Nowhere Safe (24 page)

If she could have, Lucky would have shooed the teacher and girl out of the parking lot as fast as she could so she could concentrate on Ugh. As it was, they seemed to take an inordinate amount of time getting into the Fiesta and driving away as Lucky waited by the side of the building, jogging in place, pretending to be looking for someone. Of course, what jogger would carry her purse with her, but she hadn’t dared put it back in the car.

Finally, the Fiesta drove out of the lot and when Lucky was completely sure they were gone, she stopped jogging in place and walked back toward her car. Ugh and Molly’s mother were still getting pretty chummy, so Lucky had more than enough time to get back to her Nissan without him noticing her.

She could catch snatches of their conversation, and she heard him apologizing for the station wagon. The woman waved it away as if it didn’t matter at all. She was well and truly hooked.

When he finally climbed into his car, Lucky had already switched on her ignition.

She watched him turn a corner, then put her car in gear and slowly followed after him. She half expected him to meet up with the woman; it looked like they’d made plans, but it didn’t take long for her to realize he was heading home.

When he took the turn into the streets of his neighborhood she drove on by. Clearly, whatever plans he’d made with the woman, if any were made at all, were on hold. He was heading back to his roommate and the house on the outskirts of Laurelton.

Ulysses Graham Harding.

“ Ugh . . .”

The interview with channel seven’s Pauline Kirby was shot in front of the police station, at the bottom of the three wide steps that led to the front door. It was September’s second one-on-one with Kirby. The first interview had been several months earlier, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Then, September had been new to the department and nervous and blindsided by some of Pauline’s tactics. Now, she was so distracted she didn’t really give a damn.

Pauline was thin to the point of gaunt, dark haired and laser eyed. She gave September the old evil eye and it made her review her own appearance. She’d combed her hair, added blush and lipstick to make herself appear less haggard, and now she was waiting for the reporter’s cameraman to set up, her gaze off in the middle distance, her mind with Jake even while Pauline assessed her from head to toe. September had called again to learn, once more, that there was no change. She’d demanded to talk to the doctor, wanting to know if this was a bad sign. How long could he be unconscious before his prognosis was downgraded? Right now everyone was cautiously optimistic. Cautiously optimistic. Bullshit. She didn’t want to know what the euphemistic terminology would be if things went south.

“We’re almost ready,” Kirby assured her.

September nodded vaguely. Lieutenant D’Annibal had asked her to be the face of the department and that’s what had led to the first interview. September hadn’t wanted it then, and she didn’t want it now, but what the hell. At least she didn’t care as much this time, even if the reason was because she simply didn’t have the time to waste energy on the likes of Pauline Kirby.

“Okay . . . Darrell’s got us in frame,” she said as she moved up to September, microphone in hand. “I’m going to start asking questions.”

“Have you already done your introduction?” September asked. This was a sore point as last time Pauline had interviewed her, she’d done a separate piece with the two hikers who had stumbled across a dead body. She’d never told September about that interview and when the news had aired, with the hikers’ interview placed directly in front of the one with September, the effect somehow made September, and the whole department, seem lost and inept. It had pissed September off but good.

“This time it’s just you and me, Detective.”

“Okay.” September’s tone suggested how little she trusted the reporter.

Apart from a tightening of lips, Pauline let it go. Darrell motioned for Pauline to go ahead, and the reporter immediately put a look of concern on her face and said, “I’m here with Detective September Rafferty of the Laurelton Police Department, who’s been investigating two murders that may very well be connected. Detective”—she turned to September—“just last week a man named Stefan Harmak was first stripped down and tied to a pole in the yard of the elementary school where he was employed as a teaching assistant. There was a sign hung around his neck written in his own hand that said
I WANT WHAT I CAN’T HAVE.
Now that man is dead, gunned down in his home, which is just a stone’s throw from the school where he was employed. It seems like the killer didn’t finish what he started. What can you tell us about it?”

“That may very well be the killer’s motive. We’re working on several theories.” Dazzle them with noninformation unless there’s something you want to get across. With that in mind, she added, “We have reason to believe the victim may have been targeted by a woman.”

Pauline blinked, surprised. “A woman. Really. Is that—do you have new information?”

“Mr. Harmak indicated to us that a woman was involved.”

“Mr. Stefan Harmak—the man who was shot by an intruder?”

“That’s correct.”

