Daddy's Little Killer (26 page)

"Keep your pants on, princess.  I'll
call you the second I've got the results."

"That sounds about right.  Do me a
favor.  Call her back and tell her to stop calling me
princess.  Anything else happen?"

"Not yet.  The key seems to be the
biggest lead so far."

"Perhaps it is.  Listen, I'm gonna try
to get caught up with a power nap this afternoon.  Is it
feasible that you could meet me at seven or eight tonight?  We
may have some more people to take statements from, and I could
really use the backup."

"You found living victims in the area?"

"We're not sure these crimes were committed
by the same guy yet, Charlie.  Let's not start jumping to
conclusions.  When Maya has the DNA results for comparison,
we'll know if we're moving in the right direction with hard
evidence.  In the meantime, it's not going to hurt to talk to
women who were clearly the victims of a serial rapist."

"Gotcha, chief."

"And Charlie?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Don't call me
chief.  It's
Helen
."

"Right.  Sorry."

"I'll call you after my power nap.  In
the meantime, if something breaks in the investigation, call me
regardless."

"Will do.  Helen."

I grinned and disconnected the call. 
The necessary software to search for my rape survivors was
installed, so I started working my way back in reverse
chronological order.  Some of the names belonged to girls
still in their teens.  It would be messy, not to mention
unkind, to dredge this up for any of them, but the minors would
present specific problems I wanted to avoid until we were certain
that the DNA was a match to that left by Gwen Foster's rapist.

Two names on the list from reports seven
years ago popped out on the list.  "Interesting. 
Sisters.  Candace and Caroline Blevins, aged fifteen at the
time of the assault, now a few weeks shy of age 22."  I typed
in Caroline's name first.

"You've gotta be kidding me."  Her
address popped up on the screen.  "She's living on Hennessey
Island.  What luck!"

A few keystrokes later and the rap sheet of
her sister scrolled down the screen.  "What have we
here.  Candace, aka Candy Blevins, multiple arrests for
prostitution, drugs, underage drinking … whoa."  The record
stretched back farther than the date of the assault. 
Shoplifting, truancy, curfew violations.  "Candy is the girl I
need to talk to."

Last known address, Portico.  "Please
let this be one of the suburbs Briscoe mentioned last night. 
Please let it be." 

Google maps dashed my hopes.  Portico
was fifty miles south of Darkwater Bay along a historic state
highway.  I Googled the address of the local police department
and spoke to a desk sergeant.  After explaining who I was and
the case at hand, I requested copies of the files that detailed the
sexual assault complaints.

"I remember those two," the sergeant snorted
softly.  "Carrie was a sweet kid, utterly devastated by what
happened to her.  That other one, she was bad news from day
one.  You ask me, she could've been behind the whole
thing."

"Excuse me?"  Images of the partners in
crime that Maya and I discussed this morning flitted on the backs
of my eyelids.

"There's something wrong with that girl, Dr.
Eriksson.  I know it doesn't sound very kosher for a cop to
say that about someone claiming to be a victim of a violent crime
like those assaults were, but Candy Blevins was a fast girl before
her thirteenth birthday."

I physically recoiled from the
insinuation.  "So because she was sexually active at a very
young age, somehow that justifies sexual assault?"

"Not what I meant.  You read the files
and draw your own conclusions.  Better yet, track Candy down
up there."

"I have her last known address in Portico,
sergeant."

"Uh-huh, because she ran away when she was
sixteen and hasn't had a legal residence since then.  That
address you've got?  It's her folks place down here. 
Believe me, if Candy was back in town, we'd know about it."

I gave him Orion's fax number, retouched my
makeup for lunch with Lowe and left the penthouse.

Chapter 24

Jerry Lowe's neighborhood was a dead end
street nestled into the Nightingale suburb of Darkwater Bay. 
The quiet nook within an already stately community was so
picturesque, I found it breathtaking.  Huge oak trees with
branches spreading so far and wide they resembled a canopy lined
the street.  It was impossible to tell where one tree stopped
and the next began unless I looked for the massive tree trunks.

