Better Off Dead (33 page)

"Is it just me," Bobby asked, "or is that
bunch multiplying like rabbits?"

"We'll know at dinnertime," I predicted.

I retrieved my car from the impound lot with
little fanfare and no luck finding out who, if anyone, had called
it in to be towed away in the first place. Ferrar had gotten there
before me, it was obvious. The girl who took my money—cash on the
barrelhead—refused to talk.

Ferrar. The very name made my conscience
turn over and groan.

How could I not tell him what was going on?
But if I did tell him about our theory, and he put cops on
Brookhouse and Carroll to watch them, I would be inviting them to
witness the people I loved most in the world commit a crime.

What's a girl to do?

I had the printouts of their academic
publications and half the drug study participants on me in case I
decided on an answer.

Luke was still in a coma, visiting some
other netherworld. I offered to sit with him while Fanny went home
and took a nap. She did not want to accept my offer, but a little
coaxing did the trick. She was really far too old and far too plump
to be spending days and nights in a hospital chair. Besides, Luke's
parents were rumored to be arriving by the next morning and she
wanted to be there to support them when they first saw him. I
didn't bother to tell her that Luke's stepmother probably wouldn't
give a rat's ass. Maybe Fanny's sympathy would shame her into
showing more compassion.

Bobby left to escort Fanny back to her home
in North Raleigh—an abode she seldom frequented.

I stayed by Luke's side—just me, my shadow,
the nurse— and my conscience. They had removed the tubes in his
nose and you could see more of his face. It was pink with pumped-in
oxygen, as rosy as a little boy who has fallen asleep flush from
the bathtub. Those beautiful eyelashes of his fluttered at times,
or so I imagined. I wondered if it was a good sign.

Burly arrived around midnight. I was
surprised to see him and said so.

"Hey, if anyone can tell this kid what to
expect in the months ahead, it's me," Burly pointed out as he
wheeled into the room. "Besides, Helen wanted me to come. And I
wanted to tell him to hang in there if he was awake." He gave the
night nurse a dazzling smile and she melted as they always
do—handsome, appreciative and in a wheelchair? Burly was an
irresistible magnet for the ladies in white, who so often found
their devotion to the afflicted sorely tested by bad manners, bad
attitudes and bad bodies. Burly had none of these. Burly had
style.

He did a wheelie, showing off for the nurse.
She blushed and went back to her book. "What's the word?" he
asked.

I shook my head. "No word."

"He's alive," Burly offered. "And that's a
start."

I was glad that Burly was there. I hoped he
had arrived not just for Luke, but also for me. It was hard to say.
All of his attention was on Luke.

As Burly launched into a long and technical
discussion with the nurse about Luke's chances for recovery and
what he would have to go through when and if he came out of his
coma, I tuned them out and contented myself with watching Luke
breathe. The rhythm was reassuring, whether aided by machine or
not. After a while my mind settled down, thoughts began flowing in
and out; ideas, worries and eventually conclusions.

I had to let Ferrar know. And I thought I
knew a way how.

"God, girl, you drive a hard bargain. Where
I come from, they call it blackmail." Marcus waved the air with
languid fingers, sending clouds of smoke spiraling toward the
ceiling of the men's room. He had not been the least surprised to
discover me there at nine o'clock in the morning. He'd just rolled
his eyes, opened the stall door and invited me in.

"Isn't it obvious to everyone in this entire
building that you are sneaking smokes in here?" I asked him,
coughing as I inhaled smoke from his obnoxiously long and slender
brand of cigarette. He'd have used a diamond-encrusted cigarette
holder if he thought the boys in blue would let him get away with
it. Marcus is one of those smokers who is into the ritual, who
savors the moments of suspended thought as the cigarette is
extracted, lit and waved about. The cigarette is but a prop.

"Honey, they're just grateful I'm not
smoking pot in here," Marcus explained after a moment of silence in
which I do believe he was actually giving my question serious
thought. He licked the tip of a finger and reshaped his right
eyebrow. "They like to keep me happy because no one can work that
keyboard like I can. I have magic fingers."

