Dead Shot (20 page)
He recalled the address from the file at Harley’s and slowed as he approached it.
The cozy little home sat on a hill on the outermost edge of Davidson County. A split-rail fence lined the drive leading up. Two white clapboard outbuildings dotted the grassy knoll. The house itself had a tidy front porch with dollhouse trim. A couple of old rockers sat on the porch, but whether or not they were the same rockers Gillian had slept in on the cover of
People,
he couldn’t say. A sturdy stone chimney meant a fireplace inside. A real one, not the ersatz kind with the gas logs.
Ray understood how Holland could have fallen in love with this sweetheart of a home. Just the kind of romantic little farmhouse a woman in the mood to nest would love.
But was she in the mood to nest? Her parents had a huge mansion in Belle Meade. Why had she come all the way out here and buried herself? Press reports had her giving up the fast life for her child, but Gillian had been six or seven when Holland renounced the celebrity world. Why the sudden change?
He slowed, pulled over to stop. He could imagine Holland with her small blond angel of a daughter. A refugee from the bar scene, the fashion shoots, the celebrity treadmill. Twenty years ago the house could have been a refuge. A sanctuary. But nestled among the rolling Tennessee hills, it would also have been isolated from the world. Which would have made it easy for the killer to creep up unnoticed by anyone. Holland could have screamed, and no one would have heard her. And her murderer could have escaped down any one of the twisting offshoots that wound around the hills.
He slipped the crime-scene photograph out of his pocket. This morning, he’d found it in the shirt he’d worn to Harley’s. He didn’t remember pocketing it, so he must have done it absently, not even thinking. Today, he’d done it on purpose, though at the time he didn’t know he’d be here, staring at the front door of Holland Gray’s pretty tomb.
He stared at the photo, something nagging at him. Something to do with the house? He was tempted to get out and knock on the door. See if the current occupants would let him in. He had an overwhelming urge to view the back, the place where the killer might have slipped in, the kitchen with its linoleum floor where Holland Gray had died.
Would he see something no one else had? Find some unnoticed connection between what happened then and what was happening now? And why did he even care? He was done with Gillian.
His cell phone rang. “Ray, it’s Jimmy. Where’s your client?”
“My client? You mean Gillian?”
“Yeah, you got any other clients? I thought you guys took it easy and worked one at a time.”
Ray let the barb pass. He could have said Gillian wasn’t his client anymore, but then Jimmy would have just hung up. “Why? What happened?”
“That reporter at the
Tennessean,
Benton James?”
“What about him?”
“He got another photograph.”
Gillian stared out the limousine window on the way back from the Art House. The black glass tinted the landscape dark and shadowed.
Someone had died. Someone else. Not Gillian, never her. Just another imitation.
Once again, a photograph had been staged and sent. Someone had described it to the new guy, and he in turn had described it to Gillian. The den with TV on, the cookies and milk on the floor, the body, lying half on, half off a game of solitaire. The smear of blood over the ace of spades from the raw and bloody slit across the young girl’s throat.
After School.
Gillian remembered the photograph well. The complicated shoot, the effort to get every detail absolutely correct in its ordinariness.
Especially the victim’s open and staring eyes.
I see you, she’d wanted them to say. Come whisper your name in my ear.
But he’d whispered his name in someone else’s ear.
A runaway. A natural blonde. And young. So young. Landowe had said fifteen or sixteen.
Tears clogged the back of Gillian’s throat, but she hung on, dry-eyed and alone. They’d rushed her out of the Art House so fast, they’d even left Maddie behind.
And the new guy, Eat-a-Cow, refused to answer her questions.
The driver pulled up to a back door, and she stumbled out of the car. The new guy crowded her from behind, holding her arm, guiding her inside the hotel like a dog herding sheep.
“Back off,” she told him.
“This is standard—”
“Yeah, I know.” She shrugged her arm away. “Back off anyway.”
The new guy’s jaw tightened, but he took a half step back. Gillian picked up her pace, and, by some miracle, the elevator was open and waiting when she got there. She dove in just as it closed, leaving Landowe behind.
“Miss Gray!” The cry came as a muffled roar through the door and what sounded like . . . a kick? Well, good for you, Push-a-Plow.
Not that she’d rid herself of him for long. He was probably huffing up the stairs that very moment, and knowing her luck, he’d be right there when the door opened at her floor.
But Landowe didn’t greet her when the elevator opened.
Ray did.
She gasped, then cursed silently for letting him take her by surprise.
“Miss me?” He made the question a goad and a come-on at the same time, nodding for her to exit.
She slipped past, not looking at him. What was that emotion buffeting her—excitement? Happiness? She didn’t want to feel that good about seeing anyone. Not now. Not ever. Especially not Ray Pearce.
“Sure I did. Like a bad cold.”
Just then, Landowe jolted through the exit door to the stairs. He was breathing heavily.
“Miss Gray,” he panted, leaning over his knees. “Don’t . . . don’t do that again.”
Ray gave him an understanding pat on the back. “Take a break. I’ve got her.” Like she was a wild horse they were trying to corral.
Landowe nodded, and they left him in the hallway.
Inside the suite, Ray turned to her. “Burke’s on his way over, so brace yourself.” He said it flatly, no censure for what she’d done, no explanations for why he returned.
He was right. There were too many more important things to think about. Recriminations could wait. She had to focus on murder, on correcting the wheel of fate. Turning it to face her instead of those other poor innocents.
She sank onto a barstool, suddenly weary.