The sidewalks weren't the typical slabs of
concrete either.  Natural stone had been laid carefully to
form the cobblestone walkways.  Every lawn was perfectly shorn
to equal lengths, mowed in a diagonal pattern, and the greens were
vibrant and unvaried.  I thought if a moment of history could
be frozen in time, it would surely be Lowe's neighborhood, and
undoubtedly would be a Rockwell painting hanging in a gallery
somewhere.

Finding the specific house wasn't difficult,
even though trees obscured clear views of the homes.  Black
and white paint decorated the curb in front of each residence,
identifying the assigned house numbers.

Gwen Foster's neighborhood
was impressive with its sprawling homes and affluent
trappings.  Jerry's street was charming without being
pretentious.  It struck me as an odd incongruity to the man
everyone said was
the real Jerry
Lowe
.  "I'll make my own assessment,"
my stubbornness forced the opinion out into the universe. 
Sure, I could listen to everyone around me, but Weber and Hardy's
black cloud gave me pause to wonder if there weren't others
suffering in silence at the hand of someone who knew too much and
wasn't afraid to play his ace. 

Danny Datello popped to mind
immediately.  This was exactly the sort of behavior I had
witnessed first hand from dear old Uncle Sully.  Apples don't
fall far from the tree.

I picked my way along the lovely cobblestone
path to Lowe's porch.  The house didn't appear to be more than
a decade old, but was built in the Victorian style, two stories,
wrap around front porch, a charming turret spiring at the left
corner of the house. 

A swing on the front porch hung from chains
secured to the ceiling with heavy hooks.  White lath style
ceiling didn't have a speck of dirt visible to the naked eye. 
The house was a soft heather gray, a little heavy on blue
tones.  The swing was painted charcoal in a high gloss. 
It swung gently in the late spring breeze.

Facing outward at the front door was a door
mat.  WELCOME was emblazoned in white and surrounded by lilac
sprays.  I hadn't noticed a ring on Lowe's left hand, but the
house screamed of a woman's influence.

Or perhaps that was Jerry's big secret that
someone might wield over him to solicit complete obedience. 
"Do you have a flair for home decorating, Jerry?"

The front door swung open, and the man I
didn't expect to see at Jerry Lowe's home appeared.  I
bristled before he had the chance to speak.

"I was about to ring."

"I saw you drive up," Flynn Myre said
blandly.  "I was here discussing another case with the
chief.  Won't be long, or interrupt your … lunch."  His
eyes roved from head to toe in an unsettling squint.

Lowe appeared a moment later, kitchen towel
in one hand, corkscrew in the other.  He shoved both toward
Myre and jerked his head toward the kitchen.  "Helen," the
smile was warm and genuine this time, not the plastic one he forced
after he learned who I was, why I arrived in Darkwater Bay. 
"I'm so glad you're here.  I trust you didn't have any
difficulty finding the place." 

I wondered at the reversal in his original
reaction to meeting me.  Perhaps I would find the right moment
to slip an innocent inquiry into our conversation.  "Sorry it
took me so long to get to the door.  I couldn't help but
admire this cozy little neighborhood, Jerry.  Nightingale is
beautiful from what I've seen of it, but this ... this is simply
breathtaking."

Myre disappeared behind a wall in the rear
of the house.  I struggled to focus on Lowe and ignore his
unexpected guest.

"I know what you mean.  While I'd love
to take credit for its curb appeal, I'm afraid I haven't the time,
patience or green thumb for it.  We have a home owner's
association.  The dues seemed ridiculous at first, but when I
realized that the money was indeed being put to good use, I was
more than happy to let them do their thing."

My eyes took in the living room in Jerry's
house.  Intricately carved wood spindles marked the airy
separation between foyer and living room.  Jerry Lowe
apparently had an appreciation for books.  An entire wall was
lined with built-in shelves, adorned with volumes, some appearing
very old.

"I've been collecting them
for years."  He followed my eyes.  "Are you an aficionado
of the classics, Helen?  I've got an impressive Shakespeare
collection, but my pride and joy is a pristine first edition
of
Origin of Species
."

