Body of Lies (12 page)

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Authors: Deirdre Savoy

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Body of Lies
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Unlike the other victims, this girl's face had been left mostly intact, allowing them to see the youthfulness of her features. “I know, baby.” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider the endearment at the end of them.
Alex seemed not to notice. “What are you going to do next?”
In a couple of hours he'd see about hooking up with his friend who worked computer stings on pedophiles. Then in the afternoon he'd go to the autopsy on the last girl. He didn't tell Alex that. “Right now, I'm taking you home.” In case she planned to protest, he showed her a little steel of his own in the gaze he sent her way.
“All right, as long as you let me know how she's doing.”
“Of course.” He only hoped that when the time came he'd have something good to tell her.
 
 
Dawn had started to spread across the horizon as he pulled up in front of Alex's house fifteen minutes later. She hadn't said one word to him during the trip, sitting with her legs crossed, her arms folded, and her eyes closed, and he'd let her be. But even when he pulled to a stop and cut the engine she didn't stir. She'd probably fallen asleep. “Alex?”
She inhaled and her lower lip quivered. That surprised him. He'd never seen Alex cry, except the one time he was responsible. Even at her father's funeral she remained dry-eyed and stoic. “Are you all right?”
She swiped at her eyes. “I'm fine. Just overtired, I guess.”
He knew she meant that as an explanation for her tears, but none was necessary. He understood what she felt—sorrow for the girl combined with a profound frustration that they hadn't been able to stop this guy before he got to her. He felt it, too. Given the choice of her honest reaction and a facade, he'd take the former. The trouble was she hadn't offered him that choice.
“You don't have to put a brave face on it, Alex. I get enough of that from the folks at home.” Without thinking, he lifted his hand to wipe away with his thumb a drop of moisture she'd missed.
She looked away from him, lowering her head so that he couldn't see her face. “Zach,” she started.
He cut her off, since he knew what she was about to say. “I know. I shouldn't have done that.” He dropped both hands to his lap. “I don't want to hurt you, Alex. I never have.”
“I know that.”
Did she? Not as far as he could tell. “But you still don't trust me.”
Her head came up and she regarded him with an expression he didn't understand. “Trust has nothing to do with it, at least not as far as you are concerned.”
What the hell did that mean? That she trusted him or that her lack of trust in him didn't factor into her feelings at the moment or something else?
Before he got a chance to question her on that, she unclipped her seat belt. “I'd better go. I have to be in my office in less than an hour.” She opened the car door and slid out. “Thanks for the lift, both times.”
She slammed the car door closed and hurried up her walk. If he'd thought it would help the situation he would have gone after her. As it was, he was tired and disheartened and every time he clashed with her he came out the loser. He didn't want to clash any more with her right now.
He waited until she'd made it inside her door before he started the engine. He'd head home himself, change clothes, and get back to the precinct and start in. As long as the wicked weren't sleeping the weary wouldn't get any rest either.
 
 
He slipped in bed beside her hoping she wouldn't waken. He only planned to sleep for a couple of hours before getting back to the job. He could have done the same at the station house, but then he wouldn't have gotten to lie next to her, to check on her to make sure she was all right.
He'd barely made it beneath the covers when her head popped up and she whispered a weak, frightened “John?”
“It's me, baby. Come here,” he whispered back.
She turned into him and he wrapped his arms around her. She was shaking and her breath fanned across his chest in shallow, rapid puffs. He smoothed his hand through her hair and down her back, whispering words of comfort to soothe her.
Damn. They'd been to the point where what Thorpe had done to her was merely a distant memory. They'd been through the night terrors and the cold sweats, the trembling, with fear, not desire, every time he touched her. She still wouldn't let her kids in the house until she, baseball bat in hand, made sure it was clear and sneaking up behind her was likely to get you a blow to the head thanks to a self-defense course she'd taken. But the worst of it had been behind them. Then Thorpe had resurfaced.
He couldn't blame her for being terrified that this newer, more vicious Thorpe might come back for a repeat visit. He feared that, too, though in an odd way he owed his being with her to the man. She'd been in the courthouse to testify against Thorpe while he'd been there on some other case, he couldn't remember which one now. She'd been standing against a wall, her eyes closed, obviously trying to compose herself. He'd recognized her immediately since he'd spent four years at Columbus High School lusting alternately for her or one of her friends, the cool girls who paid no attention to his geeky self.
