Dead Women Tell No Lies (11 page)

His gaze fell again on Dahlia’s wedding announcement. Her ex worked as a mechanic on foreign cars. Luke would try tracing him through garages in the nearby states. It was too much of a coincidence that the guy disappeared when Dahlia did.

Luke grabbed his father’s cold case files from his desk. No time to look for clues about his father’s death today. Luke stuffed the folders into the cabinet and locked the drawer.

Frank was expecting him. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair, but stopped at the sound of the fax machine whirling into action. He stood waiting for the news to spit out. Finally, he snatched up the paper. One word leaped out at him:
Forensics.

* * *

Rose paced the length of the living room, paused and glanced at her watch again. Lennox had called and told her he’d swing by to talk. His voice had sounded low and hurried when he announced he’d be there in less than five minutes.

She tilted her chin upward. “Gram, I sure hope Lennox found Dahlia’s killer.”

Rose shoved the blanket on the sofa bed aside and sat down. The fragrance of rose tickled her nose. Where was that scent coming from? She inhaled, trying to determine the source. The scent grew stronger. She rubbed her arms, feeling a draft. She leaped to her feet and spotted her.

Dahlia stood at the end of the room in front of the two windows with the shades drawn tight. Rose stifled a cry.

Dahlia’s wet hair was plastered to an ashen face. She raised bound hands toward Rose.

“What do you want?”

Dahlia pointed at her.

“Me?” She struggled to breathe before she rallied. “Please, Dahlia, I need
your help
. I can’t find the person who murdered you. Tell me his name.”

Her sister’s image dimmed against the white wall.

“Wait! Why did you come to Ledgeview? Why did you leave home? Who threw you off the bridge? Give me a name or a description. How do I find him?”

Dahlia vanished from the room. The rose perfume and the cold air disappeared.

“Okay, I’ve had enough.” Her sister never cooperated. Rose stuffed the gun in her purse, scooped up her coat and left the apartment. She fumed over Dahlia as she ran down the stairs. Her sister always went by her own agenda, coming in to work late, leaving early. Outside Rose welcomed the ordinary sounds of traffic and people passing without disappearing or glancing her way.

Why was Dahlia haunting her? She must want to send her a message, or maybe her sister was playing a game to drive her crazy. Dahlia’s sense of humor was often twisted or juvenile. Rose stomped to the other end of the walkway and zipped her parka to her chin though the temperature was close to fifty.

How long would her sister’s ghost appear? Was her time short or forever? Rose stopped in front of the steps. Cars shot past, and the odor of exhaust mixed with the cool air. She paced the walk for several more seconds and scanned the street for Lennox. The back of her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. “Dahlia?”

No hint of rose cologne floated in the air. It wasn’t her sister. The feeling was different, almost nauseous. Who was spying on her? Rose whirled around, searching the sidewalk, the fronts of the other buildings and the empty parked cars at the curb. Her hand went to the gun inside her purse. She closed her fingers around the weapon. Other than the vehicles driving past, she detected no other movement on the sidewalk or street. Was it her imagination?

A dull ache vibrated in her head. The street warped. Daylight dimmed. The apparition of the path through the woods raced in her mind. Footsteps crunched in the snow. A shadowy figure hovered over her sister, Dahlia, lying on the ground.

No, not now. Rose’s hands dampened. She closed her eyes, forcing the image and sounds away. She needed to stay alert. She couldn’t have a vision. She wasn’t a TV. Perspiration broke out over her skin. She squinted at the traffic passing by. No one tossed a glance her way.

The image of Dahlia pointing her bound hands inched into Rose’s mind.

She stepped closer to the building. The roar of the current filled her ears. The river, dark and gray, raced across her mind. She ran a hand through her hair and wished she could tear the scene from her brain.

The sound of wheels squeaking on the sidewalk grabbed her attention. A gray-haired woman pushing a shopping cart shuffled toward her. Beyond she spotted Lennox’s dark car at the red light. The light turned green, and his vehicle headed toward her. She ran to the curb and jumped inside before he had a chance to cut the engine.

“Didn’t your mother teach you to wait until the car comes to a complete stop before diving in?” Lennox asked, irritation raising his voice.

“Forget your coffee this morning? You sound a little grouchy, and my mother would rather teach me how to catch a cute guy’s attention for a ride than lecture me about safety.”

“Your mother sounds a little… different.”

“She was different. She was a teenage mother who never grew up. Raising children wasn’t Mom’s forte. Even before her death, Gram was our main care provider. Mom was always leaving us with her to go off somewhere.”

“Speaking of somewhere, why are you outside? I was planning on meeting in your apartment. Rose, your stalker could drive past and mark you for his next victim.”

“I didn’t want to stay locked up inside for days.”

“You are supposed to lock yourself up.”

She reached up and pushed the metal knob on the door. “I was getting claustrophobic in the apartment, and I couldn’t stop thinking about my sister. I was starting to see things.”

“What do you mean? Are you okay?” He leaned toward her. “Your face is almost gray.”

“You’re so sweet, Lennox,” she said in a flat, disapproving voice. “I’m a little jittery. Scenes of my sister kept appearing in my head like a bad horror movie.” She clicked in the seatbelt and crossed her arms over the front of her parka. “I needed some fresh air and went out.”

“Did your sister talk to you again?”

“Sorry, nothing to report.” She twisted the strap of her purse in her lap. “You do believe we communicate, don’t you?”

“I’m skeptical by nature.”

“Good, no one escapes your scrutiny as a suspect. What did you learn when you searched the restaurant? Did you find a lead? Was that the big news you hinted about on the phone?”

