Edge of Midnight (18 page)

“What do you know about the Coleridge woman?” Lou said.

“Not much. Attorney. Friend of Cary's.”

“Yeah? What about her murder?”

“Beaten to death.” Mitch leaned forward. “What's going on here, Lou?”

“Your fingerprints were in her apartment.”

Keep it short, Mitch told himself. Respond to the accusation, don't elaborate. “Like I said, she was Cary's friend. I was there once or twice.” And he'd told the bitch to stay away from his wife.

“This tip we got came from someone in Topeka, person said to look at you for the murder of Arlette Coleridge.”

“You think I killed the woman? Come on, Lou, that's crazy. Why would I?”

“I don't know. Maybe to get information.”

“Information about what?”

Lou opened his notebook and scanned stuff he'd written there. Mitch thought he wasn't really reading, just making it look like he was searching for something important that would throw a noose around Mitch's neck.

“You want to know my theory, Mitch? My theory is whoever killed the woman, didn't go there to kill her, he—I say ‘he' because it probably was a man, women don't usually beat somebody to death—wanted information. And this Coleridge broad didn't want to give it to him. He started pounding on her. And he kept pounding.”

“You think he got what he wanted?”

“Could be. Could be she died without saying a word. Gutsy lady, I'm told. You ever been known to hit a woman, Mitch?”

Mitch pulled in air that tasted like stale beer. “Should I be getting a lawyer here, Lou?”

“You think you need one?”

Mitch could feel the hold on his temper getting slippery. “I need you to stop whatever shit game you're playing and tell me straight what's going down.”

Lou tapped a pencil against his neat desktop. “Like I said, we got this tip.”

“Who called it in?”

“Anonymous.”

“Oh, right, anonymous. And on the strength of this tip from somebody who wouldn't even leave a name, you're pulling me in like I'm a suspect.”

“Just talking to you.”

“Man or woman?”

“Tipster? Whisperer, like he or she was trying to disguise the voice. The tech guy said a woman.”

Cary! Holy shit! Cary was in Topeka. How big was the place?

“Let's try that question one more time,” Lou said.

“What question?”

“Who do you know in Topeka?”

“Not a soul. Not a goddamn soul.” Except one. His lawfully wedded wife who had run away from him and was causing all this trouble. He would make her pay. “Keep me in the loop on this one, will you? She was Cary's friend. I'd just like to know.” Mitch stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“What does ‘caw' mean to you?”

“Caw? You mean a bird sound?”

“Never mind.” Mitch stood up. “Any suspects in the Coleridge homicide?”

Lou rested his elbows on the desk, picked up a pencil, and held it between two upraised forefingers. “Some reason you want to know?”

“Yeah, like I told you. Because I knew the woman.” Not because I iced her.

“Beaten to death, that's about all I can tell you. We're looking into her cases. See if clients felt she didn't do right by them, handled the case wrong, charged them too much. Hell, you know, whatever it is that gets people mad at their attorneys. ADA told me she was a tough opponent. Fights for her clients.”

“Maybe she got some bastard acquitted and the family, loved ones of the victim, whatever didn't appreciate it.”

Lou leaned back and looked at him. “I've done this sort of thing before, you know.”

“Yeah. I'm just, like I said, wanting to know, because she was Cary's friend.”

“You talked to her when Cary … disappeared?”

“She was the first one I talked to.” Careful, you're getting into deep shit here. “I heard she was friends with Kelby Oliver.”

“Who told you that?”

Damn it, just shut up. You're making Lou suspicious. “Cary.”

Lou cleared his throat. “We're putting in hours on this. Nothing about her whereabouts yet.”

Mitch snatched a pen from the bunch in the cup and rolled it through his fingers. Lou looked pained, like he wanted to grab the pen and put it back. Most obsessive-compulsive type Mitch ever knew.

“Who's Kelby Oliver?”