She confessed to him later that the only reason she'd accepted his offer to go for a cup of coffee was that she'd remembered him, too, though she'd pretended not to at the time. She'd felt safe with the grown-up nerd boy John McKay, who was also a cop. She hadn't explained either what she'd been doing in the building, and he hadn't pressed her for anything except her phone number. It didn't take him long to figure out she'd given him a fake one, nor much longer than that to ferret out the real number or the real reason she'd been there.
He'd wanted to kill Thorpe from that moment. That desire deepened as he discovered how deeply Thorpe's attack had wounded her. She'd been turned from a strong, confident girl to a woman who panicked every time someone touched her. Thorpe wasn't even convicted for what he'd done to her since his semen wasn't found in her body. But there was no doubt in her mind or his that Thorpe had been the one to attack her. Thorpe had gotten six lousy years, not nearly enough for all the lives he'd destroyed.
But Thorpe wouldn't get away this time. He didn't care what anybody said, he wasn't going to turn Thorpe loose unless he had ironclad proof he wasn't involved. He didn't intend to let Dr. Alex Waters off the hook either. If she'd done her job the first time, Melissa wouldn't have been in any danger in the first place. Thorpe would have been locked up some place where he couldn't harm anyone.
“John?”
He blinked, coming back to himself. “What is it?
“They found another girl tonight, didn't they?” A wracking shiver accompanied her words.
“Yeah, they did.” He wasn't used to lying to her so he didn't bother. “She's still holding on, but it's anybody's guess if she'll make it.”
“Oh.” She sniffled and a moment later he felt a line of moisture from her tears on his chest.
He hugged her to him, wishing the pain she felt were his, not hers. “Shh, baby,” he whispered.
“You have to catch him, John.”
“I will.” That was a promise he didn't mind making to her since it was one he intended to keep. He'd find some way to draw Thorpe out of his hidey-hole and that would be it. Thorpe would pay for what he'd done to Melissa and more. And then he'd see to it that Dr. Waters got what she deserved as well.
Thirteen
Zach walked in his front door a little after seven, calling Stevie's name. He'd called her from the road to let her know he was on his way home and gotten no answer. He got no answer now as he walked through the first floor, noting the living room, kitchen, and dining room lights were on though there was no sign of his niece. He found her at the top of the stairs in the small bedroom he used as an office on occasion. She was sitting at his desk, her eyes on the computer screen in front of her, a set of earphones hanging from her ears.
He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, feeling a combination of relief and annoyance. He flashed the lights to draw her attention. She drew in a startled breath and swiveled around to face him. “Uncle Zach. I didn't know you were home.”
“Do the words ‘my name is not Con Edison' mean anything to you?”
“What?” She pulled the earphones from her ears.
“Never mind. Don't you have school today?”
“I was just killing time before the bus got here. I hope you don't mind me using your computer.”
“Not at all.” He'd never set any ground rules for computer use, though he probably should have. “As long as you behave yourself.”
She cast him a droll look, as if his suggestion were too little too late. “Now you sound like my mom.” She turned back to the computer. Even from where he stood he could tell she was shutting it down as a means of preventing him from seeing what she'd been up to.
He thought of Ronnie Hassler, the girl met Thorpe on the Internet. “Do you have one of those Yourplace accounts?”
“Yeah. Most of the kids I know do. Why?”
“You don't give out any personal information, do you? A phone number or an address? What school you go to?”
She spun around in the chair to face him, a patient expression on her face. “Have you noticed that my dad is a cop? Uncle Jon is a cop? My best friend Heather's dad is a cop? What do you think they all have in common?”
He knew where she was going, but to be perverse he said, “They're cops?”
“Aside from that. They've all warned me about all the creepos and pervs on the Internet. I know how to handle myself. I thought
you
might give me a little credit.”
“I do.”
She rolled her eyes, disbelieving. The sound of a bus horn honking forestalled any further discussion of the topic. Stevie grabbed the handle of her backpack and slung it over her shoulder as she stood. “There's my ride.”
