Deadly Interest (13 page)

My childhood sanctuaries were now tainted.
The murderer had no doubt stood in one of these patches, waiting to
move in on Mrs. Vicks, who wanted nothing more than to prepare a
good dinner that night. And to talk to me.

Guilt spread its manipulative fingers
through my mind and heart as I sat there. No matter what anyone
said, no matter how much I tried to convince myself with logical
arguments, I felt as though I should have been able to prevent her
murder that night. I sighed both in regret, and with the
realization that I could’ve been a victim, too. My aunt’s request
that I look into the murder suddenly seemed like the only possible
course of action. And where better to start than here?

I didn’t know much about the young woman
curled in on herself in my passenger seat. I knew she’d attended
college in Minnesota a few years back, but that it hadn’t gone
well. Her freshman year she’d met a much older man, who’d seduced
her in more ways than one. She’d succumbed to the allure of the
highs he provided, both in drugs and in danger. It got sketchy at
that point, but despite interventions, and lots of futile tries,
she’d drifted deep under the man’s spell, and had begun to
prostitute herself for drug money.

It had taken its toll on her. She was
bloated—wasted, and now, at twenty-six, she was starting over—this
time at a small Chicagoland community college, under Mrs. Vicks’
motherly guidance. I worried for Diana, with no one to watch over
her any longer. I imagined she’d move back with her family,
wherever they were.

Just this past summer, after extracting a
promise from me not to mention it to anyone, Mrs. Vicks showed me
Diana’s high school graduation picture. Back then she’d been slim,
with shiny, poker-straight dark hair. Large expressive eyes, lined
in black, stared back at me. Despite the bold makeup and the
diamond stud in her left nostril, the girl was gorgeous. I’d said,
“That’s Diana?” without tempering my disbelief. She’d nearly
doubled her weight since that photo was taken.

Being the curious sort, I’d asked how Diana
came to live here. As she tucked the picture away into a china
cabinet drawer, Mrs. Vicks gave a little sigh, and messed with
other paperwork in the drawer as she spoke. “Diana’s mother is a
good woman,” she said. “We’ve known one another for a long
time.”

I waited.

Looking almost as though she wished she
hadn’t broached the subject, Mrs. Vicks shook her head. “Diana’s
not that much younger than you, Alex. Her mother has had a hard
time raising her alone. I almost wish . . .” She looked up at me
with a sad smile. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. I’m helping
her out, is all. It’s the least I can do.”

As I left her house that day, Mrs. Vicks
placed a warm hand on my arm. “You’ve been blessed to be adopted by
such a wonderful family. Always remember that.”

“
I do,” I said.

Halfway across her back yard, she called out
to me again. “And they’re just as blessed to have you, too,
honey.”

Now, parked in front of Mrs. Vicks’ house, I
gave Diana a moment. She seemed to need it.

She uncurled slow-motion, her face scrunched
up as she stared at the house, more than wariness in her
expression, I thought. Terror. I wondered again what her story was.
The deep breath she took came out ragged and uneven, as though she
was fighting tears again. Deep brown eyes turned my direction.

“
You’re coming in with
me?”

“
If you want,” I said. I’d
planned to; after all, that’s what my Aunt Lena had asked me to do.
“But if you prefer I wait here . . .” I let the thought
hang.

“
No, please,” she said,
startled, grabbing my arm. “Please come in.”

Moments later we stood inside Mrs. Vicks
small entrance hallway, the ribbed rubber mat still right inside,
Mrs. Vicks shoes exactly where she’d left them the day I’d helped
her break into her own home. Two worn white gym shoes, their laces
loosened, one of them knocked on its side, probably by the many
people who trampled through the night of the murder.

I shut the front door, and heard a dull
rattle from far across the house.

“
What was that?” Diana
asked. Even though she whispered, panic shot through her
words.

“
Air pressure,” I said.
“Probably the back windows vibrating. Happens at my house all the
time when I open and close the door.”

“
You sure?”

I wasn’t, but I knew better than to admit
it. “Yeah. Same sound. Exactly.” I turned on a nearby lamp, and
smiled when light dispelled the creepy emptiness of the room.
“See?” I said. “Nobody’s here.”

