Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (54 page)

“Got anything yet?” Trammell asked, frustration plain in his voice as he hung up the telephone. “I came up empty on both the pizza delivery and the cable company. The entire street had trouble with the cable, and it was repaired on the line, over a block away. It wasn’t necessary to enter any residence. And the pizza was delivered by a sixteen-year-old girl. Mr. Vinick is the one who paid her, anyway. Dead end.”

“Nothing here, either,” Dane muttered. “Yet.” Marlie Keen had never been arrested, had never even had a parking ticket, as far as he could find. He didn’t let that discourage him. Maybe “Marlie Keen” was an alias. If so, he’d eventually turn up that information. People could be tracked through Social Security numbers, tax returns, any number of means. He knew where she worked and what kind of car she drove. He’d already sent out various requests, such as for a record of calls she’d made and received; by the time he was finished, he’d even know her bra size.

He bet he could make a damn good guess at that right now: 34C. At first he would have guessed no more than a B cup, but that nunnish white blouse had been deceiving. He had noticed a tantalizing roundness—

Damn it!
He had to stop thinking about sex, at least in connection with her. Every time he remembered that eerie, macabre tale she’d spun, he almost choked with rage. Nadine Vinick had endured unutterable hell before she’d died, and Marlie Keen, if that was her real name, was trying to turn it into a sideshow. He wouldn’t be surprised to get a call from the local media, asking if there was any truth to the rumor that the OPD was working with a psychic to find the
murderer. If Marlie Keen wanted publicity, for whatever sick reason, her next move would be to notify the media herself.

Her gall still astounded him. He totally discounted that psychic shit; the only way she could have known the things she’d known was to have been there. He didn’t know if the murder had been played out exactly as she’d said, but the pertinent details of it had been dead on the money. The only way she would have had the nerve to bring herself to their attention was if she knew there was no evidence to link her to the crime. The murderer had been excruciatingly careful; forensics hadn’t turned up even the tiniest shred of alien material. Therefore, she had done it for the thrill of thumbing her nose at the police department, flaunting the details before them and knowing they couldn’t pin anything on her.

She hadn’t handled the knife herself; he was fairly certain of that. So the actual murderer was someone she knew, someone she was close to. A brother, maybe, or a boyfriend. Someone close enough to share torture and murder. He thought of her in bed with the bastard who had carved up Mrs. Vinick, and his stomach twisted.

She had made a mistake, taunting him with her knowledge. She was the thread that would lead him to the murderer, and he wouldn’t let go until he reached the end.

He stood up and reached for his jacket. “Let’s go,” he said to Trammell.

“Any place in particular?”

“To talk to Ms. Keen’s neighbors. Find out if she has a boyfriend.”

•  •  •

She didn’t. The neighbors on the left, retirees from Ohio, were certain of that. Bill and Lou, as they introduced themselves, described Marlie as quiet, friendly, and always accommodating about collecting their newspaper and mail whenever they visited their daughter back in Massillon, and feeding their cat. Not many neighbors were so friendly.

“Have you noticed anyone coming or going from the house? Does she have many visitors?”

“Not that I’ve seen, though of course, we don’t just sit and watch Marlie’s house,” Lou said with all the indignant righteousness of someone who did just that. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever noticed any visitors over there. Have you, Bill?”

Bill scratched his jaw. “Don’t think so. She’s just about the perfect neighbor, you know. Always speaks when we see her, don’t have her nose in the air like some. Keeps her yard neat, too.”

Dane frowned as he scribbled in the small notebook that every policeman carried. “Not
any
visitors?” he stressed. “Ever?”

Lou and Bill looked at each other and shrugged helplessly, shaking their heads.

“No family? Brothers, sisters?”

More head shaking.

“Girlfriends?” he growled.

“No,” Lou repeated a bit testily, “No one. She even takes care of the yard work herself, instead of hiring a neighborhood boy. I’ve never seen anyone over there except for the mailman.”

Dead end. He was frankly puzzled by it. He glanced at Trammell and saw the small frown that said his partner was just as buffaloed. Men could be loners, but women seldom were. He tried another tack. “Does she go out much?”

“Not often, no. She sees an occasional movie, I think. I can’t believe she’s in any sort of trouble. Why, when Bill broke his leg two years ago, she’d stay with him whenever I had to go out.” Lou glared at him. Dane noticed that she was saving it all for him, rather than including Trammell in her bad graces.

He flipped his notebook shut. “Thanks for your help.” Some help.

The neighbors on the right had basically the same comments,
except the lady of the house had two squalling rug rats hanging on her legs and couldn’t be expected to pay a lot of attention to the comings and goings next door. No, she’d never seen anyone visiting Marlie.

They went back to the car and got in, both sitting in silence and staring at 2411 Hazelwood. It was a neat, solid little bungalow, typical of houses built in the fifties, though it had been spruced up with a cool, sand-colored paint and enlivened with the kind of touches women put on their nests, the trim done in what he thought of as ice cream colors, which only women and gays knew the names for. The front porch was decorated with a couple of ferns and some pinkish flowers, all in pots hanging from hooks. So what had they just found out? That their most likely suspect sounded like some kind of nun?

“That big thud we just heard was us, hitting a blank wall,” Trammell finally said.

Dane scowled, but there was no denying it. He felt frustrated and angry, but underlying it was a certain . . . relief? Damn, what was wrong with him? He was feeling relieved because a murder case was turning into one big headache, and he couldn’t come up with anything on the best lead they’d had?

“She had to have been there,” he said. “She knew too much.”

Trammell shrugged. “There’s another possibility.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe she’s psychic,” he suggested lightly.

“Give me a break.”

“Then you explain it some other way. I can’t. I’ve been thinking about it, and nothing that we’ve been able to find out about her even hints that she’d be involved in something like this. Weird as it sounds, maybe there’s something to it.”