“There’s something else,” he said.
She looked up. Saw the bad news forming behind his eyes.
“While we were checking out Maddie’s computer, we found another message on your Web site.”
She played with an empty coffee cup, dread building. “What did it say?”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “‘I make it real.’”
She caught his gaze. Meaning crashed around her.
“He’s creating an actual death.” She squeezed her nails into her palm to keep from screaming. “I just . . . shoot pictures.”
“Looks like it.”
A cold, gray wave shook her. That bastard was using her. Using her the way every critic of her work predicted— to create more death and violence. She leaned over the bar, scrambling for a glass, a cup, a ledge, something to keep her from falling.
What she found was Ray. A strong hand at her back, steadying her. “It’s okay,” he said softly.
“The hell it is.”
He was silent.
“You still think it’s Maddie?” she said at last.
“Maybe,” he conceded.
“She was with me at the school. Your pal Landowe saw her with his own eyes the whole time we were there.”
“She wasn’t with you last night after you left the bar. And that’s when the message was sent.” He paused. She could tell she wasn’t going to like what came next. “Look, there’s no sign of Post yet. Which is why we have to get you out of this hotel. Too many people know where you are.”
She didn’t like it. “I don’t think so.”
Ray stared at her. “You’re kidding. You’re going to give me a hard time about this?”
Another confrontation brewing. Normally, she’d say bring it on. Except she knew what she knew and didn’t want to argue about it.
She peered at him closely. “What are you doing here exactly? I thought you quit.”
Ray left the bar, crossed to the wall of window. Hands shoved in his pockets, he gazed at the closed drapes. He didn’t want to analyze why he was back here. Why he was staring into those troubled violet eyes once more. But running into Nancy, then seeing the house that symbolized the core of Gillian’s personal tragedy . . .
He remembered the day campus police had arrived at his dorm room. That had been shock enough, but beyond that half-second reaction, he’d known, bone deep, that something terrible had happened. They took him inside, made him sit on the narrow, twin bed. While the dread churned inside him, another voice laughed and told him he was getting worked up over nothing. It was probably a parking ticket, or something to do with the hockey team. Then, with the kind of impersonal compassion that soldiers and cops have for complete strangers whose lives they are about to change, they told him that his mother had wrecked her car and herself, and they were sorry for his loss.
He’d had misgivings about going away to school in the first place. Vague unease that he couldn’t verbalize. But Birmingham had given him a free ride in exchange for playing hockey—an offer he couldn’t afford to turn down.
But after the police patted his shoulder and left him numb and speechless, he’d been alone in his room, staring at
An Introduction to Political Science.
And he finally understood what he’d been afraid of. That leaving meant taking his eyes off her. And who knew what would happen if he wasn’t watching?
“You’ve got two dead bodies on your tail,” he said at last. “Why make it a third?”
Gillian came up beside him, and he felt her there, small and vulnerable. “So,” she said, “you’re sticking around? I don’t know how I feel about that.” Her mouth twisted wryly at the corners, the first sign of a smile since his return.
“One condition,” he said.
“Why are there always conditions with you?”
“Send Maddie home. She’s one more body to look out for.”
“I need her.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, she needs me.”
“Fine, I won’t argue that.”
“I’m not going to let her think that I blame her in any way—”
“Look, forget blame. Just think about this. What if the killer comes after you and misses? What if he gets Mad-die instead?”
He watched the message hit home. Followed up before she could marshal an argument. “I can send Landowe to pick her up at the Art House. They can take her directly to the airport. You can have her bags shipped.”
“Are you kidding? I’m not shipping her off like a package. She comes here, I explain it to her, and we say goodbye. Like real people.”
Gillian might have plenty of faults, but disloyalty wasn’t one of them. “Okay.” He held up a palm. “All right. I’ll have Landowe bring her back here.”
Burke showed up at the hotel before Maddie did. The guard let him in, and he pushed past Ray to the living area where he laid a heavy black binder on the coffee table. He looked like he hadn’t slept much. Given the circumstances, two murders, clearly serialized, who could blame him?
“Any line on Kenny Post yet?” Ray asked.
“We got BOLOs out for him, here and in New York. Hopefully we’ll find him.”
“It’s not him,” Gillian said.
Burke cast a sharp glance her way. “What makes you say that?”
“Because it’s someone who’s been here before. Kenny didn’t know anything about my mother until I told him. He’s too young anyway.”
“You still think the murders are connected?”
“Of course.”
Burke eyed her, thinking it over.
“Did you call Harley Samuels?” she asked.
“I did.”
“And?”
“Look, I can’t give you the details of our investigation.
But if anything comes up that you need to know or you can help us with, I’ll be sure to tell you.”
She glared at him. “You arrogant—”
“People in glass houses—”
“Thanks,” Ray said, interrupting the gathering storm. He looked at Burke. Dead people he was great with. But the living . . . “Appreciate whatever you can tell us.”
Somewhat mollified, Burke said, “Take a look at this.” He slid a photograph onto the table. A teenager with overteased blond hair and too much makeup. “Dawn Farrell,” he said. “Our second victim. Ever seen her before?”
Gillian studied the picture. “No.” She spoke coldly, but her throat caught on the word. She cleared it. “Never.”
“Where were you last night?”
Her eyes flashed. “Me? Why the hell do you want to know where I—”
“She was here under guard,” Ray said quickly. “And downstairs in the bar. Also under guard.”
“No one approached you who seemed . . .” Burke shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know . . . strange? Obsessed with your work?”
