To Die For (10 page)

Even after all this, Greco knew he still had no control over the investigation. After the meeting, Wyatt parcelled out the Mervyn's accounts to Greco, saying they were the most important, and kept the remaining vendors. He knew that Wyatt still wanted to solve the case, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had no interest in competing with Wyatt. His race was with the killer.

*   *   *

Dana was knocking at her father's door.

“Hi, Jeri, hi, Dad,” she said, giving each a one-armed hug. In the other arm she was cradling a pan of lasagne. “I made you my specialty.”

“Oh, I see you got the flowers,” Dana said, noting the arrangement in the living room. “How are you guys doing?”

Jeri nodded and managed to smile. She wasn't too talkative and neither was Russ. They were all clad in dark mourning attire.

“Well, are you ready to go?” Dana asked.

Jeri shut her eyes, squeezing out a tear, and nodded. Russell took her arm and they went outside and got in the Cadillac.

Jeri had tried to delay telling her 30-year-old daughter, Susie, the news about Nana getting murdered. Susie, a diabetic since she was an infant, was on dialysis. Her health had always been fragile and she had a particularly close relationship with her step-grandmother-in-law. When Jeri finally told her daughter the sad news, Susie's health took a sharp downturn. She died two weeks after Norma was murdered. Jeri knew that it was more stress than Susie could handle at one time. She couldn't help but blame the person who killed Norma.

“Whoever killed Mom killed Susie, too,” Jeri blurted out in the car.

Dana's head whipped around. She looked startled.

“What makes you say a thing like that?”

CHAPTER FIVE

THURSDAY, MARCH 10, 1994, 1:40 P.M.

Dorinda Hawkins was on her hands and knees picking up papers when she heard the light tinkling of the bell on the front door of the Main Street Trading Post. The antique store, located in Lake Elsinore, boasted a comfortable flea-market feel. The front window displayed chairs and tables of various vintages, a lamp from the 1950s with a ruffled shade, and kitchen ceramics in a variety of decorative fowl. A window sign advertised custom framing. The rest of the store was obscured by curtains framing the merchandise.

“Hi! How are you today?” Dorinda said as she stood up, brushing the dirt from her black stretch pants.

Dana Sue Gray smiled at the 57-year-old woman as she walked through the store, passing by a 1920s metal tricycle black with age, crystal candy dishes, brass floor lamps, an open steamer trunk, lanterns, cameras, a mirrored dresser, and neon beer signs. Dana had been thinking about framing some advertising pictures of her mother, who used to be a model, and wanted to check out some older frames. On the wall near the cash register were a variety of cuckoo clocks and light blue racks holding collectable silver spoons. A windowed display case at the cashier's desk held Hummel figurines, Disney collectables, toy trains, and Oriental jade. Dana sized up Dorinda as she passed by.

Fat barfly. Crossing your arms like that makes me want to vomit. I want you to die.

“Oh, alone again?” Dana Sue Gray said as she wound her way through the store, which had a light feel because of the high ceilings, white walls, and white display cabinets. The store was somewhat narrow but very deep. Far to the back of the store was the framing area. A yellow rope, strung between two higher white cabinets, closed off the area to customers.

“Yes, as usual,” Dorinda said. She picked up the last of the papers and walked back to the framing area to get a tape measure. She was helping out at the store that day as a favor to her good friend, the 74-year-old store owner who did the framing and matting.

Dorinda reached the back of the store and was surprised to find her customer already back there. Dana asked about matting and framing, so Dorinda unhooked the yellow rope partition and stepped inside the employee area to get the tape measure and show off the owner's work. Dana followed her in. They stepped around another dusty vintage tricycle, odd frames in various sizes, and a few pieces of framing equipment on the tables. Corners of sample frames hung along one wall and a plastic box crammed with different colored mats sat on the counter. Dorinda walked around the huge framing table, about five feet wide and eight feet long, wrapped in protective brown paper and strewn with tools.

“This is a lovely example of her work,” Dorinda said, picking up a picture with three types of matting that was leaning against the wall.

“Oh, I don't like that one,” Dana said.