We took off our coats right inside, and
draped them over one of the fat green swivel chairs that flanked
the front windows. “Come on,” I said, my voice a little loud,
“we’ll take a look around and you’ll see it’s fine.”

Diana wasn’t holding onto me, but she might
just as well have been. She hovered so close behind that I could
smell her stale, musty body odor. Mixed with the tang of sweat from
her fear, it caused me to lean away. I kept my mouth closed, moving
toward the kitchen, hoping to put some airspace between us.

Diana’s bedroom stood just off the living
room, and she broke away from me, toward it, looking every
direction at once, peering around the doorway, the upper half of
her body stretching to allow her to scan the small room, as she
flicked on the lights before stepping foot inside. I pitied her,
but this was exactly the way she’d have to do it. Small steps.

A half-second later, her voice rang out.
“Where are you going?”

“
Just right here,” I said,
inching down the dark hall, swinging my arm to gesture. Just like
my house, Mrs. Vicks didn’t have a dining room. Her bedroom was in
back, just off the kitchen, and I wanted to take a look.

Diana spoke again, her panic so clear that
her voice hurt my ears. “But she was murdered in the kitchen.”

“
I know.”

“
You don’t want to go in
there,” she said.

“
Actually,” I said, in my
best calming voice, “I do. I’ll just take a look around while you
gather your things, okay?”

I was curious in a morbid way, to see where
Mrs. Vicks had been slain, but even more than that, I wanted to
distance myself from Diana. Her closeness and her need to cling
were smothering; I had to fight the urge to shove her away.

I knew my aunt wanted Diana to move back in
here, the sooner the better. If her behavior thus far was any
indication, however, Diana was never coming back.

Other than the occasional snuffle and sounds
of moving about from the front end of the house, letting me know
that Diana stayed busy in her room, the house was quiet.

Dark, too.

Whoever had been the last person out hadn’t
left on any lights. I crawled my left hand against the long wall,
in search of the light switch I knew was about halfway down. Just
before I reached it, I heard a muffled bump.

“
You okay?” I
asked.

No answer from Diana, so I raised my voice
and called out again.

“
Yeah, why?”

The last thing I wanted to tell her was that
I’d heard an unexplained noise. My house was full of them.
Everyone’s house was full of them. But right now, in Diana’s
fragile state, it might be enough to send her screaming out the
front door.

“
No reason,” I lied. “Just
checking.”

I flipped up the light, and the room flooded
with artificial brightness. The cheerful yellow kitchen seemed less
so today. The steaming scent of pork roast had given way to a
chemical odor, and the warmth I’d felt that night was nowhere to be
found. As if its life, along with Mrs. Vicks’, had been taken away
that day.

I made a slow tour of the room, documenting
every detail that might or might never prove important. The police
evidence technicians had been through the house, and black
fingerprint powder clung to every surface. I couldn’t imagine that
I’d find anything material that they missed. I certainly had
nowhere near their capability for obtaining and analyzing
left-behind hairs, fingerprints, DNA.

But, as my mind warmed to the idea of
analysis, I might be more likely to pick up on something out of the
ordinary for Mrs. Vicks, that might seem commonplace for anyone
else.

The kitchen table looked a lot like it had
when I’d left the house Thursday night. Files and paperwork
scattered across the Formica top, though rather than in precise
piles, the papers were strewn about, having slid out from their
neat manila folders. A few had hit the floor, some lying open and
face-down.

I thought about David’s tidbit of
information regarding Mrs. Vicks’ financial affairs and I picked
through them, looking for her name as account-holder at the top of
them.

Another bump. This time I cocked my head. I
could have sworn it came from below me. “Diana?” I asked, raising
my voice to be heard. “Did you knock something over?”

She didn’t answer, so I ignored it.

The crime scene had been cleaned up. By whom
I had no idea. Even though they’d done an admirable job of removing
what must have been a stomach-wrenching mess, I could tell, by a
few stray marks, where Mrs. Vicks had fallen. The evidence
technicians who’d been through here had no doubt taken everything
they needed. Now I had free rein to search for what I needed.

