A Man to Die for (34 page)

But she was disappointed when she opened the door. It wasn’t Jack who waited out on her porch, but her next-door neighbor. A retired college professor, Mr. Rawlings provided the McDonough ladies with fresh-cut flowers from his garden and a bright companionship for chess or morning coffee. He never intruded, but knew exactly what was going on in the neighborhood from the vantage point of his flower beds. Offering a tentative smile, he held out a small, paper-wrapped parcel.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Casey,” he drawled, bobbing his gaunt, age-spotted head in simultaneous greeting and apology. “But this came this afternoon while you and your mother were out. I’ve been at a garden meeting, and just got home.”

“Oh,” Casey responded, sure he’d catch her disappointment. She’d so wanted to scoop Jack with her news. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. I appreciate your getting it for us.”

She accepted the package, surprised at its lightness. It was about the size of a shoebox, wrapped in inside-out shopping bag and tied with a string. It was addressed with large, scrawling handwriting and bore the return address of a post office box in the city. She wondered who it could have been from. She didn’t know anybody in the city except, maybe, Jack. On the other hand, it was probably some statue or another Helen had ordered from Catholic Supply House. They’d long since learned to mail things—especially bills—directly to Casey.

“I’ve been admiring your visitors’ cars,” he admitted with a shy smile. “I am an auto buff, you know.”

“That is quite a nice old Mustang, isn’t it?” she answered absently, knowing he was dying to find out if she was dating again. “I’m thinking of buying it.”

His face brightened and fell all at once. “I see. Well, I’m glad for the company for your mother. Tell her I said hello. Good night.”

Casey did offer him a smile as she closed the door, already preoccupied by the contents of her package. It was one way she’d never grown up. She still loved to get mail. Any mail, but especially something that smacked as a gift.

She didn’t lock the door. After all, Jack was due soon. Already pulling at the string, Casey carried her gift into the kitchen where she could get a knife to minimize the work.

It was a shoebox. The Reebok logo appeared through the last layer of wrapping paper. Casey sat down on the kitchen chair and lifted off the lid.

The box was filled with tissue paper, a funny, variegated kind in white and red and pink. Casey grabbed a handful, and then realized it was wet. She pulled her hand away. Her fingers came away smudged. Red, dark red. Familiar.

She stopped a moment, her hand suspended over the box, her stomach suddenly cold and her neck hot. It wouldn’t do any good to wait. She had to know. Gingerly she reached in and pulled the sodden tissue away.

She didn’t hear her own whimpering. She didn’t realize she’d thrown the box back on the table. Suddenly it was just sitting there in front of her, the paper spilling out over the side like the petals of an exotic flower, and she was on her feet.

Running. She whirled around, the sobs collecting in her throat, the bile spilling up from her stomach. Wretching and sobbing, she just made it to the bathroom under the stairs before she collapsed.

TONIGHT JACK DROVE
with the top down and Bird on the deck. The batter of wind and the wail of a sax was wonderful counterpoint to the chaos back at the station.

The press had caught wind of the lawsuit right after Jack had, and had spent the rest of the day camped out in the foyer. Jack could have dealt with that if he just hadn’t lost his prime witness about the same time. He’d sent one of his team out after her, just to find she’d skipped to Chicago to avoid facing her pimp’s displeasure. The APB was out, and the truth was Ruthie had never been known to survive outside St. Louis for long, but Jack wasn’t sure they were going to get lucky in a week.

The chat with the FBI had done nothing more than confirm his suspicions. He was forwarding them all the data he had to get a full psychological profile, but the agent he’d talked to over at the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico echoed Jack’s suspicions that if Hunsacker’s bloodlust didn’t get out of hand, he was going to be the very bastard to catch.

Hunsacker plotted out as an organized offender with higher than normal intelligence, probably a sexual psychopath. Agent Yablonsky even admitted a certain professional admiration for Hunsacker’s talent, knowing that if it hadn’t been for the quirk of one suspicious woman, not one of the police units involved would have found a link between murders.