What a piece of shit. I can't believe she's showing me this cruddy frame.

“I'm just showing you the matting and framing,” Dorinda said, quickly putting the picture back down on the floor. Dana came up behind her and touched the back of the picture.

“Oh, that's beautiful work,” Dana said, commenting on how well the paper covered the back of the picture.

Condescending barfly trying to palm off these pieces of crap. Trying to act important.

“Oh, what are those?” She pointed to two framed pictures of hunting scenes that leaned against the wall. “Can I see those?”

“Sure,” Dorinda said, bending over to pick them up. “I don't know if the owner wants to sell them though.”

“I want to see them anyway,” Dana said. “I really like this one.” It showed a group of men in vintage attire on horseback, their steeds prancing, and dogs racing around the horses' legs. They talked about the pictures for a moment, then Dorinda turned around to put them back on the floor, and looked for another one to show her customer.

Dorinda was still chatting when she felt something tighten around her neck. She froze for a moment, her mind going dead except for the thought that she wanted to look into the face of this person who hated her so much. As Dorinda straightened up, she saw Dana holding onto a yellow nylon rope with her left hand as her right hand pushed a slip knot toward the old woman's neck. Dorinda instinctively reached to pull the rope from her neck, and at the same time looked directly into the eyes of the stranger attacking her, expecting hatred and finding none. She saw no emotion, only a look of determination that she had a job to do and she was going to do it. She saw no hate, no malice, no excitement, no hint of a drug-crazed gleam. Just a look like she had killed before.

“Lady, why are you doing this?” Dorinda managed to choke out. She thought of pulling the rope toward her, but before she could react, Dana jerked the rope violently downward and Dorinda fell to her knees, out of sight to anyone walking by or even anyone at the front of the store. Fighting for her life, Dorinda's mind recorded many details: Her attacker had smooth skin and no make-up. The ends of the rope had been melted to prevent fraying. The six-foot-long rope was wrapped twice around her attacker's hands for a good grip. The image of her attacker's stony face became cemented in her memory.

Dana tried to force Dorinda onto her stomach. Instead, Dorinda squirmed around and fell into a sitting position with her legs bent under her. With Dana still pushing her down, Dorinda managed to get one leg out in front of her, then shifted her weight to get the other leg free so both legs were extended in front of her. Dana upped the pressure on her neck, jerking the rope, and Dorinda momentarily steadied herself with her hands behind her on the floor. With as much effort as she could muster, she kicked Dana in the stomach with both feet. The first kick caught Dana off guard, but she held onto the rope. Dorinda kicked again, and Dana nimbly jumped back. It gave Dorinda enough time to slip her fingers between the rope and her neck, but it added to the pressure on her neck, so she slid her fingers out again. As she felt the rope, she realized that her attacker had turned it around so the knot was positioned on her windpipe.

Dana's legs were spread apart and she was leaning backward as far as she could. Dorinda tried pulling on the rope to kick her attacker off balance, but Dana stood her ground. Spotting a broom nearby, Dorinda used all her strength to drag her and Dana over to where she could grab it. Dorinda rose slightly off the floor with one hand, lunging at Dana with the broom in the other, jabbing Dana in the chest. Dana dodged her second attempt as Dorinda's strength faltered and the yellow-handled broom fell uselessly out of her hands and landed on top of her. The last attempt sapped Dorinda's endurance and her consciousness lapsed. When she awoke again, Dana was on top of her with one foot on her chest for leverage.

“Lady, why are you doing this to me?” Dorinda asked again. Dana's only answer was to pull the rope tighter.

“Brian!” Dorinda cried for the shop clerk next door. “Brian!” Her voice came out in a futile whisper, a silent scream in a living nightmare.

“Be quiet!” Dana said in a calm voice.

“Oh God! I never wanted to die like this! Please don't kill me! I've got eight kids!” Dorinda pleaded with Dana. Dorinda wasn't sure that her attacker could even hear her speak or make out her words, they were so faint.

