Kevin O'Brien Bundle (33 page)
Read Kevin O'Brien Bundle Online
Authors: Kevin O'Brien
She sort of cherished it.
Along with the ecstasy, she’d purchased some cocaine and heroin from Wolf. It cost nine hundred dollars for a thin packet of heroin no bigger than a teabag. Wolf assured her that she was getting a terrific deal, and he even tutored her on how it should be introduced into the bloodstream for the effect she desired.
Her cell phone rang, and she saw the number on her caller ID pad. She clicked it on, and put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Jeff,” she said.
“I’m in room 104, on the first floor—by the pool,” he said.
“See you in about five minutes, my love,” she replied. Then she clicked off.
She put the bottle of Wild Turkey back inside the long, narrow brown paper bag. Starting up the car, she pulled onto International Boulevard and thought about what Chris’s guidance counselor had written in his notes regarding Jeff Dennehy:
He’s a very nice guy, who obviously loves his son. But I believe he compartmentalizes his life. Jeff Dennehy doesn’t seem to realize how his womanizing ways are spilling over from one compartment and hurting his family. With his good looks & his friendly, confident manner, I’m guessing he attracts a lot of women & it’s hard for him to say no. Chris has felt very close to his dad . . . until he found out about all the cheating. But I don’t know if Mr. Dennehy can stop, even with his new wife. It’s as if this is how he’s used to living. The guy just can’t say no to a pretty woman. . . .
As she walked down the first-floor hallway of the Marriott, she felt as if someone was following her. She kept glancing over her shoulder at the vacant corridor with its gaudy-patterned green, pink, and oatmeal carpet. She peered at the darkened doorways and alcoves but didn’t see anyone. She told herself it was nothing, just her imagination.
She reached room 104 and knocked. She knew Jeff would be there waiting for her.
She knew how hard it was for him to say no.
He’d followed Angela Dennehy’s ex-husband as far as the twenty-ninth Floor of the Bank of America Tower, and then to this hotel near the airport. From a table on the other side of the domed bar, he’d watched Jeff and his Willow Tree Court neighbor have their pathetic little assignation.
He’d been extra careful to make sure they hadn’t noticed him. It had been a close call yesterday, when Molly had spotted him in the backyard next door. He’d barely had enough time to check out the lock on the sliding glass door to the Dennehys’ house. He’d heard the police sirens while ducking back inside his car, parked on another dead-end road behind those woods. At the intersection of the other cul-de-sac, he’d watched the cop cars zoom by with their roof lights flashing and swirling. He’d counted four patrol cars. He’d felt sort of proud his presence on Willow Tree Court had prompted such a forceful response.
Jeff Dennehy’s girlfriend seemed to pick up on the fact that someone was watching her in the Marriott’s first-floor hallway. She kept glancing over her shoulder as she sauntered down the corridor with her big purse. He stayed hidden in the alcove with the pop and ice machines. He heard her knocking on a door and waited for the sound of the door clicking open. Then he caught a peek of her stepping inside room 104. He didn’t want to listen in at the door. So he tried the window on the other side of the room and discovered that number 104 had access to the pool through a sliding glass door. Each one of the poolside rooms had one or two patio chairs outside it. An indoor mini-jungle separated the lanai area by the room entrance from the huge, star-shaped pool. So it was easy for him to wander around by those doors and not be seen.
He could hear splashing and the laughter of children as he settled down in the patio chair outside room 104. Though Dennehy and his girlfriend had shut the drapes, the edges didn’t quite meet, and he could just make out their naked forms through the sheer curtain. He adjusted the chair so it was a bit closer to the glass.
“Marco . . . Polo . . . Marco . . . Polo!” some kids were yelling.
He leaned over to one side, like he’d fallen asleep in the chair. He could see into the room now. The air conditioner–radiator must have been right near that sliding door, because every once in a while that sheer curtain fluttered open—and he could see everything. He spotted a quart bottle of Wild Turkey—a little over half full—on the table near the door.
It looked like booze wasn’t the only thing she’d bought to the party. Lying naked on the bed, he saw her carefully applying something that might have been cocaine to her breasts. Dennehy was naked, poised over her on all fours. She grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head down. He eagerly sniffed and licked at her nipples. Even with the door closed—and the kids screaming and carrying on in the pool, he could hear her muffled laughter.
The sheer curtain billowed and reflected against the glass, totally obscuring his view for a few moments. He wasn’t sure what he missed, but as the curtain moved again, he could see her walking across the room naked. At first, he thought she was coming to the sliding glass door, but she was only retrieving the bottle of Wild Turkey.