"So will you work it and go through the
files of all rape and assault victims in Durham over the past two
years?" I said. "I want you to correlate the data against the names
on the drug trial printouts and see if you get any matches. I
didn't recognize the names of any rape victims whose cases I
studied, but maybe the connections are more subtle."

"What are you looking for?" Marcus
asked.

"I think this new drug testing study
connects everyone somehow. But I don't quite know how. It would be
too obvious to start raping or killing drug study volunteers one by
one. But maybe the victims are connected in other ways. Maybe they
know the study volunteers. Or worked with Brookhouse in some way. I
know there's a link somewhere."

A thought came to me. "You did tell me about
all the attacks, didn't you?"

Marcus looked away. The bastard. There were
more that he'd held back. "I can't let you touch those files
again," he said. "For one thing, they are a lot thicker than they
were before Ferrar took over the case. That man is seriously
driven. And whatever this burning information is you are hoping to
trade in return for these rape files, well, you had better—and I
advise you this seriously—go to Ferrar with your info just as soon
as you can get there. This is maybe the worst thing ever to happen
in this town. And this happens to be my town. If you can live with
being a party to standing in the way of maybe stopping it, that's
between you and god. But you aren't my friend anymore if you
do."

"Marcus." We stared at each other.

"You've met one of the victims," he reminded
me. "I've met them all. And, in some cases, their families. I want
this case solved for them. Period."

"Meaning I don't?" I asked him, hurt.

"Meaning Ferrar is the one who deserves to
solve this case and get the credit. Not you. You don't know how
hard he has worked on it."

"Then I'll trade you," I offered. "I'll put
you on Brookhouse's trail in exchange for cross-matching these
study volunteer names. And I'll go first."

"Hand over the names," Marcus demanded. I
gave him the printouts and he thumbed through them. "Where did you
get these?" he asked.

"I can't tell you."

He glanced at me sharply and continued to
read. He had moved on to the list of publications authored by Lyman
Carroll or David Brookhouse. His eyebrows danced as he read the
circled titles. He understood their significance right away. "I've
got to get my hands on that paper," he murmured.

We froze as footsteps approached the outer
bathroom door. Someone paused but then walked on. What a world we
live in when people are in too damn much of a hurry to stop and
pee.

"Deal on a modified trade, then," Marcus
said when it was safe to talk again.

I told him about Brookhouse and Carroll, the
drug study and their past connections. "If you check the towns they
taught in together, I bet you'll find more assaults. And I just
know this drug study is the key to the attacks at Duke."

"I'll take it from here," Marcus said,
folding the printouts and slipping them into the back pocket of his
designer jeans.

"But you'll tell me if any of the drug study
names start coming up in relationship to any cases, right?"

"If it doesn't jeopardize the investigation,
I will."

"Marcus—" I started to complain, but he cut
me off.

"Don't you go Marcusing me," he said with
confidence. "You knew when you approached me that I was not going
to stand for anything less than telling Ferrar all. That's why
you're here. So I can take the information and be the one to do it
and your conscience is clear." He held a hand up to stop me when I
started to protest. "No, don't say anything else. I don't want to
hear any more about what you and your friends are planning. But you
check your phone messages carefully over the next few days, you
hear?"

"I hear," I said.

"Timing is everything, Miss Casey. I'll let
you know what you need to know, when you need to know it."

Relief swept over me. It was the right thing
to do. I knew it was. If Ferrar could take our information and nail
Brookhouse, and maybe even Carroll, too, the civil suit against
Helen would have to be withdrawn, the murders of that poor mother
and the coed could be solved, Luke's would-be assassin could be
punished—and I would sleep better at night.

Voices approached the men's room; it sounded
like two cops arguing. I heard my name and instantly froze.

"What's she got to do with it?" one of the
cops asked as they pushed their way inside the bathroom. Marcus
shoved my butt with his shoulder until I was wedged against the
wall, balancing on the rim of the toilet. He stood at attention,
facing the door, a warning finger on his lips.

