Scream for Me (13 page)
The mayor held back as everyone exited. “Daniel, do you have any suspects?”
Daniel sighed. The day was catching up to him. “Garth . . .”
Davis leaned closer. “I’m going to have all the residents of Dutton calling me as soon as the
Review
hits their front porches. They’re going to be worried about the safety of their families. Please give me something more to tell them than you’ve got leads.”
“That’s all I can tell you because it’s all we know. We’ve only just identified her in the last two hours. Give us a day, at least.”
Frowning, Davis nodded. “You’ll call my office?”
“I promise.”
Finally everyone was gone and it was just Daniel and Michael and Toby Granville. “I thought they’d never leave,” Michael said, his shoulders sagging wearily.
Granville tugged on his tie. “I’m going to go check on your mother before I head out. You call me if she needs anything during the night.”
Daniel shook both men’s hands. “If there’s anything you or your family needs, Michael, please call me.” He stepped through the Bowies’ front door and was immediately hit by a strong gusty wind. A storm was blowing in, he thought as he looked down the big hill to the street where three additional news vans had now congregated. The reporters swarmed from the vans when they spied him up on the stoop.
Like locusts,
Daniel thought with an inner wince. He could kind of see Frank’s point, in the smallest of ways.
He steeled himself for the onslaught as he made his way down the hill past a Mercedes, two BMWs, a Rolls-Royce, a Jag, and a Lincoln Town Car to where he’d left his own state-issued vehicle. Reporters from the news van had been interviewing Garth, but they swarmed toward him as he passed by.
“Agent Vartanian, can you comment . . .” Daniel lifted his hand, silencing them.
“We’ve identified the Arcadia victim as Janet Bowie.” Lights flashed as they took their pictures and rolled their video and Daniel put on his best press face.
“Has the congressman been notified?”
Daniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, or I wouldn’t be telling you now. No more comments for tonight. I’ll be scheduling a press conference for tomorrow. Call the PR hotline at GBI headquarters for the time and venue. Good night.”
He started walking and one of the reporters followed. “Agent Vartanian, how does it feel investigating a murder in your hometown just a week after your brother’s murder?”
Daniel stopped and blinked at the young man holding the microphone. Simon hadn’t been
murdered
. To use that word was an affront to victims and their families everywhere. Simon had been
exterminated
. But that word was inflammatory in its own right. So Daniel said only, “No comment.” The man opened his mouth to push and Daniel gave him a look so cold the reporter took a physical step back.
“No more questions,” the man said in answer to the threat Daniel had left unvoiced.
It was a look Daniel had learned from his father. Freezing men with a single look was one of Arthur Vartanian’s many skills. Daniel didn’t employ the skill often, but when he did, it was effective. “Good night.”
When he got to his car, Daniel closed his eyes. He’d dealt with grieving families for years, and it never got easier. But it was Frank Loomis’s behavior that bothered him the most. Frank had been the closest thing Daniel had had to a real father. God knew Arthur Vartanian hadn’t filled that role. To be the object of Frank’s . . . scorn. It stung.
However, Frank was human, and learning of Arthur Vartanian’s duplicity in Simon’s “first death” must have been hard to take. It made Frank look foolish, and the press had exacerbated it all, making Frank appear a hokey hometown sheriff who couldn’t tie his shoes without help. It was no wonder Frank was angry.
I’d be angry, too.
He pulled away from the news vans headed toward Main Street. He was exhausted and he still had to find Lamar Washington’s jazz bar before he finally got to sleep.
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 1:40 a.m.
They were leaving, Alex thought, standing at the window of the bungalow, watching all the cars come down the hill. Wondering from whose house they’d come. She pulled her robe closer, fighting a chill that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
She’d dreamed again. Thunder and lightning. And screams, jagged piercing screams. She’d been at the morgue and the woman on the table had sat up and stared through sightless eyes. But her eyes were Bailey’s, her hand Bailey’s as she reached out, her flesh waxy and . . . dead. And she’d said, “Please. Help me.”
Alex had woken in a cold sweat, shaking so hard she was sure she’d wake Hope. But the child slept heavily. Unsettled, Alex had come out to the living room to pace.
And to worry.
Where are you, Bailey? And how do I take care of your baby girl?
“Please, God,” she whispered. “Don’t let me mess this up.”