For the first time, he noticed what she was wearing—a crop top that didn't completely meet the waistband of her skirt and a pair of thigh-high stockings that didn't quite meet her hem. “Are you sure your mother would let you out of the house dressed like that?”
“Bye, Uncle Zach.” She hurried up to him, smacked a kiss on his cheek, and was out the door.
He supposed he had his answer, to that question at least. He still hadn't gotten any further in finding out what was going on between her and her mother. Barbara called him every day to check on Stevie, and he sensed Barbara held something back from him that she'd rather spill. Something kept her from doing so; maybe she feared he'd tell Adam whatever she said. But she had to know him better than that. She'd kept his secrets; he'd do the same for her.
Oh well, he didn't really have time to worry about it now. He needed to get changed and get back on the job. They needed to find the girl's identity and if she was the latest victim of the Amazon Killer or some other foul play. He shut down the computer and went back to his room. The king-sized bed that dominated the room called to him, though most of his dreams of late centered on Alex, either her present incarnation or the one he'd known in the past. Maybe if she were here in the flesh rather than merely tormenting his psyche, he wouldn't have had the same degree of resolve. That was something else he couldn't dwell on—the prospect of Alex's soft body under his. That was a long-ago event never to be repeated except in his own imagination. He showered, changed, and headed back out the door.
 
 
“We have to stop now.”
Alex watched the frown spread across Damaris Freeman's face. It was the same every week. Damaris might be a narcissistic complainer, but she had no pressing need for therapy, or rather none she made use of. Damaris wasn't interested in self-examination or change. She simply wanted a sounding board for her petty whinings and complaints. But since Alex was in no position to turn patients away she put up with her. Besides, every time she tried to end their sessions, Damaris would phone her ceaselessly until Alex relented and took her back.
“Are you sure that was the whole fifty minutes?”
“Quite sure.”
Damaris pouted. “I never even got to tell you about the dream I had two nights ago.”
Alex said nothing, merely waited with her hands folded. Eventually Damaris picked up her teeny pocketbook from where she'd left it on the floor and slung it over her shoulder. “I guess it will have to wait until next time,” she said in a voice designed to guilt Alex for making her leave.
“Next time,” Alex echoed, wishing there would be no next time, both for her sake and for Damaris's. What Damaris needed was to cultivate some interests outside her own shallow problems—something Alex had been unable to help her accomplish. Then again, Alex had never envisioned herself in this sort of practice. Maybe it was her father's influence, but the criminal mind fascinated her, it always had. They honestly didn't think like other people. She'd devoted her training and her practice to making sense of those others found unfathomable. She hadn't intended to spend her life coddling young women with juvenile complaints.
Alex sighed. That wasn't a fair assessment of her practice. Many of her clients were helped by her and went on to live fuller, happier, more productive lives. Nor was she being fair to Damaris. But seeing the other woman provoked in Alex a sense of impotence in her and invariably annoyed and depressed her. That's why Alex always scheduled her early in the day and made room for a break after she left.
When Alex considered that there was a young girl in a nearby hospital fighting for her life, who would be scarred both mentally and physically forever if she survived, Damaris's melodrama over minor complaints grated more than usual.
With her fingertips, Alex rubbed her temples where a dull throb beat. These headaches of hers were getting worse. She knew it was the stress of dealing with this case—one more reason she hoped it would be over soon. But as her mother used to say, if wishes were horses beggars would ride. She needed to do something proactive to feel like she was accomplishing something. But what?
Her phone rang, startling her. It was her private line, not the one that went through Alice. Very few people had that number, but since it was one number off from the main one, people often dialed it by mistake. “Dr. Waters, how can I help you?”
“Dr. Waters, this is Ginnie Thorpe.”
Alex sat up in her seat. Walter's sister was calling her? “What can I do for you, Ms. Thorpe?”
“You can't believe the things they're saying about my brother, can you? My brother is no killer.”
Alex didn't know how any human could state that so unequivocally about another human. No one could know completely the depths of another's psyche. But given the nature of these crimes, she could see how Ginnie Thorpe's mind would rebel at the possibility that her brother could be responsible.
“Do you know where Walter is?” Alex asked.
“He hasn't tried to contact me, if that's what you mean. I don't think he would now considering his name is all over the papers. He wouldn't want to get me involved.”