Dennehy was sitting on the bed with his feet on the floor. He gripped the side of the mattress with his hands, and shook his head repeatedly as if having a spasm of some kind.
Perhaps it wasn’t just cocaine he’d been snorting off his girlfriend’s breasts, but something even stronger. Dennehy put a hand to his forehead.
She started to hand him the bottle, but he knocked it out of her hands.
All at once, Dennehy bolted up. It looked as if he was about to attack her, but he took two steps and collapsed on the floor.
The curtains began to billow again, and he couldn’t see much.
It appeared as if she was just standing there with one hand on her hip, looking down at him.
The man in the patio chair kept waiting for her to help Dennehy. But she didn’t move. The man thought about counting the seconds so he could time her, because she stood like that for a long, long time.
She watched Jeff Dennehy writhe on the beige-carpeted floor.
Jeff had said he wasn’t into drugs. But he’d already had at three shots of Wild Turkey heavily laced with ecstasy. And she knew he couldn’t say no. There was only a bit of cocaine in what he’d snorted off her breasts. Most of it was highgrade heroin.
One hand on her hip, she stared down at him. She remembered Wolf commenting that the ecstasy was quite powerful. “Two tabs, and you can fry an egg on your forehead,” he’d said. She wondered if Jeff was reacting to the ecstasy or the heroin—or the combination. He was covered with sweat and gasping for air. She touched his chest with her toe, and the skin was hot. It was almost as if his body was cooking. His handsome face was crimson.
“My husband actually liked you, Jeff,” she said, gazing down at him. “He didn’t blame you as much as the others for what happened to us. But I do. Before Ray was even killed, I was already planning on how I’d meet you and seduce you. I knew you couldn’t resist a pretty girl.”
His eyes seemed to keep going in and out of focus. One moment his gaze connected with her—and the next his stare was blank. He vaguely reached out to her, but she kicked his hand away.
“My family and I went through hell for five months. My husband lost his job, our marriage was ruined, our teenage daughter ran away—all thanks to you and your meddling neighbors on Willow Tree Court,” she continued. “Your children came to my husband for the guidance you couldn’t give them—and then all of you turned on him. I think I aged years in those few months. But I was still pretty enough to turn your head. Less than two weeks after Ray was killed, I had you in that Jantzen Beach hotel room in Portland. Remember? That was the same night Kay died. Molly called you and got you out of bed. . . .”
Thrashing about on his back, Jeff looked like he was choking. He was like a helpless little baby who couldn’t turn himself over.
Jenna Corson felt just a twinge of pity, but not enough. She stared down at him, fascinated by his suffering. “Ray and I were unofficially separated,” she said. “I’d given up on us, but he hadn’t. He kept coming back to me. When I discovered Ray had taken out a very expensive insurance policy, I knew something was up. It didn’t take me long to figure out he was planning to kill himself—so the kids and I would be taken care of. I just didn’t know how he would make his suicide look like an accident. We were spending more time apart than together, but one night while he was in the shower, I found a number on his cell phone, the number of the man he’d hired to kill him.
“I guess I could have stopped it,” she admitted. “But we’d hit bottom, and there didn’t seem to be any other way. Besides, I couldn’t let the people who had destroyed my family go unpunished. You people on Willow Tree Court were the worst offenders. Ray took notes during his sessions with your children. Some were in his private journals, some in the school records. I stole everything he had about the kids on Willow Tree Court. So I knew all of your secrets—and all your weaknesses.”
She let out a long sigh. “Even before Ray was killed, I planned to take that insurance money and whatever I’d get for selling the house—and use it to destroy you and your neighbors. That’s the real reason I moved onto your block, Jeff. I didn’t care about being near you. I just wanted to see the devastation closeup.”
It looked as if Jeff was struggling to talk, but all he could get out was a warbled groan.
She touched him with her toe again. He was on fire. “You know, at just about the time I
accidentally
met you, Jeff, I contacted the man who killed my husband and hired him to kill Kay Garvey. He murdered Angela for me, too. He did such a thorough job on my husband, I knew he’d take care of those bitches with the same efficiency, though I suppose he could have handled Angela’s death differently. . . .”
accidentally
met you, Jeff, I contacted the man who killed my husband and hired him to kill Kay Garvey. He murdered Angela for me, too. He did such a thorough job on my husband, I knew he’d take care of those bitches with the same efficiency, though I suppose he could have handled Angela’s death differently. . . .”