But there was no return whisper in the dark and Alex stood, watching car after car come down the hill. Then one slowed and stopped in front of her bungalow.
Her stomach tightened in fear and she thought about the gun in the lockbox until she recognized the car and its driver.
Daniel’s car rolled down Main Street, past the park with the carousel, stopping outside Alex’s rented bungalow. He’d lied to her tonight and it was eating him up.
She’d asked him straight out what he knew and he’d told her there was nothing to tell. Which, he averred, was not a total lie. He didn’t have anything to tell her yet. He certainly wouldn’t show her the pictures of her sister being violated. Alex Fallon had been through enough without seeing that.
He thought about Wade Crighton.
I’ll see you in hell.
Her stepbrother had known Simon, and that could never be good. Wade had tried to rape Alex and for that alone Daniel was glad he was dead. Alex thought she’d kept her story light, but Daniel had seen the truth in her eyes.
And if her stepbrother had tried to molest her once thinking she was Alicia, maybe he’d done so again. Maybe it was Wade in the picture with Alicia Tremaine. The man had two legs, so Daniel was positive it was not Simon, but if they’d known each other . . .
And who were the other girls? It had been nagging him. Maybe they were local girls. Maybe they’d gone to the public school. Daniel wouldn’t have known them, but Simon might have. Daniel wondered if there were any other small-town murders he just hadn’t heard about yet. He wondered if the other girls in the pictures were dead, too.
Give the pictures to Chase
. The thought had been circling his mind for a week. He
had
turned the pictures over to the Philly police, which was the only thing that was letting him get any sleep at all. But Daniel was sure Vito Ciccotelli hadn’t had time to do anything with the envelope full of pictures he’d given him less than two weeks ago. Vito and his partner were still up to their asses cleaning up the mess Simon had left behind.
I’ll see you in hell, Simon
. Daniel wondered what messes Wade and Simon had left behind, although any crimes they’d committed would be more than ten years old. He had a brand-new crime. He owed his concentration to Janet Bowie. He needed to find out who hated her enough to kill her in such a way.
Then again, Janet Bowie might have simply been a convenient target and not the object of any rage or revenge. Or . . . Daniel thought of Congressman Bowie. The man had taken some tough stances on controversial issues. Maybe somebody hated
him
enough to kill his daughter. But why the tie to Alicia? Why now? And why leave a key?
He’d put his car in gear when the bungalow door opened and Alex stepped onto the porch and his breath caught in his throat. She wore a sensible robe that covered her from her chin to her toes. It should have made her look dowdy and plain, but all he could think about was what lay underneath. The wind had kicked up, tossing her glossy hair, and she scooped it back with one hand to stare at him across the tiny front yard.
There was no smile on her face. The thought registered as he killed his engine and crossed her yard, single-minded in his intent. To leave her, to drive on by, never entered his mind, only to have now what he’d wanted earlier, what the call from the Fun-N-Sun security chief had kept him from taking. He needed to see that wide-eyed wonder again, the look in her eyes when she’d finally understood what he wanted from her. He needed to see that she wanted him, too.
Without slowing for a greeting, he took the porch stairs in one step, took her face in his hands, covered her mouth with his, and took what he needed. She made a hungry sound deep in her throat and leaned up on her toes, trying to get closer, and the kiss exploded into motion and heat.
She let go of her hair and her robe to clutch at the lapels of his coat, propelling her mouth into his. Daniel let go of her face to pull her arms around his neck. He splayed his hands across her slender back and pulled until her body was flush against him and he took what he wanted as the wind whistled and screamed around them.
It had been too long, was all he could think, all he could hear over the wind and the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Too long since he’d felt like this. Alive. Invincible. Too damn long. Or maybe never.
Too soon she slid back down until her heels hit the porch, ending the kiss and taking her warmth with her. Needing more, he ran his lips over her jaw and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. He shuddered, breathing hard as her hands stroked his hair, soothing. And as his pulse slowed, his mind returned and his cheeks heated in embarrassment at the depth of his need. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, lifting his head. “I don’t normally do things like that.”
She traced his lips with her fingers. “Neither do I. But I needed it tonight. Thank you.”