Still flat on her back, Dorinda saw that her head was near the heavy framing table. She twisted and wriggled, with Dana still on her chest, so she could grab a leg of the table, surprised that she had the strength to pull both herself and her attacker. When she got close enough, she grabbed the table leg for leverage and was able to roll Dana off her chest. Dana stumbled, but regained her stance and stepped on Dorinda's head, increasing the pressure on the rope.

“Please don't kill me,” she pleaded in a whisper.

“I'm not here for money,” Dana said calmly.

Dorinda flitted in and out of consciousness. When she awoke again, Dorinda croaked out, “Cash register key on wrist,” motioning toward the red plastic coil around her forearm.

“I'm not after the money,” Dana said again.

Dorinda was still clutching the table leg, her shoulders hunched like a turtle, and begged for her life, tears rolling down her face. She wanted to tell her attacker that she had eight children, but she could only gasp. She knew she was dying. She knew she would never see her children again. She thought of her daughter who had been raped and had survived because she went limp. Dorinda thought maybe she should go limp, too.

She felt herself start to lose consciousness again and she heard Dana say, “Relax. Just relax,” in a calm whisper, as if she were comforting a child. She could feel her attacker slipping the keys off her hand. Dorinda felt like she was dying. Her brain wasn't getting any oxygen and it felt as if her head were going to burst from the pressure.

Dorinda lost consciousness.

She'll be fine. She just fainted.

Dana took $5 out of Dorinda's purse, leaving a $20 bill, used the cash register key to take $25 from the cash drawer and walked out.

FRIDAY, MARCH 11, 1994, 8:30 A.M.

James McElvain stuck the newspaper in front of Greco's nose. He had come to work early and was already buried in reports.

“Hey, Joe,” he said. “Did you see this?”

“Woman Choked by Assailant,” Greco read the headline aloud. The short story ran on one of the inside pages.

“Maybe it's the same person,” James said.

Greco gave it a quick read. “A Lake Elsinore woman was choked unconscious by an attacker who pulled a rope around her neck during a suspected robbery at a store, police reported…” The attacker was described as a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, about five-foot, two inches. The victim, Dorinda Hawkins, had been treated and released at a local hospital.

It fit. Greco knew they were getting close. For the past three days, they'd been getting the same description from store clerks about a blonde woman in her mid-thirties using June's credit cards, sometimes accompanied by a dark-haired male. It had to be related. It was a good, solid lead, but he still didn't have a name. He glanced up at James.

“Someone should go check this out,” Greco said. “You want to go talk to her?”

He nodded and turned away. He didn't have the heart to tell Greco that he and Wyatt had already interviewed her the night before in the emergency room.

Greco sat back, took a gulp of coffee and took another look at the article. He'd tried hard to keep an open mind about the kind of suspect they were looking for, but he had to admit, he found it a little weird that a female had strangled the antique store clerk. How often do you hear about a female attacking someone with a rope? The assailant fit the description given by the store clerks, but Greco thought the man with the female shopper could have been the killer, or that they had committed the murders together. Now they needed to expand their focus to include the possibility of a female acting alone. Still, they were making progress. They had a paper trail of credit cards. They had information about another attack. The pieces were starting to pull together. They needed a name. It had to be the same person, but they still didn't know who it was. Greco wasn't going to allow himself to be overly optimistic. They needed a name.

Greco, James and Wyatt had gone to all of the places the attacker went with the credit cards—Mervyn's, Sav-On, the lunch spots, the spa, the Nike factory outlet store, the perfume place, the housewares store. Clerks who could remember the customer gave similar descriptions. Many claimed she'd been in a hurry, one mentioned that she'd even knocked over a display in the housewares store. She was rude to one of the waiters. She wore her cowboy boots out of the Western wear store; she had made her selections quickly when she bought the diamond-and-sapphire earrings and Opium perfume.

Opium perfume. Diamond earrings. Cowboy boots. Lunch, a haircut, pampering at a spa. Liquor and cigarettes. Greco perused the list of purchases, trying to imagine the kind of person who would beat someone to death, who would strangle someone with her own hands, and then go out an après-murder spending spree. This must be a person without a whisper of remorse. Greco found it bizarre. What did it mean that this woman killed with vicious ferocity, and then went shopping? Was it a release after the intensity of the murder?