“No idea. Just that Arlette knew a Kelby Oliver. Oliver left town and Arlette is killed.” And my wife is missing. Three people who knew each other, two missing, one murdered.

“Where can I find this Oliver guy?”

“Don't know.” On his way to his desk, he saw Paula hauling in a burglary suspect. Didn't he have a drink with her once and she told him she was from Kansas?

“Hey, Paula, got a minute?”

She looked up. “Sure. If you can wait till I take care of this jerk.”

“Yeah.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, sat at his desk and waited.

It was nearly twenty minutes before Paula came in. “What's up?”

“Aren't you from Kansas?”

“Yeah,” she said warily. “Why?”

“What does ‘caw' mean? And I'm not talking about birds.”

“Caw?” She looked puzzled. “I don't have the slightest idea. Why?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

She started to leave, then turned back. “Are you talking about the Kaw?”

“What's that?”

She smiled. “It's a river. The Kansas actually. Locals call it the Kaw. I have no idea why, they just do.”

“Thanks.”

A small town near the Kaw river. What he needed was a map. On his way home, he stopped at the Triple A office on University Avenue and got a map of Kansas. When he got home, he shoved aside dirty dishes with the remains of fast food and spread the map across the kitchen table. He popped a beer tab and took a swallow. Cary was a wiz with maps. She loved them. Everywhere she went she had to have a map first to see what the place was all about. Then she got books and read about it.

He peered at the goddamn map, looked it up in the little squares with the numbers and letters and still he couldn't find it. Wait. There it was. Kansas River. Shit! It went for miles. Dozens of towns. How was he going to figure out which one? He leaned back, drained the beer, and opened a second. The anonymous tip came from Topeka, so it made sense that Cary was in some little town near Topeka. He studied the map again. How the hell was he going to find the right place? He couldn't spend the rest of his life driving from one small town to another along the Kansas River.

The Velma broad. Talk to her again? Get more information? He didn't think she had any more. When he got up to get another beer, a lightbulb went off in his head. A grin pulled tight across his teeth.

If you want to disappear, you don't ever go anyplace you went before you dropped off the world. You don't take anything with you, and whatever you liked to do in your previous life, you never do again. You like the beach? You never again set a foot on the sand. You like horse racing? You don't go within fifty miles of a track. You like sailing? You never get near the water. All your old footprints have to get washed away like tide swept over the sand.

Tilting his head, he guzzled beer, set down the can and rummaged around in the drawer under the phone for a pad and pencil. He made a list of towns, plunked the phone on the table, and started calling libraries. Cary could no more stay away from libraries than she could stop breathing.

He identified himself as a Berkeley, California, police officer and asked if a Cary Black had a card at that library. When the answer was no, he asked if a Kelby Oliver had a card. He checked off each town on his list. It took forever, and around four o'clock he started getting a recording reciting the hours the place was open. He wondered why they all closed up so early until he remembered the time change. It was two hours later there.

As soon as he got home the next afternoon, he started in. Nobody ever asked why he wanted to know. If anybody had, he'd have just said he was working a case and tracking down a lead. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was five minutes to four. Shit, this was going to take forever. Didn't matter, he had patience. He told himself one more call, then he'd order Chinese. He dialed Hampstead and went into his song and dance. Bingo! No Cary, but they did have a Kelby Oliver.

After shift the following day, he went in to see the lieutenant and asked for some time off. Request granted without hesitation. He was headed for Hampstead, Kansas, where he would question this Kelby creep and see what he could learn about Cary.

 

22

Dreaming.

Help me! Please help me!

Running. Running.

Her voice grew fainter.

Faster, or he'd be too late. The ground got spongy. Rotted leaves slipped and slithered as Joe struggled to keep on his feet. If he fell, he'd never make it.

Wake up. It's the only way out.

It hurts! Please make him stop.

A sickly, sweet smell rose from the leaves. He knew that smell. Death, decay.