“We found a few candles near the mattress. Everything could have been left a year or a few months ago. I alerted Dean he had a possible squatter living downstairs. He called the locksmith and reamed them out for not replacing the side and rear entrance locks. My men and I nailed boards across the restaurant exits and entrances last night with Dean’s permission. No one will get in again unless they carry a battering ram.”

“I heard the hammering. What happened to the mattress and footwear?”

“A courier drove everything to the lab. The chance of getting a suspect’s DNA from an old, well-used mattress is slim.” He keyed the engine and backed into the street.

“I hoped you were about to make an arrest. Guess I was dreaming. We’re striking out everywhere, Lennox. Today has gotta be better. Where are we going?”

“I scheduled my visit with Frank, my dad’s partner and a good friend. Since you’re in the car, you might as well come along. But if anyone asks, it’s a personal visit, not official police business. We can’t risk having legalities questioned if we go to court in the future.”

“Absolutely. Where does Frank live?”

“He’s about eight miles out. But I wanted to talk to you about other news. First, I interviewed Buddy. He confirmed he only met your sister for a few minutes at the Audi and never again. More important, a fax came through from the state forensics lab a few minutes ago.”

“Did we hit the jackpot, a lead to the killer from The Ledges?” Her seatbelt held her in place as she shifted toward him.

“Not quite. We discovered squat at The Ledges. No fingerprints or skin cells were found on the duct tape I found or the newspaper stuck in your doorway.”

She sank against her seat. “Your news isn’t encouraging. I thought you found something.”

“No prints or skin cells from the North Conway victim either, but they analyzed the duct tape used on your sister and the other woman. The lab traced them back to the same lot.”

“Which means?” She waved both hands in the air, hoping to speed him up.

“Duct tape lots have their own numbers, and minute similarities can be detectable in a lab. Since the tape used in the two homicides came from an identical roll then...”

“Okay, you’re saying a serial killer murdered my sister.”

Chapter 8

They’d all been perfect. Naïve, trusting girls who believed no one would hurt them. Rose was one of them. He saw it in the way she roamed the streets alone. Trust would be her downfall.

The police would search for her because it was their job. Then she’d fade from their memory, but not all. She’d always be one of ‘the special girls.’

“Technically we don’t have enough proof at the moment to label your sister’s killer a serial, or that your stalker is the person who murdered Dahlia,” Lennox said. “Here’s what I believe. One assailant murdered both women and possibly more in the past, and if not stopped, will continue in the future. In these types of cases, there’s often a pattern of physical similarities among the young women who died, and the most common thread is opportunity. You’re Dahlia’s identical twin. You can’t stand around on the sidewalk like a target. You’ll end up being his next victim.”

Rose’s hands shook. She folded them together and averted her face to the window to regain her composure away from Lennox’s watchful eyes.

The pressure of his hand on hers snapped her attention back to him. She stared at his profile in surprise. He continued to keep a steady gaze on the road, and she fought the urge to link her fingers through his.

Lennox broke their contact to take a left turn without a comment.

She congratulated herself for not overreacting. He was simply offering a gesture of sympathy. He probably reacted the same with anyone who suffered a loss. She was lucky he didn’t pat her on the head.

“When we visit Frank,” Lennox said, “if you enjoy the flowers in the yard, be sure to tell him. He enjoys the compliments and works hard to earn them.”

“Then I will be off to a good start with my name. How long has he been into his hobby?”

“Frank began gardening after his wife left him years ago. The guys at the station called him the Pansy Man. I’m going to ask him to unofficially join our investigation.”

“What? Are you serious? You’re bringing in a person referred to as Pansy!” She couldn’t keep the shock from her voice.

“Even though Frank’s officially retired, he did the work of two detectives and still gets the inside dirt. He’s got connections to the station. He gets together with the guys for breakfast and coffee once a week at Joe’s Coffee Shop, and people trust him. Frank starts recounting the old anecdotes about his wife leaving him while nursing his wilting petunias, and the women melt and pour out their stories. The older ones start thinking he could be husband material and the younger ones think he’s the grandfather they always wanted. “

“I bet the men don’t.”

“Strange you should use that word, bet. Gambling is his one big vice. As far as the men, he utilizes a different strategy with them. Frank’s a good listener who knows when to ask a question. He’s a pro.”

“If his questions solve the case faster, I’m for him. Solving the crime in a couple of minutes would meet my speed, but I’ll settle for tonight.”

“Thanks for the extra hours. I was worried for a second.” He pulled into the driveway of a modest Cape Cod style house with peeling, white paint and sagging, green shutters. A black Chevy sat in front of the detached garage with a rusty rake leaning against the clapboard.

Lennox grabbed a brown paper bag from the rear seat. “There’s nothing like a little refreshment while you discuss a case.”

“You mean bribery, judging from the gift wrap. Do you bring presents to all your friends?”

“Nah, it’s a little pick me up for brunch. Frank doesn’t want to miss all those vitamins and minerals at the most important meal of the day. Wait a moment, Miss Blue, and I’ll get your door.”

He hopped out of the vehicle and hustled around to the passenger side. She shook her head over his archaic, but charming manners, and walked beside him to the front steps. They paused on the top stair while he rang the doorbell. In the yard, patches of snow lay on the brown grass.

“Nothing’s blooming yet,” she whispered. “Guess I won’t be able to sweet talk him with flowery speeches.”

The door opened and Frank Ricci stood in front of them in his rolled up, brown flannel shirt sleeves. He appeared about fifty pounds overweight, but the mass fit the persona of a man who’d be more at home in a wrestling ring than a garden.

“Hey, Luke, you came back home. Too bad, it only took a recent homicide.”

“Frank, thanks for seeing me today.”

“I just finished combing my hair before I answered the door.” He ran his hand over his shiny, bald head. His face glowed as he turned to Rose. “Going to introduce me to the beautiful woman by your side?”