"No one really knows what she's been into.
She's done half the guys in the department, so Ferrar doesn't trust
anyone to handle her right."

"No shit?" the other guy asked hopefully.
"Half the guys?"

Dream on. From what I could see of his
credentials, he was not qualified for a goodnight kiss. And I
didn't even know the other guy, the one who was such a fucking
authority on my, well, my fucking.

"That's what I heard," the first guy said
confidently. "I know I'm one of them."

Oh, yeah? I definitely did not recognize the
rear view. But why should I?

"She pretty hot?" the second one asked.

Marcus, the bastard, was silently laughing.
His shoulders shook and he had a fist jammed in his mouth.

"Oh, yeah," the first one said. "She's hot
all right." Hmmm... maybe he wasn't so bad after all. "If you like
'em kind of big and trashy-looking. I know I do." He started
humming "Bad Girls." Off-key, I might add.

"Big and trashy?" The second guy sounded
interested. "Sounds sweet to me."

"Better take your vitamins first." They
laughed. How nice someone thought they were hilarious. If only each
other.

They zipped up and began
messing with their thinning hair in the mirror. "I'd definitely
keep a wide berth until Ferrar is done with her," the first guy
counseled. "He's looking for her now. Turns out there was a photo
of the last victim in the clothes Casey had on the night that kid
got shot. So she was snooping into something. Ferrar is royally
pissed off about it. I told him to try
Another Thyme
and maybe
Sammy's.
She likes to
hang out at both places."

Oh, thanks a lot, Mark, you turncoat, I
thought—suddenly remembering his name. I did know the first guy
after all. He'd just beefed up a lot. I rued the day I had ever
dated that traitor. If I recalled correctly, he damn well ought to
know what bars I hung out at. He had tracked me for months trying
to get me into bed—and left me underwhelmed once we got there. Now
he was helping Ferrar find me. Well, his fondest dreams had come
true. I was finally prepared to announce "what a prick!" at the
sight of him.

What the hell did he mean there had been a
photo of the victim on me? I remembered the snapshot I'd found in
the receptionist's desk. I'd put it in my back pocket. But it had
showed Brookhouse and the secretary. Had she been the victim? No
way. It was some bigwig's wife, I remembered, someone who had to do
with fundraising.

By then, Marcus had stopped laughing and was
glaring at me. I shrugged, letting him know I had no idea what they
were talking about.

The two men moved on to standard chatter
about the coming basketball season. One of them was for Duke, the
other rooted for Carolina. So, naturally, their collegiate pissing
match lasted well beyond the real pissing match. It seemed like
hours until they got the hell out and left us alone again.

"You told me everything, huh?" Marcus
demanded.

"I have no idea what photograph they're
talking about."

"Well, I suggest you go right to Ferrar and
find out," Marcus ordered me. "Or else, you'll be getting no phone
messages from me."

That Marcus. Sometimes I think his mom
raised him a little too thoroughly in the ways of her church. I
took his advice anyway. I walked into the lion's den willingly, all
eyes upon me.

It was one of those moments when the room is
filled with sound, then suddenly everyone clams up at once, making
the object of their attention feel like a pariah. You could have
heard a gun cock in that room. Fortunately, I did not.

"Where's Ferrar?" I asked a female detective
I'd done a favor for once, a favor involving her insane,
steroid-saturated ex-boyfriend, also a cop, who had no business
drinking and aiming at the same time. He now lived out-of-state,
where he planned to stay. At least until the statute of limitations
on his particular transgressions, discovered by moi, were up. He'd
be away a long time.

"Conference room three," she told me, one
eyebrow raised high. "Better wear a bulletproof jacket."

Ferrar was huddled over a cluttered table
with at least six other detectives. Once again the room froze when
I entered. Maybe today was a good day to attend as many soirees as
possible. I seemed to be knocking them dead.

Before Ferrar could get the words "Will you
excuse us?" out of his mouth, the room had emptied. It was down to
me and him.