Annoyance bubbled up through him. “Stop thanking me.” It was almost a snarl and she flinched as if he’d struck her. Feeling about an inch tall, he bowed his head and caught her hand, bringing her fingers back to his lips when she tried to pull away. “I’m sorry. But I don’t want you thinking I’m doing this for any other reason than that I wanted to.”
Needed
to
.
“I wanted to,” he repeated. “I wanted
you
. I still do.”
She drew a breath and he could see her pulse throbbing at the hollow of her throat. The wind was whipping her hair and once again she scooped it back out of her face. “I see.” Her lips curved to lighten her words, but her eyes were stark. Haunted, even.
“What happened?” he demanded.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
Daniel clenched his jaw. “Alex.”
She looked away. “Nothing. I just had a bad dream, that’s all.” She looked back and met his eyes. “I had a bad dream, so I got up. And there you were.”
He pressed his lips to her palm. “I stopped here because I was thinking about you. And there you were. And I couldn’t stop myself.”
She shivered and he glanced down as she shifted, covering one totally bare foot with the other. He frowned. “Alex, you’re not wearing any shoes.”
Her lips curved, sincerely this time. “I wasn’t expecting to stand out on my porch kissing you.” She leaned up and into his mouth, kissing him a good deal more softly than he’d kissed her. “But I liked it.”
And it was suddenly as simple as that. He smiled down at her. “Go back into your house and lock your door and cover your feet. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Six-thirty.”
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 1:55 a.m.
A
lex closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed. Heart still racing. She brought her hands to her face, smelling his scent that lingered on her palms. She’d almost forgotten how good a man could smell. With a sigh she opened her eyes, then pressed her hands to her mouth to muffle a shriek.
Meredith sat at the table choosing a hat for Mr. Potato Head. She grinned as she plugged the hat in the hole meant for the feet because lips already protruded from the top of the head. “I thought I was gonna have to bring you your shoes.”
Alex ran her tongue over her teeth. “You were sitting there the whole time?”
“Mostly.” Her grin widened. “I heard the car stop outside, then heard you open the door. I was afraid you’d decided to test your new . . . thing.” She lifted a brow.
“Hope’s asleep. You can call it a gun.”
“Oh,” Meredith said, blinking innocently. “That, too.”
Alex laughed. “You’re so bad.”
“I know.” She waggled her brows. “So was he? Bad, I mean. It sounded bad.”
Alex shot her a guarded look. “He’s very nice.”
“Nice is not nice. Bad is nice. She’ll tell me all,” she said to the potato-head, which looked more like a Picasso-head with every feature out of place. “I have my ways.”
“You scare me sometimes, Mer. Why are you playing with this? Hope’s asleep.”
“Because I like to play with toys. You should try it, Alex. It might relax you a little.”
Alex sat down at the table. “I am relaxed.”
“She lies. She’s wound tighter than a corkscrew,” Meredith said to the potato-head. Then her eyes grew sober. “What are you dreaming, Alex? Still the screams?”
“Yes.” Alex took the toy, aimlessly twirling an ear. “And the body I saw today.”
“I should have gone instead.”
“No, I needed to see for myself that it wasn’t Bailey. But in my dream it is. She sits up and says, ‘Please. Help me.’ ”
“Your subconscious is a powerful force. You want her to be alive, and so do I, but you have to come to terms with what happens if she’s not, or if you never find her at all. Or maybe worse, if you find her and can’t fix her.”
Alex gritted her teeth. “You make me sound like some Dr. Roboto control freak.”
“You are, honey,” Meredith said gently. “Just look.”
Alex looked at the toy in her hands. Meredith’s Picasso-head was no more, every feature now properly placed in the right slot. “This is just a toy,” she said, annoyed.
“No, it’s not,” Meredith said sadly, “but you keep on thinking that if you need to.”
“All right. I like control. I like to have everything neatly labeled. That’s not bad.”
“Nope. And sometimes you get a wild hair and buy a
thing.”
“Or kiss a man I just met?”
“That, too, so you aren’t without hope.” Meredith winced a little. “No pun intended.”
“Of course not. But I think that’s exactly why Bailey gave her that name.”
“I agree. These toys are important, Alex. Don’t discount them. Play takes our minds to a place where our guard comes down. Remember that when you play with Hope.”
“Daniel’s bringing his dog over tomorrow to see if Hope likes animals.”
“That’s nice of him.”
Alex raised a brow. “I thought nice wasn’t nice.”