Gazing down at him, she sighed, “Oh, my God, look at you. You should see yourself.”
Jeff had thrown up. Pale gray bile ran down the side of his mouth and formed a puddle under his neck. Blood oozed out of his nostrils. He stared up at her. Spasms began to rack his body.
“You know, it’s funny how I’ve lived on that cul-de-sac for a while now, Jeff,” Jenna said. “I kept wondering if you’d ever notice me. Ray used to say you people only cared about yourselves, your families, and your small circle of friends. I think he was right. I didn’t go to his funeral, because I didn’t want anyone from Willow Tree Court to recognize me—in case they came. I was already planning to move onto your block then. I already knew what I had to do.”
Jeff’s breathing became a death rattle. The crimson color began to drain from his face. He was totally still, and his eyes were listless.
“But I didn’t know how I would kill you until three months ago,” Jenna continued. “That’s when I learned that my daughter, Tracy, had died on the street from a lethal combination of drugs and alcohol. She was only sixteen years old. My sweet little girl . . .”
Jenna began to cry, but her voice was angry and accusatory as she leaned over him. “A lethal combination of drugs and alcohol, that’s when I knew how you’d die, Jeff. That’s when I knew. . . .”
He stopped breathing. The room was quiet.
She could hear kids splashing and laughing in the pool outside the sliding glass door.
Naked, she walked over to the sofa and reached for her purse. Jenna took out a small pair of scissors. She picked up Jeff’s T-shirt from the bed and then carefully cut a piece off the sleeve.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE
He’d almost lost her on Interstate 5 but managed to keep a tail on her car from the Marriott—all the way to a grimylooking pool bar called the Side Pocket on Aurora Boulevard in North Seattle. The name was on an illuminated sign advertising Budweiser on the side of a squat one-story, gray building. BAR—POOL—GAMES—FOOD was painted in big red letters on the building. Neon signs for Rainier and Corona lit up the only window—by a red door that had ENTRANCE painted across it in white.
Pulling over on a side street, he watched her park the car and walk inside. She wore her sunglasses and a trench coat. But he could still picture her naked from forty-five minutes ago, when she’d stood over Jeff Dennehy in that poolside hotel room.
He counted until two hundred before he climbed out of his car, cut through the parking lot, and stepped inside the tavern. Peanut shells littered the floor, and Jimmy Buffett’s “Come Monday” played over the speakers. The gloomy place’s only good source of light was above the three pool tables, where some good old boys were racking them up. No one was playing darts or pinball at the moment. A few people hunched on their stools at the charmless bar and only one of the booths was occupied—by Dennehy’s girlfriend and a lean, swarthy man with shiny black hair and a pockmarked face. It looked like she was having a Coke. The man was cracking peanuts and nursing a shot glass of something with a beer chaser.
At the bar, he ordered a Corona and paid for it. Dennehy’s girlfriend and the thug she was with didn’t seem to notice him wandering over to the next booth. He set his beer down on the varnished wood tabletop.
“No, let’s put a hold on the Lynette Hahn hit for now,” she was whispering. “She’s still suffering and I want to prolong that. I may even save you the effort and take care of her myself. I’ve gotten a taste for it now.”
“Well, if you think I’m giving back your down payment—”
“Relax, Aldo,” she said, cutting him off. “You can keep your lousy down payment.”
“You bet I will,” he replied, a bit huffy. “I still think I should have been paid more for the Alder Court job. . . .”
Sipping his Corona, the man in the next booth listened carefully. This was what he’d wanted to hear.
“I was paid to take care of only one person, not three. And that teenage bitch bit me, too. I should get workman’s compensation.”
“It was just supposed to be Angela in the house that night,” she replied. “I had no idea they’d canceled that field trip for her boyfriend’s daughter. You’re right when you say the job was only for one. But you should have aborted instead of doing all three of them.”
“I think I was pretty damn creative, making it look like another cul-de-sac killing,” the thug bragged. “And the cops are none the wiser.”
The man in the next booth took a peanut from the basket on his table and cracked it open. So—his copycat was a hired killer named Aldo, and he was working for Jeff Dennehy’s girlfriend—or former girlfriend. From the look of things back in that hotel room, he was pretty certain Jeff Dennehy was dead.
“You know”—the woman sighed—“a simple robberymurder setup—like the one you pulled on my late husband—would have been infinitely better. Copying a high-profile murder spree only invites a more scrupulous police investigation. I think your ‘creativity’ there is going to turn around and bite you on the ass.”
