in that juvenile facility. There, as a scrawny kid with a scarred face, he knew he couldn’t compete with his fists. He’d had to use his brain. He had to know what people were going to do before even they knew and use that knowledge against them. And after a few painful rounds, things he didn’t want to think about, he learned. And now Vaughn prided himself on telling the good from the bad, the honest from the dishonest, the genuine article from the carefully crafted fake.

And Hank McBride was a fake.

But if Allison wanted to take the McBrides on as clients, he would respect that. Grudgingly. Allison had her reasons. Just as Vaughn could root out evil intentions, so he could spot when someone’s reality was stretched thin. And although Allison Campbell might think she was happy, he knew that under the thick layer of professional devotion lurked a restless spirit. Yeah, he could relate.

Headlights snaked their way toward him and he adjusted his position to avoid the glare. He watched the glow grow stronger and then turn into a parking lot, illuminating a crumbling row house wedged between two intact ones. The abandoned house had a caved-in roof and boarded-up doors. In the lot out front sat a child’s Big Wheel. No fancy hedges or flower beds here. Instead, the people living on either side of the condemned house would spend their days swatting cockroaches and chasing rats and hoping some crack head didn’t set up camp in the ruins. He would know. He’d grown up just six blocks away.

Vaughn turned on to Route 30 and headed back toward the burbs. It wasn’t coincidence that he’d chosen a gym out here in the ‘hood. He made a point to remind himself of where he came from. Every single day. It was too easy to forget what lay on the other side of the Main Line divide. He guessed that’s what he and Allison had in common: neither were natives. But she tried to run from her past. In his own way, he embraced his.

Vaughn grabbed his cell phone and dialed. On the fifth ring, a soft, husky voice answered, a voice that came to life when he asked if he could visit. “Come,” she said, and he felt himself hardening. “I’ll leave the front door unlocked.”

He wouldn’t stay all night, he told himself. Just long enough to lose himself in her. Just long enough to get his father and Jamie and all the stuff from years ago out of his head. Just long enough to make her forget her own troubles. Just long enough.