“Only when it comes to sex, kid. I’m going back to sleep. You should try, too.”
Tuesday, January 30, 4:00 a.m.
Someone was crying. Bailey listened hard. It wasn’t the man in the next cell. She wasn’t sure he was even conscious anymore. No, the weeping came from farther away. She looked up at the ceiling, expecting to see speakers. She saw none, but it didn’t mean they weren’t there.
He
might try to brainwash her.
Because she hadn’t told him what he wanted to know. Not yet.
Not ever
.
She closed her eyes.
Or maybe I’m just losing my mind
. The weeping abruptly stopped and she looked up at the ceiling again. And made herself think of Hope.
You’re not losing your mind, Bailey. You can’t. Hope needs you
.
It had been the mantra she’d chanted when Hope was a baby, when Bailey had wanted a fix so bad she thought she’d die.
Hope needs you
. It had gotten her through and would continue to do so.
If he doesn’t kill me first.
Which was a definite possibility.
Then in the next cell she heard a noise. She held her breath and listened as the sound became a scraping. Someone was scraping at the wall between the two cells.
She pulled herself to her hands and knees, grimacing when the room spun around her. She crawled toward the wall, a few inches at a time, then breathed. And waited.
The scraping stilled, but a tapping took its place, the same rhythm again and again. Code? Dammit. She didn’t know any codes. She hadn’t been a Girl Scout.
It could be a trap. It could be
him
, trying to trick her.
Or it could be another human. Tentatively she reached into the dark and tapped back. The tapping on the other side stopped and the scraping began again. She’d been wrong. The scraping wasn’t on the wall, it was on the floor. Wincing at the pain in her fingertips, Bailey pushed at the old concrete floor and felt it crumble.
She drew a sharp breath, then let it out, dizzy in her disappointment. It didn’t matter. Whoever was scraping was digging a tunnel to another cell. A tunnel to nowhere.
The scraping stilled once again and Bailey heard footsteps in the hall.
He was coming
. God help her, she prayed he was coming for the other guy, the scraper.
Not me. Please not me.
But God didn’t listen and the door to her cell swung open.
She squinted at the light, weakly raising one hand in front of her face.
He laughed. “It’s playtime, Bailey.”
Tuesday, January 30, 4:00 a.m.
He was a fortunate man to live in a county with so many drainage ditches. He leaned to one side and let the blanket-wrapped body fall to the ground. She’d died so beautifully, begging his mercy as he’d done his worst. She’d been so prissy and full of contempt when she’d held the power. Now the power was his. She’d paid for her sins.
So would the four
pillars of the community
who remained. He’d gotten the attention of his first two targets with the first note, with his tracing of the key that would exactly match their own. He’d get some of their money with the second, due to be delivered to the same two some time later today. It was time to begin to divide and conquer. He’d take down the first two, and by the time he was finished they’d be ruined, every last one of them.
And I?
He smiled.
I get to watch it all crumble and fall
.
He pulled the blanket away from her foot and gave a final nod. The key was there. In the
Review
’s picture of Janet, she hadn’t been wearing her key, so the first one must have gotten lost somewhere. Disappointing, but he’d made sure this one was tied on extra tight. The threat would be delivered.
Take that, Vartanian.
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 5:30 a.m.
A loud creak woke her and Alex snapped her head up, listening. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa after Meredith had gone to bed. She heard the creak again and knew she hadn’t dreamed it. Something or someone was on her front porch. Thinking of the gun in the lockbox, she quietly grabbed the cell phone she’d left on the end table instead.
Hell of a lot of good a locked-up gun did her now, but at least she could call 911. Although that wouldn’t do a hell of a lot of good either, if Sheriff Loomis’s response to Bailey’s disappearance was his norm. She slipped into her kitchen and chose the biggest butcher knife in the drawer, then crept to the window and peeked out.
Then let out the breath she’d been holding. It was just the paperboy, who looked like he was closer to college-aged. He was filling out a form on a clipboard, the small flashlight clenched between his teeth giving his face an unearthly glow. Just then he looked up and saw her. Startled, he let the flashlight fall from his teeth to the porch with a clatter. Eyes wide, he stared, and Alex realized he could see the knife in her hand.
Lowering the knife, she cranked the window open a crack. “You scared me.”