In the booth behind her, the man grinned. He kind of liked her. She was very astute.
“Well, if you’re not happy with my work,” Aldo was saying, “maybe you should hire someone else to handle the Dennehy woman and the two kids.”
“I don’t want to close the door on our relationship yet, Aldo,” she replied. “But you’re right about Molly and the two kids. I think I want to handle them myself. Like I said, I’ve developed a taste for it now.”
He didn’t linger. He’d heard enough to know who had imitated his work and why. Dennehy’s girlfriend and Aldo didn’t seem to notice him when he scooted out of the booth and ambled to the doorway.
Even with the overcast skies, it seemed bright outside compared to the gloomy bar. He returned to his car and waited there.
She stepped out—alone—ten minutes later. She put on her sunglasses and headed to her car. He watched her drive off. He didn’t need to follow her. He already knew where she lived.
He stuck around for Aldo, who remained inside the Side Pocket for the next few hours. It grew darker, the streetlights went on, and the tavern’s parking lot became more crowded. Under the car seat, he kept a small hunting knife, the same one he often used when cleaning a house. He took it out and admired it several times while waiting for his prey.
At 8:20, Aldo finally came out from behind the bar’s red door. He weaved a bit as he walked to his car, but he didn’t seem too drunk.
The man followed Aldo’s black BMW down Aurora to a Jack in the Box. Aldo used the drive-thru, and then he continued down Aurora. Eventually, he turned onto a side street and pulled into the driveway of a tall apartment complex. It was comprised of three buildings that were connected, but varied in style and color—like something out of Disneyland. A beige cedar shaker was sandwiched between two Cape Cods, one moss green and one rose colored. Aldo parked his BMW alongside the rose-colored building.
Meanwhile, the man pulled into a spot in front reserved for visitors. He waited until Aldo started down the walkway to the center building, and then he hurried out of the car. He caught the lobby door before Aldo let it swing shut behind him. “Thanks,” he said, though Aldo paid no attention to him. He guessed from the size of the Jack in the Box bag in Aldo’s hand that the hired killer wasn’t having dinner with anyone else tonight.
He touched the knife concealed inside his jacket while Aldo checked his mailbox in the lobby. With his back to Aldo, the man pressed the button for the elevator.
It arrived a bit too soon. Aldo was still getting his mail.
The man waited, and then the elevator door started to shut. He grabbed it, stepped inside, and held it open. “Going up?” the man called to Aldo.
Mail in one hand and the Jack in the Box bag in the other, he nodded. “Yeah, hold it,” he grunted, trotting toward the elevator. “Thanks,” Aldo said, stepping inside. “Could you hit four?”
“That’s where I’m going, too,” he said, pressing the button for the fourth floor.
They rode up in silence. The man stared up at the lighted numbers above the door.
As they passed the third floor, he turned to Aldo. “Say, do you know me?” he asked.
Aldo narrowed his eyes at him. “No, why? Should I?”
He waited until the elevator door opened on the fourth floor. He nodded for Aldo to go first. “No, you shouldn’t know me,” he said, walking with him down the dimly lit corridor. The carpet was pale green. Somebody had a potted plant outside their door; another tenant had one of those catscratching poles. He and Aldo were the only ones in the hallway. He could hear a TV blaring in a nearby apartment.
“In fact,” he continued, reaching inside his jacket, “you don’t know me at all. So you really have no business imitating my work.”
Aldo turned to stare at him. “What the fuck?”
Then he suddenly seemed to realize just who he was talking to. Aldo’s eyes widened as he stared at him. He didn’t appear to notice the hunting knife—not until it was too late, not until the sharp blade slashed across his throat.
Blood began to gush down his neck to his shirt. The envelopes in his hand fluttered to the floor, while his other hand crushed the Jack in the Box bag against his chest. Several fries spilled out. He slumped against the wall, and his legs started to give out from under him.
Knocking the fast-food bag out of Aldo’s grasp, the man began to search his pockets while Aldo was still vertical. He wanted to make sure there was nothing on Aldo’s person linking him to the woman on Willow Tree Court. He took Aldo’s wallet and his cell phone.
His face a bluish-gray, Aldo numbly stared at him and blinked a few times.
Blood drops dotted the fast-food bag, the scattered envelopes, and the pale green carpet. The man was careful not to get any on his hands. He let Aldo drop to the floor.