Alex didn't know if she bought that. Walter had looked to his big sister for protection and had railed about her running away and not providing it.
“What is it you really want to tell me?” she aked Ginnie.
“I'm not trying to say we had an ideal childhood. My mother had no use for Walter, but not because he was a boy. He was born sickly and problematic. She couldn't be bothered. But let's face it Doctor, my brother was not the brightest bulb in the box, if you know what I mean. I doubt he'd know a Greek god from a can of tuna fish. But if he did, they'd have to better than the flesh-and-blood men my mother brought home.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother made her living on her back. She brought men home. Most of them slapped her around before or after, you know what I mean? I hated it, but Walter used to watch. If the door was cracked a little, you could see them in the broken mirror over her dresser without them noticing you.”
Well, that might explain Thorpe's predilection for shattered mirrors and the linkage between violence and sex. “You didn't watch?”
“No. I figured I might be next.”
“Were you?”
There was a long pause before the sister answered. “Sometimes.”
Alex exhaled. Such a warped family, but nothing she hadn't seen a hundred times before. What did surprise her was Ginnie Thorpe's candidness, especially since the purpose of the call was ostensibly to prove her brother's innocence. Nothing she'd said so far had been all that helpful in that regard.
“Someone must be framing him, Ginnie continued, “someone who hates him. I don't know. Our mother might have been a whore, but she died when we were ten years old. Walter was never fixated on that junk.”
It wasn't unheard of for one criminal to mimic another's pattern in order to deflect suspicion from themselves. Whoever was committing the murders might have co-opted Thorpe's m.o. and added his own sickness to it. But could she believe that happened here? She honestly didn't know.
The line went dead and Alex hung up the phone, wondering what Ginnie Thorpe's true motive had been for making the call. Could someone be framing Walter? Or could someone be using Walter's psychosis as the basis for a killing spree? Even if either implausible scenario was true, who could it be?
Alex leaned back in her chair. There always the possibility that Walter's sister was as nuts as he was. No one survived such a childhood unscathed. They didn't all become serial killers or criminals of any kind, but a good dose of therapy wouldn't hurt. She rested her elbows on the table and put her forehead in her hands.
A knock sounded at her door. “Anybody home?”
Alex looked up to see Roberta peeking in her door.
Roberta slumped into one of the visitor chairs. “You look like hell anyway. Late night?”
Roberta sounded far too hopeful for Alex's liking. “You could put it that way.”
“That wouldn't have anything to do with that hunky police detective who keeps showing up here, would it?”
Alex sighed again. She wasn't the type of woman to run to her girlfriends with every bit of dirt from her own life. She didn't mind being a shoulder for others, but her secret thoughts she kept, well, secret. If Sammy had taught her anything it was to guard closely what she held dear, and that included her emotions.
Still, it would be nice to have the opinion of someone who wouldn't judge her, berate her, or cause her name to be mentioned in the
Daily News
.
“What are you so worried about spilling? I already know he's your father's ex-partner.”
“How did you find that out?”
Roberta offered her a wicked smile. “A certain lawyer and I are following the case. We shared.”
Alex cast Roberta a disgusted look. Leave it to a lawyer to ferret out things that were none of their business in the first place. “So what if he is?”
“That means you two have some sort of history, no?”
“We knew each other. If you must know, I had a monster crush on him.” That wasn't an accurate description of what she'd felt, but it was one Roberta would understand. In truth, she'd cared for him as if they were equals, though in fact they hadn't been.
“So what's the problem? I caught a glimpse of him looking at you. He's interested. Worse things could happen to a girl than to have her girlhood crush panting after her.”
“Here's the problem, as you put it, in a nutshell. Zach idolized my father. He was young and my father took him under his wing. I'm sure you can imagine that the things that make one an ideal cop and mentor are not the same things your average girl is looking for in a father.”
“I guess not.”
“If someone has to disabuse Zach of his notions about my father, I don't want to have to be the one to do it.”
The minute the words were out of her mouth Alex knew she lied. That's what she'd been telling herself, but Zach was a big boy. He could handle the truth about her father. It was Zach's opinion of her she worried would change. Even after all this time she still cared what he thought of her.

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