Phone ringing. Wake up. Answer.

No. Don't answer. If you answer, you'll die. Only safe as long as you don't pick up the phone. She was safe.

Help! Please!

Danger. Waiting for him up there. Stay in the darkness. Phone ringing. Wouldn't stop. If the noise didn't go away, it would pull him up. He'd be in such danger, he'd die.

Why didn't she answer the phone?

Help. Why won't you help me?

Losing ground. Needed cleated shoes. Her voice was moving away, he could barely hear her now.

“I'm coming.”

His lungs were on fire, his breath coming hard. When his ankle twisted, he fell and rolled through rotted vegetation. Rolled through mud, getting it on his hands. He rubbed them against his white shirt. Bloody palm prints appeared. The blood ran and swirled and dripped red letters spelling her name.

No!

Ripping off the shirt, he flung it away and scrambled to his feet. The smell was getting worse.

Rotten leaves. That's all it was, just rotten leaves.

The ringing was pushing against the misty darkness in his mind. Soon it would push through and there'd be no hope.

Answer the goddamn phone!

She couldn't. Gone. Everything gone. He had nothing. Except one last thing he had to do.

The leaves got slippery, turned into black liquid. It got thicker, turned into blood. The body was just ahead.

Breath whistling in his ears, heart banging in his chest, he ran. Crouching beside the body, he turned it over. A battered and broken face grimaced with an empty smile.

*   *   *

The ringing shattered the dream. He groped for the phone. Receiver against his ear, he muttered, “Yes.”

“Good morning,” a voice said. “It's seven o'clock.”

“Thanks.”

Joe hung up and scrubbed hands over the stubble on his face as he looked around and tried to remember where he was. Motel room somewhere. Motel rooms were all alike and blended together once left behind. Gray light filtered through the curtains. He was covered in sweat and knew he'd dreamed again. The same dream, over and over, tortured him every time he slept. It got so he hated to close his eyes, which left him averaging around three hours a night. He needed more, so he could function, think clearly.

Pain gripped his stomach and he folded his arms over the rage. His life was over. He was just moving an empty shell around until he could kill her. No decision yet on how he would kill her, he'd decide when he looked the place over. See how things went, figure the best way. Swinging his legs around, he planted his bare feet on the brown carpet and waited for his brain to realize his torso was upright, then stood and rummaged through his bag for a pair of jockeys. He found the Aleve bottle and shook two tablets into his palm, plodded to the bathroom, ran water in a glass, and swallowed them. He turned hot water on and stepped in the shower, washed away sweat, dirt, and fatigue.

He pulled out a clean shirt and put it on with the jeans he'd worn yesterday, then shaved, staring at a face that was familiar, yet the face of a stranger. The person behind the face he'd known all these years wouldn't be planning the torture of another human being.

 

23

Cary got very little sleep Monday night. She curled in on herself and berated herself for getting Arlette killed. Beautiful, quick, smart, brave, sure-of-herself Arlette, who stood right up there and looked people in the eye. If she hadn't been Cary's friend, she might still be alive. “I'm sorry,” Cary whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

At six on Tuesday morning, she got up, showered, and dressed. Standing at the mirror to comb her hair, she looked at her image and saw dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a face blotchy and red from crying. She thought about using some of Kelby's makeup, but decided it was too much trouble.

Another scorcher of a day. The thermometer on the porch had the temperature reaching for eighty, and it wasn't yet seven.

Stephanie, stuffing texts and spiral notebooks in her backpack, gave Cary a glance. “She's cranky now. I hope you can cope. I'll be home a little later today. Study group after class. I hope that's okay.” Stephanie swung the backpack across her shoulder and trotted out.

Cary walked into the bedroom and said good morning to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth glared at her and grunted. “Sss?” Peering like there was a sign painted on Cary's forehead, Elizabeth licked her lips. “Sad,” she blurted, and she awkwardly patted Cary's hand.