Mommy, May I? (20 page)

“Shea! Shea! Get your ass up!” A voice shouted into her ear, abruptly waking her. “Your bail has been posted.” Someone shook her. She rolled over and saw the guard standing there, hands on her hips. “You gonna get up, or what?”

She stood and followed the guard out. Once she signed her release papers, her clothes and personal belongings were handed back to her. She quickly changed, hoping that her own clothes would erase some of the stink of jail.

When the steel doors swung open, there stood her lawyer and Patrick, who looked as worn out as she felt. She walked straight into his arms. He held her tight as she wept.

James laid a hand on her shoulder. “The masses await. Are you ready for this?”

Helena nodded. “Just get me out of here.”

As the three walked through the front doors of the jailhouse, Helena was not as prepared as she thought. Dozens of reporters and camera crews surrounded the place, once again pushing cameras and microphones right in her face. The story must have hit big last night. This morning she was bombarded with the same slanderous questions, but keeping her head down, she did what she could to ignore them.

“Ms. Shea, did you hire someone to do it?”

“What about the rope?”

“Did the two of you conceive this plan together?”

The insults stopped when James held up his hands, as if he were a preacher in church. “There is no story here, folks. Ms. Shea had nothing to do with Ms. Kiley’s death. We will prove this. The LAPD has made an enormous mistake by detaining my client. If anyone should be on trial, it is the LAPD for their clear harassment of an innocent citizen.”

“What about Mr. Kiley? Did he post bail?”

“How is he involved?”

“No further comments at this time.”

Patrick held onto Helena as he and James ushered her to the waiting car. She looked out as the driver shut the door, observing the chaotic scene around her, catching a glimpse of Claire Travers. Their eyes locked for a split second before Claire lifted her camera and took a shot. Helena closed her eyes, attempting to dissolve those images. This horror was not going to end any time soon.

Claire breezed into the criminal investigation department of the police station and headed for Collier’s desk. Reporters were, as a rule, considered a nuisance by cops, but that never deterred Claire. She was sure that Collier would be happy to see her.

The room stank like coffee, and old cigarette residue stained the walls, which obviously hadn’t been painted since the days when smoking was tolerated in the office. Papers were strewn everywhere across desks stained by coffee spills, stacking up as crime strained the department’s resources.

She saw Detective David Collier talking with some of the other detectives outside the evidence and records office. He looked up at her and shook his head, knowing that trouble stood before him—but he had to admit that it was good looking trouble: a great ass, bright green eyes, blonde hair, and a feisty spirit. Claire knew that her ass had expanded an inch or two after she’d hit thirty a few years ago, but several butt tightening exercises a day seemed to keep the men looking, including David Collier. Claire watched David excuse himself and walk over to her. She’d known David for almost five years on a business basis, but he was always trying to make it something more.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his eyes squinting into a suspicious glare.

“As if you didn’t know. I’m getting dibs on the hot story of the day.”

“Ah, well of course you are, Claire.” She didn’t like his smile.

Claire could smell his breath. He liked onions on everything but ice cream and cake. “So, what do you know? Is Helena Shea guilty? Did she do it? Did Kiley? Got any more word on that fire? What about the girl in the hospital? Is she gonna make it, or is Helena going up for more than one murder?”

“Whoa, slow down Miss LA Times. Dinner tonight at seven? We can talk then,” he replied coolly as he escorted her into a private interview area, shutting the door behind them.

“What do you have besides the drapery rope, David? I hear the DA’s office is saying they don’t have enough of a case to continue. Some say you’re barking up the wrong tree. Some are even saying Helena Shea was framed.”

“Dinner first?” he insisted.

“David,” she sighed in exasperation.

“You’re not the only reporter looking for a story here, Claire. I’ll be on my best behavior,” he said with a wink.

“You’re married,” she reminded him. How did he consistently seem to forget this obvious detail?

“What’s the harm in a dinner between friends?”

“David, come on, help me out. Give me this story, please. Are there any other suspects?”

“No one is above suspicion.” He arched his eyebrows flirtatiously. “In fact, we know that you met with Leeza Kiley the other night. So I do need to ask you a few questions. We can either do it here at the station, or later over dinner. As you can see, I’m pretty busy right now.”

Claire knew he had her trapped. “Come on now,” she begged. “How could Helena Shea have strangled Leeza?”

There was a tap on the door. Collier hollered, “Yeah?”

Another detective cracked the door and said, “We need you.”

Collier told Claire he’d call her later. Thank God for caller ID and answering machines. She didn’t need any trouble with married men.

She left the station, remembering her last dinner with Leeza. She had thought Leeza might have had a shred of humanity somewhere in her. But Leeza’s past cruel actions made Claire wonder how many more had a score to settle with the vivacious redhead. Surely Helena Shea couldn’t be the only one.

What about Patrick Kiley? He’d paid Leeza large sums of money just to be free of her. Then he’d faced the scandal, along with the rest of his family. It must’ve been awful, knowing what pain he’d brought to the women in his life. According to the record, though, he had an alibi: dining out with business associates until very late. So if he was involved, he hadn’t been the actual perp.

Claire had a hard time believing that Patrick Kiley would be stupid enough to risk his life and security to have his ex-wife killed. Then there was this arson business with Shea House. Something wasn’t clicking. The puzzle was not fitting together as neatly as what the police were obviously hoping for. But her story was hot again, and Claire was determined to squeeze it for every cent it was worth.

Tyler left the office early and headed to the bar down the street from his house, a little hole-in-the-wall with dim lighting and tattered vinyl seats. He needed a drink tonight, and he liked this quiet little place. The bartender knew how to make a stiff one. He also remembered his patrons’ names, a practice that Tyler appreciated.

