Love Kills (22 page)

MIAMI, FLORIDA

“I need you to make a call to the Fairbanks, Alaska, police department,” Riley said.

“Sure.” Nazario looked up from his desk. “Any word yet from Stone and the sergeant?”

“Not yet,” she said. “Let's hope they get lucky in Texas.”

WACO, TEXAS

Three spotted hound dogs dashed from the house to meet the detectives' rental car. They were wagging their tails.

Spencer York's sister, Sheila, a tall and plain strong-jawed woman in her fifties, stood on the front porch wearing a simple cotton housedress and sensible shoes.

“I'm the detective who called you from Miami,” Stone said, introducing himself and Sergeant Burch.

“Come on in, git yourselves outa this heat,” she said, leading them into her parlor.

“We're working on your brother's case,” Stone said. “We have some leads, but we need a few things clarified.”

She served hot, strong, delicious coffee and homemade cake topped with chopped pecans and cinnamon, before they talked. She insisted. The detectives got the distinct impression that Sheila Whitaker had few visitors.

Her husband, she said, was away a lot. So was her son.

“Spencer told a Miami newspaper reporter that he had marital and custody problems of his own, which motivated his crusade,” Stone said. “I doubt the reporter misunderstood. Unlike most, she's usually accurate and right on target. So it surprised us when you said that Spencer never married and had no children. If that's so, why do you think your brother would tell her that?”

She thought for a moment, hands placidly in her lap. “Most likely because it would make sense. It would give him…” She fumbled for a moment. “What's the right word?”

“Credibility?” Burch said.

“That's it.” She nodded. “Exactly.”

“So what would his real motivation be?”

“Spencer always was a hard man to understand.”

She lifted her delicate china coffee cup, dwarfed in her large callused hands, and sipped daintily.

“He just got ideas, couldn't get them out of his head until he followed through.”

“We suspect,” Burch said, “that a woman might be involved in his murder. We recently found a sort of diary that he kept. He wrote that he thought she had followed him to Miami. That would rule out anyone he may have met in South Florida.”

Spencer York's sister put down her cup.

“So our thinking,” Stone said, “was that perhaps she might be an ex-wife or former sweetheart, a woman he knew well in some sort of intimate relationship. He referred to her as M.”

Something odd flickered in the woman's eyes. She looked away, self-conscious.

She knows, Stone thought.

“He wasn't married, never came close,” she said softly, eyes still averted. “Not that I know of. Had two or three dates as a young man, but never with the same girl twice. None of 'em would ever go out with him a second time.”

“Did any have the initial
M
?” Burch asked. “You know: Marilyn, Marie, Maureen?”

She sighed and paused again. “Not that I recall.”

What is she hiding? Stone wondered.

“Can you help us figure out who this woman might be?” Burch asked.

“He stole children from lots of women. I don't know their names.” She got to her feet. “Here,” she said. “After that reporter called, I drug out the old family scrapbook.” She took the book from a sideboard and opened it on the coffee table between them. “There he is, about seven years old.”

Spencer York, his hair dark blond in childhood, sat bare chested on the back of a pinto pony. He was scowling.

She began to leaf through the black cardboard pages. “Wait,” Burch said. “Is that the two of you?”

She nodded.

A dark-haired, big-boned woman wearing a severe suit and a perky hat with a small veil sat on a couch against an inside wall with two small children, a boy and a girl. The woman held a Bible in her lap. All three solemnly stared straight into the camera's eye in that moment captured a half century ago.

“That your mother?” Burch asked. “Attractive woman.”

She nodded. “A very religious woman, strict Southern Baptist. Had a hard life.”

“What about your dad? I don't see any pictures of him in here.”

“He left right after my little brother, Emmett, drowned. He went off to work for the railroad and never did come back. Spencer was about eight and I was five.”

“Sorry to hear that. It couldn't have been easy,” Burch said.

Stone had flipped to a later page in the scrapbook, to a photo of Sheila, her husband, a tall, lean mustachioed man, and their small son.

Back then she looked much like her mother had in the earlier picture, minus the Bible and the perky hat.

Her son was curly-haired, chubby-cheeked, and grinning.

Stone smiled back at the toothy toddler. “Where's your boy now?”

“Over in Killeen, doing right well. Twenty-six years old.” She smiled proudly. “Engaged to a schoolteacher, a fine girl. He's a firefighter for the county. They come to dinner every Sunday. It's hard to believe. Child raising,” she said, “is never easy.”

“Tell me about it,” Burch said. “I've got three, two girls and Craig Junior, the middle child. He's thirteen. My oldest is sixteen and starting to date. That keeps me awake nights.”

“What it all comes down to,” she said, looking Burch straight in the eye, “is influences. When a strong-minded individual exerts a negative influence, things happen. No matter who it might be, you have to keep that negative influence out of their lives.”

Burch nodded.

Her eyes dropped meaningfully to the scrapbook as the men rose to leave.

Burch handed her his card at the door and asked her to call him or Stone if she thought of anything that might help.

Something unsaid remained in her eyes. The detectives lingered.

“When did you lose your mother?” Stone said. “When did she pass?”

“Oh, she didn't. She's alive.”

“Sorry. I just assumed…”

“She's seventy-five years old now, in a nursing home up in Grand Prairie.”

“Where is that exactly?” Stone said.

