The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) (12 page)

It looked like he was being honest, because his eyes didn’t flicker to the corner and his pupils didn’t dilate.
Unless he rehearsed a lie…

I wanted to believe him.

“You can do this,” I said firmly. “You
can.
”

When he left, I noticed that I stepped back to open the door and kept my core tight, avoiding the chance of even superficial contact.

• • •

After Max left, I saw the message light blinking on my phone. I tapped a few notes into his case file in the computer. If I don’t do my notes right after the appointment, it’s too easy to let it slide. The sentences about his treatment plan looked so paltry, so clinical.

Katie lived,
I reminded myself.
Remember how helpless you felt sometimes with her. And she made it.

I saved the file, closed it, and checked my voicemail.

“Anna,” Jeff’s voice said soberly, “I need to talk to you when you’re done. Please come see me.”

Crap.
My stomach hollowed, and my pulse resumed its pre-Max speed. I opened my desk drawer for my emergency chocolate stash and selected a morsel of chocolate over salted caramel. I wolfed down a bite and sighed as a soothing sensation washed over me. Chocolate makes the serotonin goosh out over the brain, washing me in a sense of lovey well-being. I broke off one more chunk to make it even, so the bar wouldn’t ooze caramel goo all over my desk drawer. Then I wrapped the bar in its foil and ate the chunk. Marvelous. Dark husky chocolate, sharp salt, silky caramel. I imagined it filling the hollow pit in my stomach, bracing me for what would come next. Did he know about Max? Did he know about the show? Had the police called?

I took a swig of water, and then another. I checked my compact mirror for chocolate smudges. After a few deep breaths, I got up and headed down the hall to Jeff’s door.

Best get it over with.

I knocked, and he called me in. I sat down. He didn’t look angry. Worse.
God.
Sympathetic.

“What’s up?” I asked, feigning ignorant cheer.

“Anna,” he said, folding his hands. “I’m afraid I have bad news. The police called.”

I wanted to blurt it all out: the show, why Max needed me, why I didn’t tell him. But I held steady. The chocolate caramel swirled in my stomach, and I swallowed hard. “What happened?”

“Katie Jacobs died last night,” he said. He picked up a white card and looked at it. “A Detective Brack is in the waiting room. She wants to talk to you.”

E
thics say that if you are convinced of imminent harm to a specific party, then you break confidentiality. The law says not to obstruct a police investigation. My gut said I was completely fucked.

Detective Brack’s eyes agreed.

“You were at home,” she said again. “By yourself.”

I huddled further back into my sweater.
How bad is it that I could think, “I should bring a sweater because the police station is chilly?”
The cold cinderblock walls were painted a shade of yellow that would have looked cheery without the fluorescent lighting. “Yes.”

“You didn’t receive any phone calls.”

“No.”

“No one can confirm your whereabouts?”

A broiled chicken breast, broccoli tossed with olive oil, two glasses of Pinot Noir, and my murder board bore witness to my evening. “I don’t think so, no.”

“You don’t think so.”

“Detective,” I said, “I’m sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

She waited, piercing me with her intense gaze. Silence will make someone talk. It works.

“Am I a suspect?” I asked her directly. “I thought the profile was of a man in his 30’s or 40’s.”

“What do you know about the profile?” she asked.

“Facts help to soothe the feelings of fear and uncertainty,” I sighed. “So I’m no expert, but I’ve done a little research. I thought that the most likely suspect for this type of murder would be a man in his 30’s or 40’s.”

“I’m trying to establish your connection to the two most recent victims, ma’am.”

“I want to help you,” I said around the knot in my throat.
I’m not crying. Why am I not crying? Is this shock?
“Katie was so vibrant the last time I saw her – so happy.” Confidentiality was already broken; they found my number in her cell phone and appointments with me in her day planner. They didn’t have a warrant for my office – yet – but Jeff and I decided to surrender the case notes. I didn’t mention my personal notes.

“Did she mention dating anyone?”

“No.”

“Meeting anyone new?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea who might want to hurt her?”