The VI-CAP computer didn’t come up with any unsolved serial murders from Boston, but like Yablonsky said, if Hunsacker was running to form, he could have offed a whole dormitory and nobody would have figured it out yet. Hunsacker was beginning to escalate his schedule, another classic symptom of the human shark, but unless the good doctor got sloppy in the next week or someone came out of the blue to finger him, there was going to be a real lag time in solving this that spelled real trouble for Casey.

Even Jack’s snitches came up empty. They knew Crystal had a high-class clientele, but nobody could produce as much as a rumor with Hunsacker’s name on it.

Jack pulled up behind Casey’s compact and killed the engine. The night in this insulated little neighborhood was lush with quiet. Trees whispered and lawn sprinklers whirred. A dog barked down the block. For a minute Jack was tempted to turn Bird back on and just sit here, enjoying the warmth. It was something he couldn’t afford at his flat. He got gunning pickups and country western at two AM, sirens, the squall of kids, the smell of the brewery. He couldn’t imagine living anyplace but the city, but if he did, it might be here. Here where a policeman couldn’t afford to live anyway.

The car keys clinked in his pants’ pocket as he opened the car door and stepped out. He was carrying a folder of work, since he’d already decided he was going to stay tonight until that call came in. Whether Casey liked it or not, she’d faced this bastard by herself for the last time.

His feet clattered on the wooden steps. There were lights on in the living room and the foyer. Jack rang the bell and waited, scanning the neighborhood. There was a car with steamed windows around the corner. Young love in the suburbs. In the other direction, the dog continued to bark, and a door opened and slammed. The dog stopped. Routine.

Jack wasn’t getting an answer at the door. He rang again and peered through the beveled art glass in the door. The foyer was empty, the kitchen lights on. He listened for sounds of approaching footsteps. There weren’t any. In the distance a train wailed and faded. The trees sighed again.

And then Jack heard it. A funny, choking sound. He did another quick scan of the still-silent street. Then he checked the door.

It opened in his hand.

“Casey? Mrs. McDonough?”

No answer, but he could hear that funny sound more clearly. He didn’t even bother to close the door. Throwing the folder on a hall table, Jack ran for the half-open door at the base of the staircase.

“Casey?”

She was crumpled over the toilet, her face ashen and wet, her hair limp, her body shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m…I’m a…nurse,” she sobbed and wretched again, a wrenching, empty sound that brought Jack out of his jacket.

“What happened?” he asked, grabbing one of those little guest towels and soaking it in the sink. She was scaring him, Casey who was so pragmatic, so solid and straightforward. She looked like a wreck victim.

She couldn’t get her breath past the sobs. Pushing her hair away from her face with a trembling hand, she tried to sit back. She almost fell against the wall.

“I thought…I…that it was from…from you,” she finally managed, curling her knees against her chest.

Jack crouched next to her, catching her damp hair in his hand, lifting it off her hot neck. He wiped at her forehead with the cloth. She couldn’t seem to get her eyes open.

“What did you think was from me?” he asked, wanting to look around, afraid to leave her. She looked as if she were shaking apart. He wiped again, and then slipped an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t even seem to realize that she turned to him. She curled into him like a little girl, a whimper escaping her. Jack instinctively pulled her close, his own hands beginning to shake as he wrapped his arms around her. He hurt hard for her.

“Shhh,” he whispered, lifting a hand to brush back her hair again, holding tight. “Hey, Casey, it’s okay. Take your time.”

She clutched at him, her fingers sharp and desperate. “That…that…”

Jack stroked again, hating this feeling of impotence. Unsure what to do. Terrified of a woman’s tears. “Don’t…don’t talk about it if you don’t want to,” he tried, and felt her stiffen even more.

“And let…let
Helen
walk in?” Her head shot up then, almost knocking Jack’s teeth together. Her eyes were suddenly blazing through all those tears, an autumn sky after the rain. Straightening, she let only one more little sob escape. “That…that son of a bitch!”