“A man who just happened to be your stepbrother, isn’t that right?” she added in a calculated tone.

“Yes, that’s right. He was my stepbrother before my father remarried.” September met the reporter’s gaze coolly.
Bring it on, Pauline.

If Kirby was surprised by September’s quiet challenge, she took it in stride. “Is there any connection to your department?” Pauline asked. “Some kind of grievance against the police that may have instigated this attack?”

“The similarities between this case and the one last February would make that unlikely.”

“You’re talking about Christopher Ballonni, who was also stripped down and tied to a pole in front of his place of work, a local office of the US Postal Service. Are you saying the two crimes are definitely connected, Detective?”

“The MO would suggest that.”

“Not a copycat?”

“There are pieces of information we purposely withheld that we believe only the same person would know. Our working theory is it’s one killer.”

“And a woman.”

“Yes.”

“Who went to Mr. Harmak’s house and finished what she’d failed to accomplish at the school, namely his death?”

“The crime scene is still being evaluated.” September slid away from a true answer.

“It’s surprising that the killer is a woman,” Pauline said in a voice that implied September was giving her a load of bull. “How is she attacking these men, and why?”

“As soon as we have some answers, we’ll let the public know.”

“Do we have some deranged serial killer in our midst once again? Should we be locking our doors against this woman?”

She was digging away. Trying to worm any information from September that she could. But there wasn’t much more to say. The vigilante, whoever she was, seemed to be targeting suspected pedophiles; at least that was the prevailing theory. But unfortunately September was running more on feeling than fact, and how this woman targeted her victims was still a mystery. And she wasn’t planning to say anything about any of it to Pauline Kirby.

When Pauline shut down the interview, she had a look of disgust on her face. “If you’d told me about this ‘woman’ ahead of time, I could have fashioned a better set of questions.”

“Let’s call it a draw. You wanted to blindside me about my relationship to Stefan Harmak.”

Kirby’s brows lifted. “The young detective has teeth.”

“I’m going back to work.”

“Keeping us all safe, eh?”

September didn’t bother answering as she turned away from Pauline Kirby and her cameraman and climbed the front steps of the station. Guy Urlacher looked up as she entered and she lifted her index finger to stop him from speaking. “Not today.”

“I saw you with that reporter,” he said by way of explaining why he buzzed her in without demanding to see her ID.

“How’d you do?” Wes asked when she entered. He was drinking tea and eating some saltine crackers. Lunch had been chicken soup that Kayleen had sent with him and September had wished she felt any appetite. Between her worry over Jake and her own uncertain stomach, she could scarcely look at food. However, when Wes held up a saltine, she decided she needed something so she accepted five or six of them and managed to munch them all down. A good sign.

“At least the interview’s over,” she told him. “It’ll be on the evening news.”

“I’ve got the Kraxbergers’ new address for you,” he told her. “The daughter’s at school and the husband’s at work at a car dealership, but the mom’s home.”

“Great. Let’s go talk to her,” September said, glad that Wes had waited for her.

Maharis looked up from notes he was writing on Gretchen’s desk. “Thought the lieutenant said you should go with me to interview the bartender.”

“What time does he start work?” September asked, checking the clock. It was nearly five.

“Six.”

It was after day-shift hours and Maharis’s face said as much, but that was just too damn bad in September’s opinion. “I’ll meet you at Gulliver’s later. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”

“Okay,” he said glumly.

“If you’ve got something to do, I’ll go with Nine,” Wes said.

“Nope, nope. I’m ready.”

Wes grinned and as he and September headed for his Range Rover, he said, “Newbies. Always want it both ways.”

“Technically, I’m still a newbie.”

“Nah. You got stabbed and damn near ran the department the last few days. You’re one of us now.”

“Thanks.” As ever, September’s thoughts turned to Jake again.
Wake up,
she told him silently.
Be all right.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the Kraxbergers’ home, a two-story split entry on a winding road at the edge of Portland in the West Hills. Wes had called Mrs. Kraxberger, who was clearly waiting for them as the front door opened before Wes had even set the brake.

September and Wes walked up to the front door together. Mrs. Kraxberger was a woman in her forties who wore her light brown hair in a short, stylish cut and had a sharp line between her brows. As soon as September drew near, the woman sized her up in that way some women did automatically, as if every other female was a potential rival. “Detectives,” she said flatly. Her gaze slid from September to Wes, taking in his lanky, slow-moving way.