“I don’t,” I said. ““Her ex was a brute. His first name was Glen. He beat her. She came to me after the breakup – after the last time. But he’s not that organized or bright.”

“How do you know that?”

I steadied myself. “You’re right. I don’t. I know what Katie told me in session, and based on that, I’d be surprised if it was him.”

“So you’re a profiler now?”

I took a deep breath to suppress a caustic response. “No. But I do know what I saw at the theater. That killer was graceful and clean. No struggle. Not one wasted move. Glen was an ox. He’d smash end tables, give her a black eye, grab her arms until they bruised and shake her. It doesn’t make sense.”

“We’ll decide what makes sense,” Brack said. “For now, just tell me everything.”

I wracked my brains, thinking of Katie the last time I saw her, the gold glinting in her hair. “That
is
everything,” I said. “I want this guy behind bars as much as you do. What else can I do?”

“Nothing for now,” she said. “But I wouldn’t make travel plans.”

I sighed. “Trust me. Fun isn’t on deck any time soon.”

She flattened her lips, but before she could respond, her cell phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.

She left the room, and I started picking at my cuticles. Ethically, not mentioning Max was the right thing to do. I shouldn’t break confidentiality unless I was certain. What if he really needed help and never sought it again? What if I was wrong?

But what if Max saw her in the waiting room and followed her, found out where she lived? What if the necrophiliac angle is just a ruse so he can talk to me about his exploits without making me suspicious, double-binding me with ethics and what he saw at the show? Oh, that sort of insidious control is a sociopath’s wet dream—

I tugged too hard at the flesh near left index fingernail. It bled, and I pressed it to my lips. Then I folded my hands in my lap, resolved to wait. And waited. And waited.

The clock said fifteen minutes had passed. I pulled my necklace out from under my sweater and ran the pendant back and forth along the chain, thinking of Kevin’s bright smile and high cheekbones. Thoughts of him were thin and muffled, though, as if the electric thrill of that gentle kiss belonged to someone else.

“All right,” Detective Brack said, walking back in. I jumped, letting the sapphire pendant drop against my sweater. “We’ll prepare a statement for you to sign, and then an officer will get you home.”

“Okay,” I said.

“That’s a nice necklace,” Detective Brack said.

“Thank you,” I said, putting my fingertips to it again.

“Where did you get it?” she asked.

“It was a gift,” I said. “From a guy I just started seeing.”

She took a few steps closer. Uncomfortably close. And frowned. “I’m going to need you to take that necklace off, ma’am.”

“Wh-what?” My thoughts whirred like a broken computer, failing to latch on to anything.

“Take the necklace off, ma’am,” she said.

I did, then held it out to her. “Why?” I asked.

She lifted the chain off my fingertips with a pen and set it on the table. “That necklace belonged to one of the victims, ma’am,” Detective Brack said.

“Are you fucking
kidding
me?” I blurted.

She didn’t answer. She asked more questions. A lot more questions. Another evidence technician came in and put the necklace in a little manila envelope without looking at me. After getting Kevin’s contact information and probing me for every imaginable detail of our interactions, Detective Brack had me fingerprinted.

It was well after dark when another officer drove me back to my office.
I am never dating anyone again
, I thought, huddled in the back of the squad car.
Never.

I
was in a sticky situation when I made myself call about Kevin.

Instead of going out with Kevin that night, I spent the evening at home with Caprice and more wine than one could argue strictly medicinal. I pored over the photos on my murder board, and once I had satisfied myself that I hadn’t missed the same damn faux sapphire necklace on my own wall, I searched the internet for more photos. It didn’t take long to find the photo of Darcy in one of the news articles. The photo was not high resolution, but the blue dot at her throat was a familiar shape.

That’s when it struck me that I’d been not only wearing a dead woman’s necklace, but a necklace that a killer
wanted
me to wear. A strangler who fancied himself a Romeo wanted to see the glint of his gift around my neck.

I picked up a dry erase marker and wrote “Romeo?” on the murder board. And then “K?” My knees buckled, and after I stopped shuddering, more wine seemed like a good idea.