Jack couldn’t help but grin. “Now, there’s the Casey McDonough I know and love. What did Hunsacker do?”

She shuddered again, her skin still hot and pasty. “The kitchen,” she managed, briefly losing her bravado to look down at the tile beneath her knees. “I’ll, uh, wait here.”

“You sure?” he asked. “You’re okay now?”

She grimaced. “I’ll be okay when I see Hunsacker rot one limb at a time.”

Jack grinned again and got to his feet. The front of his shirt was damp and his knees ached. Been a long time since he’d been on ’em. He’d done if for worse things.

He smelled it from the kitchen door and picked up the phone. After dialing 911, he slipped a pen from his pocket and prodded at the tissue.

Jesus. No wonder she’d been in the bathroom puking up her guts. Hunsacker had just taken the art of harassment to new heights.

“What is your emergency, please?”

“This is Sgt. Jack Scanlon, St. Louis City Homicide. I need the police right now at 432 Newbury Place in Webster. And I want a county homicide detective here pronto.”

“Do you have a homicide to report, Sergeant?”

Jack’s smile wasn’t nearly as nice as it had been for Casey. “Tell them they’ll see when they show up. Now, get going.”

He didn’t think the dispatcher would appreciate the allusion to bullfighting. The trophies of victory, ears and a tail. Only humans didn’t have tails. But they did have fingers.

Casey supposed she should get up soon. She couldn’t believe Helen hadn’t been down to investigate the noise yet. Maybe she just figured that Jack had meant all along to bring three squad cars, an evidence unit, and an ambulance to check the phone. The living room sounded like a basketball game was in progress, and Casey could see the crowd of police ringing the kitchen table. She could just imagine what her neighbors were saying.

“No shit,” one of the uniforms was whispering. “A Mrs. Potato Head. All it needs is lips and a pipe.”

“Shut up, you asshole,” his partner commanded with a punch. “Besides, don’t you know nothin’? The potato heads don’t smoke anymore.”

Casey grinned to herself where she was folded up in the corner of the bathroom floor, arms around knees, head cradled on forearms. Just two nights earlier they’d taunted one of the psych patients in the ER who insisted ghosts were following him down the aisles of Schnucks by getting on the PA system and wailing “Heathcliff! He-e-e-eathcliff!” Sometimes you had to be a little nuts yourself.

“Here.”

Casey lifted her head to find Jack in the doorway, a glass of Scotch in his hand.

“Do you really drink this stuff?” he demanded.

“Thanks.” She smiled wanly, accepting the outheld glass. “No, not usually. But I’m out of beer, and I can’t stand the smell of bourbon. It’s the poison of choice for West County, and nothing smells worse coming back up after a good slosh around in the ole stomach juices.”

Jack shook his head with a smile. “The connoisseurs in the city prefer a good Mad Dog,” he said. “Or beer.”

Casey’s hand was still shaking. The ice clattered in her glass. “I haven’t puked over body parts since I was in training,” she mused with a little shake of her head.

Jack stepped in and closed the door behind him. “That’s a little different,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

Casey looked up at him. He’d held her and wiped her face and shielded her from the police when they’d barreled into the house. Casey knew it was time to reemerge now, but Jack was here to tell her it could be done at her own time.

“You’ve been a good sport, Jack,” she admitted with a smile that somehow threatened to resurrect tears again. She’d sworn she would never feel this vulnerable around a man again as long as she lived. She’d never let him close enough. Jack seemed to have snuck in and changed the rules. “Thanks.”

Jack shook his head, a curt, impatient action. “It shouldn’t have gone this far,” he argued. “I should have had him in by now.”

Casey suddenly wanted to giggle. “Well, that’s a ‘you’re welcome’ if I’ve ever heard one. Should we go talk to the coppers?”

He watched her, his usual reserve suspiciously absent. “Are you sure?” he asked, and she knew he didn’t have anything more in mind than what opening that surprise package had done to her.