He didn’t wait for the elevator. He took the stairs, moving at a brisk clip. But he didn’t run. On his way down to the lobby, he thought about Jeff Dennehy’s girlfriend. After listening to their conversation in the tavern, he guessed she was finished with Aldo and no longer had any use for him. In fact, he had a feeling he’d beaten her to the punch with Aldo.
He hoped the hired killer didn’t have anything in his apartment or in a safe deposit box that showed she’d paid him to carry out those killings.
As far as the man was concerned, it just wouldn’t do to have the police sniffing around Willow Tree Court. No, it just wouldn’t do.
He’d made up his mind. He still had some work there.
He had a house to clean.
Molly tossed what remained of the chicken casserole into the garbage disposer. There was still one good-sized portion Jeff could have eaten. She’d cooked dinner for his children tonight, and covered for him, too. She’d told Chris and Erin that their father had an “after-work thing.” Now, it was eight o’clock, and he wasn’t home. He hadn’t even phoned. She’d tried his cell several times since early this afternoon, but it kept going to voice mail.
Let the lying, cheating son of a bitch fend for himself
, she figured, flicking on the switch for the disposer. With a loud roar, it ground up what could have been his dinner. Then she shut it off and went back to washing the dinner dishes. Chris was upstairs in his room, and Erin sat at the kitchen table, doing homework with the big TV on.
, she figured, flicking on the switch for the disposer. With a loud roar, it ground up what could have been his dinner. Then she shut it off and went back to washing the dinner dishes. Chris was upstairs in his room, and Erin sat at the kitchen table, doing homework with the big TV on.
So—where was their father?
Standing over the sink, she wondered if Angela had put up with this kind of crap. She had a whole new sympathy for Jeff’s late ex-wife.
She wasn’t sure what to do. Though she’d had her rough patches with Chris, she was very fond of Jeff’s kids. She hated the idea of them being without a mother. And she hated the idea of her baby being without a father. After leaving Jeff’s office, she’d come home and worked on her cola painting all afternoon. She’d figured she might have to start earning money to support herself—and her baby.
She was loading the dishwasher with the last of the glasses when the doorbell rang. Grabbing a dish towel, she dried off her hands and then headed to the door. She checked the peephole and saw Chet Blazevich standing on her front stoop. The last time he’d been there was the night after Angela was murdered.
Molly unlocked the door and opened it. “Well,” she said.
“Hi,” he said. “Is Mr. Dennehy home?” He seemed distracted by something behind her.
Molly glanced over her shoulder and saw that Chris was at the top of the stairs, staring down at them. “It’s okay, Chris,” she said. “I’ve got it. . . .”
He frowned a bit, then turned and headed back toward his room.
Molly worked up a smile for the cop. “I’m sorry, but Jeff isn’t here. I’m not really sure when he’ll be back—soon, I hope.” She opened the door wider. “I’m sorry. Would you like to come in?”
“Thanks.” He stepped inside. He wore an old tweed jacket with jeans and a loosened tie.
Erin came into the hallway from the kitchen. “Molly, can I have an ice cream sandwich?”
“Are you done with your homework?”
She nodded.
“Okay, but just one,” Molly said.
Erin didn’t seem interested in an introduction to Chet Blazevich. She turned and scurried back to the kitchen. Molly led him into the living room and nodded at the easy chair. “Can I get you something? Coffee or water? An ice cream sandwich?”
“Thank you anyway,” he said, with a nervous laugh. He sat down in the chair.
Molly settled at one end of the sofa. “What did you want to see my husband about?”
“Well, there’s been some confusion about where he was the night the former Mrs. Dennehy was killed.”
Molly didn’t say anything.
“We checked with the Hilton in Washington, D.C.,” Blazevich explained. “In fact, we checked with all of the Hiltons in D.C., and your husband wasn’t staying at any of them.”
Molly shifted on the sofa. “Is it really so important where he was?”
“It might be,” Blazevich said. “We’re now considering the possibility that the Alder Court murders weren’t the work of the Cul-de-sac Killer. . . .”
Molly stared at him. “You mean, they think it was some sort of—copycat killing?”
He nodded. “It’s looking more like that, yes.”
“What makes them think so?”
He let out a wary sigh. “Without getting into too many details, Molly, the Cul-de-sac Killer is quite neat and deliberate—methodical. In the houses where he had struck, most of the blood has been inside or around the closets where the bodies were found. With these multiple slayings, it appears he ties up the victims, puts them in their respective closets—and then takes his sweet time with them, one by one.”
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