“Yeah. And maybe aliens are going to land on the White House lawn.”

“Face it, buddy. That neighbor lady is the type who peeps out the window every time a pizza delivery car goes down
the street. If Marlie Keen went out, or had anyone over, you can bet it would have been noticed.”

“We still haven’t checked out her friends at work, who she has lunch with.”

“Yeah, well, let me know how it goes. I for one know how to recognize a dead end when I see one.”

S
HE SAW HIM IMMEDIATELY WHEN
she left the bank. He was alone in his car, just sitting there, watching for her. The late afternoon sunshine glinted off the windshield and prevented her from clearly seeing his face, but she knew it was him. Detective Hollister. Though she could really only discern the width of those heavy shoulders and the shape of his head, some primal sense of self-preservation, an alertness to danger, recognized him.

He didn’t get out of the car, didn’t call to her. Just watched her.

Marlie strode to her car, stonily refusing to react to his presence. When she pulled out of the parking lot, he pulled out right behind her.

He stayed there, tight on her rear bumper, as she threaded her way through the normal afternoon traffic. If he thought he could rattle her with this juvenile game, he was in for a surprise; her nerves had been tested in circumstances far more dire than this, and she had survived.

She had errands to run, things she would have done over the weekend if she hadn’t been overwhelmed by that nightmare vision. She didn’t let his presence stop her; if he wanted to see what she did after work, he was in for a real thrill. She stopped at the cleaners, leaving a few soiled garments, picking up the clean ones. Next stop was the library, where she returned two books. Then she went to the neighborhood grocery store. At every stop, he parked as close to her as possible, twice right beside her, and imperturbably waited until she returned. When she came out of the grocery store, he watched as she wheeled the cart, loaded with four bags, to the back of her car. She put her foot on the cart to keep it from rolling while she unlocked the trunk.

He was out of the car and standing beside her almost before the sound of the car door slamming could alert her. Her head jerked up and he was there, as big and grim as a thunderstorm. His eyes were hidden by a pair of very dark sunglasses. Sunglasses had always made her vaguely uneasy. As before, his physical presence was as forceful as a blow. She had to restrain herself from automatically stepping back. “What do you want?” she asked in a cool, flat voice.

He reached out one big hand and effortlessly lifted a grocery bag from the cart into the trunk. “Just helping you with the groceries.”

“I’ve managed all my life without you, Detective, so I can manage now.”

“It’s no problem.” The smile he gave her was both humorless and mocking. He stowed the remaining three bags in the trunk beside the first one. “Don’t bother saying thank you.”

Marlie shrugged. “Okay.” Turning away, she unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. The parking space in front of her was empty, meaning she didn’t have to back out; she pulled out through the space in front, leaving him to park the cart or do whatever he wished with it. She wasn’t in the mood to be gracious. She was tired, depressed, and angry.
Worse than that, she was frightened. Not of Detective Hollister, as unpleasant as he was. Her fears were much deeper than that.

She was afraid of the monster who had butchered Nadine Vinick.

And she was afraid of herself.

By the time she stopped at the second traffic light after leaving the grocery store parking lot, he was right behind her again. The man really had a talent for getting around in traffic.

The sight of her house wasn’t as enticing as it usually was. She was wryly certain that its sanctuary was going to be violated by a big, grim man who seemed to have taken an immediate dislike to her. She was used to skepticism from people, but not actual dislike; his attitude wounded her a little, though she was surprised at herself for feeling that way. Detective Hollister wasn’t anything to her, so it had to be merely that it was human nature to want others to think well of oneself.

Just as she had expected, he pulled into her driveway before she had time to cut the ignition off. He got out of the car and took off the sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket. No matter how uneasy sunglasses made her, she suddenly wished he had left them on, because his hazel green eyes, caught by the last rays of the sinking sun, were hard and frighteningly intense.

“What now?” she asked. “Or did you come all this way to help me carry in my groceries?”

“You said you could manage them without my help,” he pointed out. “I thought we’d have a little talk.”

Someone came out next door. She looked up and saw her neighbor, Lou, standing on the porch and staring curiously at them. Marlie waved and called out a hello. Beside her, Detective Hollister also waved.

“Nice to see you again,” he called.

Marlie sternly controlled her temper. Of course he had already been out questioning her neighbors; she wouldn’t
have expected him to do otherwise. He had made it plain this morning that he was very suspicious of her.

Despite what he had said, when she opened the trunk he plucked all four bags of groceries out, clutching two in each hand. “After you,” he said politely.

She shrugged; if he was willing to carry her groceries, she was willing to let him. She unlocked the front door and held it open for him, then followed him inside and directed him back to the kitchen, where he placed the bags on the table.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Why say thank you now, when you didn’t before?”

She lifted her brows. “You told me not to.” She began putting the groceries away. “What’s on your mind, Detective?”

“Murder.”

The circumstances of Nadine Vinick’s death weren’t something she could be flippant about. Strain tightened her face as she said simply, “Mine, too.” Her eyes were wide and haunted.

He leaned against the cabinet, eyeing her thoughtfully as she moved about the kitchen, bending to stow this item here, stretching to put another on a top shelf. He hadn’t missed the strain in her expression.

He looked around. He liked the kitchen, which was a rather unsettling thought; whatever he had expected the interior of her house to be like, this soothing coziness wasn’t it. His own kitchen was strictly utilitarian; Trammell’s was the latest in high tech, totally intimidating. Marlie Keen’s kitchen was comforting. Rows of herbs in small pots grew in a rack in the window over the sink, giving the air a fresh scent. The tile under his feet was a creamy white, with patterns of soft blues and greens. The open shutters over the windows were painted the same soft blue. A white ceiling fan was positioned over the table.