His swallow was audible in the predawn stillness. “You scared me worse, ma’am.”
Her lips quirked and tentatively he smiled back. “I didn’t order the paper,” she said.
“I know, but Miz Delia said she’d rented the bungalow. The
Review
gives a free week to folks new to the neighborhood.”
She lifted her brows. “You get many new people to the neighborhood?”
He grinned shyly. “No, ma’am.” He handed her the paper and the form he’d been filling out. She had to crank the window a little wider to take it from him.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Don’t forget your flashlight.”
He picked up the light. “Welcome to Dutton, Miss Fallon. Have a nice day.”
She cranked the window closed as he got back into his van and drove to the next house on his route. Her pulse nearing normal, she opened the paper to the front page.
And her pulse started to race again. “Janet Bowie,” she murmured. Alex had only a vague recollection of Congressman Bowie, but his wife she remembered clearly. Rose Bowie and her negative, very public assessment of Alex’s mama’s character had been the reason they’d stopped going to church on Sundays. Most of the women in Dutton had shunned Kathy Tremaine after she’d moved in with Craig Crighton.
Alex rubbed at the sudden pain in her temples and put Craig from her mind. The memory of her mother wasn’t so easily dismissed. There were the good years, when her father had been alive and her mother had been happy. Then the hard years, when it had just been the three of them,
Mama, Alicia, and me
. Money was tight and her mama had worried all the time, but there had still been some happiness in her eyes. But after they’d moved in with Craig, her happiness had been extinguished.
The last memories she had of her mother weren’t good ones. Her mother had lived with Craig to give them a place to live and food to eat. And women like Rose Bowie had shunned her for it and made her cry. That was hard to forgive. For years Alex had hated all the whispering biddies. Now, as she stared down at the headline, she had to wonder who’d hated Janet Bowie enough to kill her that way.
And why her killer had resurrected Alicia’s ghost after all these years.
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 5:35 a.m.
Mack got back into his van and rolled up to the next house. Old Violet Drummond came tottering out of her house to get her paper as she did every day. The first time she’d done it, he’d nearly freaked, but she hadn’t recognized him. He’d changed in the years since he’d left Dutton, in many ways. Old Violet was not a threat, but a great source of information, which she readily provided. And she was friends with Wanda in the sheriff’s office, so her information was usually pretty good.
He handed her her paper through his window. “Mornin’, Miz Drummond.”
She nodded briskly. “Mornin’, Jack.”
Mack looked over his shoulder at the bungalow. “Got yourself a new neighbor.”
Violet’s old eyes narrowed. “That Tremaine girl is back.”
“I don’t know her,” he lied.
“Girl’s no good. She shows up in town and this starts happenin’ all over again.” Violet thumped the front page on which Jim Woolf had described Janet Bowie’s demise in great detail. “Doesn’t even have the decency to behave properly.”
His brows lifted. “What’s she done?” His surveillance told him that Alex Fallon was single-mindedly determined to find her stepsister, but she’d done nothing improper.
“Kissin’ that Daniel Vartanian. Right on the front porch, for all the world to see!”
“That’s disgraceful.”
That’s fascinating
. “Some people have no class.”
Violet huffed. “No, they don’t. Well, I won’t keep you, Jack.”
Mack smiled. “Always a pleasure, Miz Drummond. See you tomorrow.”
Atlanta, Tuesday, January 30, 8:00 a.m.
Daniel joined Chase and Ed at the team table, fighting a yawn. “Our ID’s confirmed. Felicity said Janet’s dental records match. It’s amazing how fast things get done for a congressman,” he added dryly. “The dentist met me here with the x-rays at five a.m.”
“Good work,” Chase said. “What about the boyfriend? The jazz singer?”
“Lamar has an alibi, confirmed by ten witnesses and the jazz club’s security tapes.”
“He was performing when Janet was killed?” Ed asked.
“In front of a full house. The boyfriend’s really torn up. He sat and sobbed when I told him she was dead. Said he’d heard about the murder but had no idea it was Janet.”
Ed frowned. “What did he think when she didn’t show up for their weekend date?”
“He got a voicemail from her. He said she told him her father had some state function and he expected her to be there. Call came in Thursday at eight p.m.”
“So she was still alive at eight p.m. and probably dead around midnight,” Chase said. “She spent the day at Fun-N-Sun and left when?”