He couldn’t get Jane Doe out of his thoughts; he even dreamed about her. He could see her dark eyes pleading to the madman who had unleashed his evil upon her. Tyler thought he could smell her when he slept—like lilies. The asshole who killed her enjoyed her scent too, reveling in her sweet freshness. She had been a girl bordering on womanhood—at least that’s what her actions and emotions in his dreams suggested.

Forensic investigation had put her age at around twenty, give or take a couple years. He hated the man who’d savagely murdered her, robbing her of a long life filled with love and family, as his Susan had been deprived. Tyler still sensed that like Nelson, his wife’s killer, this guy considered his kills as prizes. If only Tyler could connect another victim to this UNSUB, he could gather enough information to put together a real profile. Tyler knew this guy who’d killed Jane Doe had killed others as well, so maybe it was about a collection. But why did he need to collect, and where did he keep them?

When the toxicology report had come back on Jane Doe, traces of formaldehyde had been detected in the bone, just as with Elaine Myers. “He’s preserving them,” Tyler said aloud. The bartender glanced down at him. “Another Stoli tonic,” Tyler ordered and then went back to his thoughts. “And once the chemicals wear off, he dumps them.”

Tyler picked up his cell phone and called his boss, Loretta Frey. She wasn’t available, so he left a message. “Listen, we need to get on the national database and search out victims with exposure to formaldehyde and other chemicals used to preserve bodies. I’d also like to get a list of mortuaries located in the areas where Jane Doe and Elaine Myers bodies were found. I think I’ve figured out a link. I’m pretty sure he likes to hang on to them for awhile, and he’s got a helluva fascination with death.” He hung up, shot back the Stoli and ordered another one, wanting to get drunk and forget all this shit for once. But he couldn’t stop thinking about his collection theory now that this idea of preservation was beginning to clarify things.

Tyler knew that hunting this madman would be taxing—they all were. But the echo of his wife’s murder was so strong that his will to hunt him had grown as well. Tyler sucked back another drink, slammed the glass down on the bar, and pronounced, “The hunter has now become the hunted.”

The Gulfstream took off from Burbank heading for Santa Barbara. James was able to convince the judge to allow Helena to leave LA County. After all, she had nowhere to run, since her famous face was known throughout the western world. Patrick had decided to take her to his ranch, knowing that the media would spin it but not caring. She was relieved, wanting only to escape their oppressive intrusion into her life for as long as possible.

Frankie remained quiet and withdrawn during the flight. Ella hid under Helena’s seat. She’d insisted that the dog come onboard with her rather than ride in cargo, and neither Patrick nor the captain had raised objections.

Helena was grateful that Frankie was all right. She still hadn’t had the opportunity to tell Patrick about the phone caller and how he might be tied into this. She didn’t want to tell James until she conferred with Patrick. She knew how the revelation of a possible third party’s involvement might sound to her attorney and all who were watching through critical eyes, especially after withholding this information for so long.

James made up for everyone else’s silence by talking incessantly about matters Helena wanted just for a moment to forget. “This rap won’t stick, Helena. There is no way the DA will take this case without anything more conclusive to go on.” He tapped his foot against the floorboard. “But listen to me, they may try to work the conspiracy angle. Patrick has a strong reputation in the business community and a solid alibi on the night in question, thank God.” Then in a hushed tone he added, “The police haven’t questioned Frankie thoroughly yet. Plan for that.”

“They won’t put her on the stand, will they, James?” Helena said.

“We’re a long way from that,” Patrick cut in. “As far as I’m concerned, they won’t put any of us on the stand.”

“Mark Rogers—the DA—is a jerk, I won’t deny that,” James said. “If he sees an angle, he’ll try to work it. He’s full of political ambitions. This case is exactly what he needs to get his face out there.”

Patrick squeezed her hand. Normally, she would’ve pulled it from his grasp, but right now she found it comforting. She smiled gratefully at him. “Do you really think they’ll try to concoct some conspiracy theory?” he asked James.

“It’s the stuff that makes great movies, and face it, gang, your story plays out like one,” James said. “But I can’t really say at this point.”

“In the meantime, the cops are investigating everything about us, while the real killer walks free.” Helena shook her head, a bitter taste rising in her throat. She was tempted to reveal her theory, but with Frankie so close, she thought it best to wait.

“Afraid so,” James sighed. “The good news about your friend is that she’s doing better. She’s still in critical condition, but from what I understand, they believe that she’ll pull through.”

Helena closed her eyes, thankful to hear of Rachel’s condition but also feeling horrible knowing that her friend would be scarred for life.

The plane landed twenty minutes later. A car waited for them on the tarmac. They were taken out to the ranch, where, sure enough, more camera crews and lookie-loos were camped by the main gate. But there wasn’t much to report other than that a limousine had pulled into Patrick Kiley’s ranch, presumably with Helena and their daughter inside.

As they settled in, Frankie came to the guestroom where Helena unpacked. She sat down on the end of the bed looking more like a frightened little girl than a budding young woman. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay? I was pretty scared for you. I thought that I was never going to see you . . .”

Helena stroked Frankie’s long dark hair. “Nothing’s ever going to keep us apart again.” She pulled Frankie away and looked into her claret eyes. “I promise.” Frankie nodded and hugged her once more.

Helena hoped that was the case, but her gut shouted that the evil which had seemingly crept into their lives was like a poisonous snake waiting to strike again—slow, low, quiet, and filled with venom.

“All right, Collier, where do things stand on the Kiley case?” Claire sat across from the detective at Hooley’s Irish Pub, a favorite watering hole. It attracted a regular police crowd. She’d had to succumb to his pleas of meeting him for dinner if she expected any answers from him. He’d left her two telephone messages that afternoon, and she’d finally agreed. They downed their first pitcher of ale while waiting for their fish and chips.