Then I watched old movies and worked my way through the better part of a box of chocolate with a bottle of Malbec as if the glorious flavors could insulate me against the ugliness that pressed tighter and tighter around me. I cried for Katie, then for my disappointment about Kevin, then because it was a Friday with no show so I still had no quiet in my head, and then cried harder because I was just so damn tired. I woke up on my sofa that morning with a headache, a wine stain on my nightie, and Caprice purring against my roiling stomach.

So I spent the day making things.

Costuming comforts me like cooking does. It has a beginning point and an end point. It’s concrete, and there are simple rules. You can follow patterns or recipes, or you can improvise. When you’re done, you have a finished product that is either beautiful or delicious or both. If you mess up, it might hurt your ego, but it won’t hurt another person’s psyche. And usually, no one goes to jail or dies.

After some ginger tea to soothe my stomach, I made an optimistically healthy brunch of strawberries, turkey sausage, and scrambled egg whites with spinach and chervil, and then got to work.

Pip and I were choreographing a
Mythbusters
-themed duet together. I hauled my dress form out from the dance room closet and started making a mini-dress out of duct tape. Caprice opened the door to investigate my sewing box, and in nudging her away with my toe, I slipped and accidentally wrapped it around my left forearm. Without thinking, I dropped the roll of tape when I attempted to catch myself. It bounced away and twisted.

Crap.
I pushed my hair out of my bleary eyes.
I need more coffee.

I grabbed my scissors and trimmed the edge nearest the costume so I wouldn’t get dirty tape on it. Then, wincing, I ripped it off my arm.
Duct tape is a little worse than ripping off a bandage
, I thought, which made me think of breakups. Again. You can make a clean cut and the wound heals, or you can do it slow and let things fester. The faster you rip off the bandage, the sooner it’s over.

I had to know.

I cut the tape again close to the roll, put the duct tape roll on my arm like a heavy pewter bracelet, and hunted for the police station’s phone number. They must have at least attempted to bring him in.

“Hi,” I said to the clerk who answered the phone. “Can you tell me if someone has been brought in for questioning?”

“I can give you the status of a person who is or has been here, ma’am,” the clerk said. “I need a name.”

“Kevin Haynes.”

I heard the click-clack of computer keys. “He’s been released, ma’am.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“All I can tell you is that he’s been released, ma’am.”

I bit my lip. “So if they had evidence, they wouldn’t let him go, right?”

After a brief pause, the clerk said, “No, ma’am, if we have enough evidence that a person committed a crime, we don’t just release them.” He didn’t say
duh
, but he didn’t have to.

My face grew hot. That was a stupid question. I thanked him and got off the phone.

After we hung up, I wandered into my office nook, curled up in the chair, and stared at my phone. I thought of Kevin’s soft laugh, of the earnestness in his face when he came to Lisa’s funeral. And I’d turned him over to the police.

Well. It was an ongoing investigation. I had to be honest.

The thought rang a little hollow, though. Maybe it was a little too convenient. Maybe it was an excuse not to get close to him.

I set the phone on my desk and looked at the columns of my handwriting. Red and black dry-erase ink.
Occupation? Flexible hours. SES? Organized/planner. Type? All age 25-35. No assault… autoerotic? No struggle? Overpowers them. Fit. Charming. Well-dressed or uniform. Motive?

Knows which door is mine.

I called the management office for my apartment building. A young woman asked how she could help me.

“Do you have security cameras installed in my building?” I asked.

“No, ma’am, we don’t,” she said.

“I’m wondering if you’d consider it,” I said. “The police think I’m being stalked.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice thin and clipped.

“Maybe we could get an additional lock on my door,” I said.

“I’ll… check with management,” she said.

“Has anyone reported a person leaving flowers for them?” I asked.

She hesitated. “No…”

She thinks I’m crazy. What do I say now? I’d know if I’m delusional?
I gave her Detective Brack’s phone number, which changed the type of shock in her voice. She said that management would get back to me.

I set the phone down, feeling oddly defeated.
Am I overreacting? I can’t be. Am I?