Too bad I had no idea what that was.

I knew just from standing there that I’d
find nothing in the kitchen. Mrs. Vicks bedroom was steps away. The
heavy oak door, four horizontal panels polished to a high sheen,
stood slightly ajar and I pushed it open, wincing at the long
creaking noise as the hinges protested my entrance.

Heavy draperies shut out even the pale
moonlight. The room was dark as a cave and almost as cold. I
fingered the wall, looking for a switch, even as my eyes became
accustomed to the dimness. Flicking it up, I squinted at the same
moment in anticipation of bright light, and felt my eyes widen in
surprise when nothing happened.

From her room, Diana screamed. “Alex!”

I froze in place. “What?”

“
My lights!”

Turning fast to return to the still-bright
kitchen, I opened my mouth to answer her as Diana lumbered in. I
caught sight her panicked face for one half-moment.

Then, those lights went out.

Diana’s high-octave scream coincided with
the plunge of my stomach. Lights generally went out at once, not
one room at a time. Not without help. The fuse box was in the
basement, which meant whoever had killed the lights was still down
there, too.

We weren’t alone in the house.

“
Alex,” she cried
again.

“
Shush,” I said, my voice
sharp, my senses on frenzied alert. “Move,” I said. Positioned
dead-center in the narrow hall, she blocked our way out.

She ignored my imperative, her chilled
fingers finding me in the dark. Clamping onto my right arm, she
pulled me toward her, her breath coming in hot shallow beats
against the side of my face. I shook her off, with an involuntary
brusqueness that meant that my flight or fight reflexes had fully
engaged.

Diana tried reaching again, her fingertips
skimming me as she emitted little whimpers of terror. I sidestepped
her in the dark, and issued a whispered order for her to run—to get
help.

She didn’t move.

More shallow sobs and even as I worried
she’d hyperventilate, my mind raced through all possible scenarios,
all possible outcomes. If the killer had come back, we needed help
and we needed it now.

“
Go,” I said, shoving hard
at Diana, fully intending to follow her out the front door. As my
eyes started to become accustomed to the darkness, I flinched at
the blankness I saw in her expression. The girl was in
shock.

“
Diana—” shaking her, “Go,
already.”

She sat, her body dropping against the wall,
sliding down with a whump.

I grabbed for her arm; it was like pulling
at a sandbag. Her bulky body didn’t move.

I uttered an expletive under my breath.
“Goddamn it, Diana—move! Or I will goddamn leave you here.”

My words had no effect. Whether she knew I
didn’t mean it, or she just hadn’t heard, I couldn’t tell.

It didn’t matter.

Dropping her arm, I lunged for the phone,
just steps away.

Banging against one of the aluminum chairs,
then banging into the kitchen table, I reached the receiver and
grabbed the portable phone. Blinking, I tried to make out which was
the ‘on’ switch as I moved back to stand near Diana.

Two buttons looked promising and I pressed
each, in turn, waiting for the welcome sound of a dial tone.

Nothing.

I shook the phone, then heard the heavy
wooden basement door open below, realizing too late that the lack
of electricity rendered a portable phone useless.

“
Shit.”

My cell phone sat at the bottom of my purse
fifteen steps behind me in the living room. Turned off.

Warning came with a sickening squeak from
the basement stairs and as the back door flew open, I heard myself
react—a gasp-scream silenced by fear.

Terror and indecision rendered my feet
immobile. Before I could decide my best move, he was on us, his
huge silhouette looming behind a piercing flashlight beam.

My head exploded in a flash of brightness
and I heard, rather than felt, the sound of it hitting the kitchen
wall. I had a moment of awareness, noting the skin-against-plastic
sound of my face skimming downward as my legs gave out and I
crumpled to the floor. I may have gone out then, I couldn’t be
sure, but I became aware of Diana crying—but it was as though
hearing her sobs through a fog. Curled into a fetal position on the
floor next to me, she was making small mewling hiccups of pain. I
tasted metal that I knew had to be blood.