"That must've cost a fortune.  Do you
mind if I peruse the titles?"

"Be my guest.  I've got a bottle of
chardonnay chilling.  I think I'll pour us a glass while you
stroll."

"Is that wise?  I mean, we're both
working today."

"You are," he smiled warmly.  "I took
the afternoon off.  I hadn't planned to return from my
vacation until next week, but after the frantic messages I received
Tuesday night, I thought it best to postpone the rest of my trip
until this matter involving my neighbor is resolved."

"Her home is only a few blocks from here,
isn't it?"  I hadn't noticed when I drove over this
afternoon.

"One if you cut through back yards.  I
must say, my neighbors are quite shaken up over what
happened.  In general, the people in close proximity to my
house have been lulled into a sense of false security, I suppose,
having the chief of detectives living nearby.  It's a
difficult lesson that the violence in this city isn't limited to
the less affluent areas in Darkwater proper."  He gestured
toward the books.  "Help yourself.  I'll be right
back."

The collection was eclectic, Shakespeare and
Darwin not withstanding, Jerry also had rare editions of Tolstoy,
commentaries on Voltaire, John Donne and other revered philosophers
from the period of enlightenment.

A glass of wine appeared between the books
and my nose.  "Do you like wine?"

"Love it, although I usually drink red."

"I took a trip to Napa last fall and brought
home several cases of reds.  There was a delicious merlot that
you might appreciate.  Would you prefer that instead of the
chardonnay?"

"I'm not sure I should have this. 
Can't have me showing up to question people with alcohol on my
breath, can we?"

"I wasn't aware that you had suspects to
interview yet.  Then again, George and Donald aren't sharing
much with me about this case."

"I'm sorry for that, Jerry.  I won't
pretend to understand the dynamics in the police department, but I
have noticed that Darkwater Bay seems to be a universe unto itself
at times.  From what little I've seen so far at least."

"Do you, or did you, feel that their
decision reflected directly on the job I've done as chief of
detectives?"

"No," I hastily assured him.  "In fact,
you weren't mentioned at all when the unusual agreement we made was
reached.  It was my firm belief at the time that Commissioner
Hardy and Chief Weber merely wanted to try something different, to
shake up the status quo as it were.  In a sense, it was a
stroke of unbelievable circumstance that the very first case I
encountered seems to be linked to such a deep wound in the
city."

"Some of us don't believe in
coincidences."

"I'm a steadfast member of that club," I
admitted, "but without any evidence to the contrary, I have no
reason to believe that this is more an unfortunate
coincidence." 

I sipped the glass of wine he served. 
"Mmm.  Delicious.  Is this domestic?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?  I find
that most domestic chardonnays run a little too dry, and a little
too woody.  Unless of course, you have the fortune of sampling
at the vineyard rather than relying on the stock at the local wine
and liquor store."

"You have excellent taste.  Not just
the wine.  The books are exquisite, Jerry.  I can't tell
you how refreshing it is to see a personal library in the home of a
fellow law enforcement professional and not be inundated with
titles that belong at the office."

"We seem to have a lot in common," his smile
reached the steel gray eyes and made them twinkle.

"I was afraid that you were so offended that
George and Donald hired me, that we might never have the
opportunity to develop a rapport," I tested the waters with the tip
of a toe into the conversation I itched to begin.  "You know,
it was never my intention to to step on any toes or alienate anyone
at Central Division."  Lie.  It was no secret what I
thought of Flynn Myre, and no amount of schooled features could
hide my disgust.

"
Anyone
?"

I smiled.  "You know what I
mean."  I wondered if Myre was still lurking about
somewhere.  Was Lowe chastising me gently for my poor reaction
to the rumpled detective?

"I'd like to be very direct with you,
Helen.  At first, I was very offended that George and Don went
behind my back and brought in an outsider.  It stung, like
they were setting me up to be the scapegoat for the failures at
Central Division specifically.  I know our detective squad
needs a great deal more oversight than my other divisions
require.  It isn't for lack of effort on my part that the
standard hasn't improved over the years."