“Hello, Mrs. Kraxberger,” Wes said. “I’m Detective Pelligree and this is my partner, Detective Rafferty.”

“Come inside,” she said. “You said this was concerning the postman who killed himself, but I don’t see how that has anything to do with us.”

Wes took the lead after she led them up a half flight of stairs to the living room, which was divided into two sitting areas. She invited them to sit down and perched on one of the ottomans. September sat on the edge of the couch and Wes took a chair.

“Before you moved, you lived on Christopher Ballonni’s mail route,” Wes began.

“I didn’t know him though,” she denied immediately. “Who knows their mailman?”

“One of your neighbors, Mrs. Bernstein, made a formal complaint against Mr. Ballonni. She claimed that Ballonni gave her daughter a stick of gum and was too familiar with her.”

“I don’t know this Mrs. Bernstein,” Mrs. Kraxberger said stiffly, her hands clasped together tightly.

Wes paused, sizing her up. She clearly didn’t want to talk, so September tried with, “Do you know Mr. Ballonni’s son, Christopher Jr.?”

“No.”

“He was a classmate of your daughter, Shannon,” September pressed.

At the mention of her daughter’s name, it was like Mrs. Kraxberger had been jabbed with a pin. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“Would it be all right if we spoke to Shannon?” Wes asked.

“No.” She was firm.

“Christopher Jr. suggested I speak to her,” September said.

Her head swiveled around and she stared at September as if she’d started speaking in tongues. “That can’t be true. You’re making that up!”

“I wouldn’t make it up,” September assured her as color washed up Mrs. Kraxberger’s face, then leached right out again.

“What are you trying to say? That the mailman was too personal with my daughter, too? Well, he was. Always giving out sticks of gum. Trying too hard to be friendly. Do I think he had a problem? Yes. Am I sorry he’s dead? No. But it has nothing to do with Shannon and I don’t want you saying anything ugly to my daughter to give her any ideas that it does.” She jumped to her feet and stalked to the top of the stairs, waiting for them.

Wes and September rose to their feet. “We’re investigating another homicide that may be connected to Mr. Ballonni’s,” September said in an effort to bring down the tension.

“I don’t care what you do, as long as it doesn’t concern my daughter.”

Wes pressed a card into her hand on the way out and said, “If you think of anything.”

“I won’t. Thank you.” She practically slammed the door on them on the way out and when they were back in Wes’s Range Rover they looked at each other and Wes said, “Well.”

September nodded. “There’s something there, but she can’t face it. I mean, I get it. We’re talking about her daughter and she’s only twelve or thirteen now, so how old was she when Ballonni got too friendly?”

“The guy was a pedophile,” Wes said, his expression grim. “That I believe.”

“And that’s why he was killed. I’m with you. But how do we prove that? How do we find the woman who’s doing this?”

He reached for the file that he’d stuffed between the front seats. “Who else lives on that route?”

“I’ve got the names of the two women Rhoda Bernstein said defended Ballonni. Maybe we should talk to them.”

“Which ones are they?” he asked, looking at the list, and September pointed them out. “I wish I could talk to Shannon herself, or even Chris Jr. again. I want to know what that generation thinks about Ballonni.”

“We could drop in on the Ballonnis after school,” Wes suggested.

“I need to stop by Laurelton General and see Jake.”

“You want me to do it?”

September pictured Wes Pelligree walking up to Janet Ballonni’s door and changed her mind. “She doesn’t like me, but it would still be better if I interviewed her.”

“She’s gonna object to a black dude showing up.”

“She’s gonna object to the law showing up again. Especially since we want to talk to Chris. I’ll go see Jake later.”

When they arrived at the Ballonni house a boy and a girl in their early teens were standing at the end of the driveway.
Chris Jr. and maybe his girlfriend,
September thought, wondering if she could really get that lucky.

As she and Wes stepped out of the Range Rover, she called, “Chris. Hi. I’m Detective Rafferty and this is Detective Pelligree.”

The boy stepped away from the girl as if she’d burned him and September saw a section of blinds, which had been opened for a peek, snap back into place.

“Janet’s seen us,” she warned Wes.

The words were barely out of her mouth when Janet Ballonni came flying out the door and swooped in on her son like a bird of prey. Chris’s eyes cast a silent good-bye to the girl, who turned a shoulder to them and began walking away.