“About a two-hour drive northwest up Highway Thirty-five.”

“Think she'd remember anything that might help us?” he asked.

The woman shrugged, eyes blank. “Her memory has not failed.”

The dogs followed them out to the car. So did their owner. “Want some more cake? I'll wrap it in plastic and fix you a thermos of coffee, to hold you over during the drive.”

GRAND PRAIRIE, TEXAS

The nursing home sweltered in the Central Texas sun. The long white one-story building had a tall front gate, wheelchair ramps, ragged hedges, and a dry fountain.

They rang a bell and an overweight woman in a white uniform emerged from behind swinging doors to meet them at the front desk. Her eyes widened in surprise when they asked for Roberta York.

“She doesn't get many visitors.” She opened a register for them to sign. “Poor thing doesn't even have a roommate right now, what with her being so difficult and all.”

She summoned a sandy-haired aide, a pleasant-faced young fellow in rumpled scrubs and sneakers, to show them to Mrs. York's room.

“She still reads the Bible every day. Watch out,” he warned, “or she'll start quoting from Revelation. Some scary stuff in there. I guess Jesus loves her, but the rest of us think she's an asshole. Good luck.” He knocked, then opened the door.

The detectives caught their breath as they stepped into the dimly lit room. It was at least ten degrees hotter inside.

Roberta York sat in her wheelchair as if it were a throne, her back straight, the room nearly dark, drapes blocking the sun. She was frowning at a soap opera that flickered silently in a corner, the sound on mute.

She turned the TV off with the remote and studied her visitors curiously.

The dark hair, the perky hat, and the unsmiling faces of her little children were long gone, but the Bible remained, well worn and well read. Several, in fact, were within her reach, along with spectacles and a large magnifying glass.

Her hair was now steel gray, but the large bones did not appear shrunken.

The detectives explained who they were and why they had come.

“Nine years ago,” Stone said, loosening his collar in the oppressive heat, “everybody believed that your son, Spencer, jumped bond to avoid trial in Miami. But that wasn't true. He'd been murdered. His body was recently discovered and positively identified.”

She nodded, eyes alert and interested.

“He didn't run away,” she said. “I always knew that.” Despite the heat, she hugged her arms as though cold. “But I wouldn't blame anyone for fleeing that city. From what I have seen, your South Beach is a modern Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“It can be pretty wild,” Stone admitted.

She focused on the young black detective. “Do you read your scripture, son?”

“Yes, ma'am. My grandmother, who raised me, wouldn't have it any other way.”

Smiling approvingly, she offered advice.

“Take and lead the righteous. Flee that wicked place before the reign of fire, when dead bodies will lie stacked in the streets.”

“It
is
getting harder to raise kids there,” Burch said mildly. He gazed at the ceiling. “Look at that,” he said. “That's why it's so hot in here.” The air-conditioning vent was closed.

“I can fix it in a minute,” he said, looking for something to stand on.

“No!” she said quickly. “I like it this way.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought it seemed a little uncomfortable for you.”

“We know you must find it difficult to discuss your son's death,” Stone said, “but we hoped you could help us.”

She nodded, picking up a small Bible. “Spencer was my firstborn.”

“We need to find a woman with whom he had a relationship. Her name may begin with the letter
M
.”

She stared at them.

“Do you know her?” Burch said. “Perhaps a girlfriend, an old flame, a common-law wife?”

She continued to stare and then broke into laughter. She laughed and laughed. “What makes you think any woman would have him?” she finally gasped. “He hated women. He had no romantic relationships and no wife, common-law or otherwise.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Stone said. “We spoke to your daughter, Sheila, earlier today. She indicated that as well.”

The woman's eyes narrowed. “Thou shalt hate the whore.” Voice rising, she spit out the words. “Make her desolate and naked, eat her flesh and burn her with fire!”

“I take it you two aren't close,” Burch said.

“When I had a stroke, she seized the moment of my weakness and put me here, against my will.” Her hands gripped the armrests of her wheelchair.

“This does seem to be some distance from home,” Burch said. “Is there a rift in the family?”

“My grandson,” she muttered, “was the only one worth saving.”

They could barely see her eyes in the shadows. “How about some light?” Burch reached for the drapery cord.

“No!” She flung an arm in front of her eyes and shrank in her chair. “Don't open it. I'm sensitive to bright lights.”

Burch dropped the cord and pulled a chair up close to hers.

“Do you recall the last time you saw Spencer?” he asked.

She nodded, smiling.

“When and where was it? Did the two of you enjoy a good relationship?” Stone asked.

She looked nostalgic, as though recalling good times.

“We want to find out who killed him and why,” Burch said.

She blinked, as though surprised that they had missed the obvious. “He was the devil,” she said, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. “He was Satan, with all his power, his signs, and his lying wonders.”

The detectives exchanged glances.

“Somebody had to stop him.”

“Who did?”

She raised her chin expectantly, smile chilling, her eyes still in shadow.

“Have you ever been to Miami?” Burch asked softly.

“Once.” She smiled demurely. “Somebody had to do the Lord's work.”

The silence was electric. He took a deep breath. “Were you alone?”

“We drove. My grandson—Sheila's boy, Roland—had just graduated from high school. My gift to him was a road trip to Florida for the two of us. His mother allowed it. He was happy to come.”