Casey took a good slug of the Scotch and climbed to her feet. “I never let the bastards get me down, Scanlon. Especially not that one.”

She was surprised when Jack laughed. “Good girl.” He nodded with approval as he took her by the arms to steady her way up. And then, just before he turned to open the door, he kissed her.

Not much of a kiss. Kind of a matter of punctuation. But quite a surprise nonetheless. And not just for Casey. For just a second before he let go of her to turn them both back out into the fray, Jack looked as if he’d stumbled over a live wire. Eyes sharp, forehead folded into amazement, mouth just a little tight.

Then he shook himself out of it. “You got
cojones
, girl,” was all he said. But he smiled, and Casey blushed like a schoolgirl over the rare compliment.

“Bert!” she cried a minute later when she stepped into her kitchen. “Hey, buddy Bert!”

The tall black ex-halfback turned from where he was talking to the evidence crew to flash Casey a bright smile. “Gettin’ in trouble again, are you, girl?”

“Yeah, well, when I sent away for those party favors, I didn’t expect ’em to be preowned. Where’s Ernie?”

“His kid’s graduation or some fool thing.”

Heading past the knot of men in her kitchen, Casey ignored the pointed looks she was getting. She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a couple cans of coffee.

“I have a feeling we’re all going to be here for a while,” she announced. “You guys want leaded or unleaded?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Bet grinned. Cops and nurses never drank decaf coffee. As old Clyde from the Rose would have said, that was for pussies.

“Hey, Bert,” she announced, motioning with the coffeepot to the Irish tweed cap on his head. “You guys wear hats, too.”

“Sure we do,” he retorted. “Do you know what kind of a mess you can walk into when you answer a jumper call?”

Which was, of course, when Helen decided to show up. Casey heard the rustle behind her, the sudden hush of male voices, and the shuffle of evidence techs as they jumped in front of the box.

“No, no, no, Casey,” Helen chirped, walking into the kitchen with a coy wave of her hand. “You mingle with your party guests. I’ll serve refreshments.”

“No such post office box in the city,” Jack announced, hanging up the phone.

“No bodies in any of the local morgues with missing parts,” Bert answered from where he sat amid paperwork and the pizza they’d called out for. “One of the guys called the ME from his car. Nothing else unusual witnessed by the neighbors.”

The ambulance had disappeared first, then the evidence crew. One Webster car and one county car had stayed to help canvas the neighborhood for information, and one of the Webster detectives had made an appearance to officially hand off the investigation to Bert.

Because of the unique relationship of county to the cities within its boundaries, both the county police and the local police had jurisdiction. The Webster guy had taken one look at the contents of Casey’s gift and smiled his gracious concession to the greater manpower and computer capabilities of the county force.

Mr. Rawlings had been escorted in for the first interview. The schoolteacher sat with Helen now on the couch, shaking worse than Casey, unnerved that he should be an accomplice in such a crime. And that after only getting the most euphemistic details. Helen, on the other hand, was chattering away about how lovely it was to have guests again.

Casey finished off her second piece of pizza, trying to drown out both alcohol and coffee. She’d washed her hands eight times, gargled away half a bottle of mouthwash, and changed her clothes, and she still felt like conducting all business from the kitchen sink.

Jack kept watching her, surreptitiously, as if any show of concern would send her screaming into the night. She thought it was sweet. Even so, she would have vastly preferred the kind of evening she’d been spending before the doorbell had rung.

“So,” Bert said, munching on a pepperoni slice. “We got a package with no prints, wrapped in a Schnucks bag from one of forty stores, holding three fresh lab specimens from a Caucasian, probably female, cushioned in standard wrapping tissue in a Reebok box you can get only a hundred fifty places delivered by a Fed Ex deliveryman to an old guy who can’t see very well, and no word yet from the delivery company where the package was mailed from. Why do I think some ten-year-old’s gonna tell us how a guy gave him ten bucks to mail the package?”