Merciless (19 page)

Tears glistened in her eyes. “She has finally overdosed.”

David had completely relaxed back in Malcolm’s arms, and his eyes had drifted shut. It pained him to know the kid was in for a rough life thanks to circumstances.

“Do you think she’s dead?” He hated to ask the question.

She lifted her chin. “No. I don’t feel that. But I fear it’s a matter of time.”

“I’ve checked her apartment and spoken to neighbors. No one has seen her.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He studied the woman’s pale features. “Do you mind me asking you about your health issues?”

She hesitated and then released a sigh. “I’ve got congestive heart failure. I’ve had it for several years. Medication and rest keep it in check pretty well. But the stress of the last year has made it steadily worse.”

“What do you plan to do with the baby?”

“I’d half hoped Lulu would come through, and I could get back to taking care of myself.”

“Do you want me to call social services? Do you want help?”

“No. No social services. I can take care of my own. Don’t you worry about David. I love him, and I’ll see that he’s tended to. You can do me a favor and just find my daughter so we can get this mess sorted out.”

He glanced at the boy. David had drained his bottle and fallen asleep. Malcolm rose slowly and laid the boy in his grandmother’s arms. Shit. The kid didn’t belong in a sick house with a fragile woman. He deserved parks and games and swing sets. “I’ll let you know when I find your daughter.”

“Can you find her?”

He looked at David. “One way or the other, I’ll find her.”

The four detectives gathered in the meeting room around an old wooden conference table that looked as if it had seen its best days in the seventies. Its matched chairs and credenza also showed thirty years of wear.
Gray industrial carpet made the windowless room’s white walls look dingy.

Malcolm had a thing against windowless rooms. He understood they were practical for cops. No one could shoot into the room. But his body craved the sunshine almost from the minute he closed the door behind him.

Steam rose from the hot cup of coffee warming Malcolm’s hand as he took his seat. When Garrison, Sinclair, and Rokov took a seat, he said, “We’re four days into the murder investigation of Sierra Day. Forensics has given us little so far. Sommers is processing dozens of footprints found at the scene, as well as fingerprints pulled from Sierra’s room and car. That’ll keep him digging for a good while. Do we have anything on Sierra Day’s financials or cell phone records?”

Sinclair opened a manila folder. “We’ve back traced most of her cell phone calls, and all lead to her ex-husband, ex-lover, lawyers, or the theater. She did make calls to Dixon’s office, but the time and duration match with a schedule change to an appointment.”

“We heard rumors of another boyfriend,” Malcolm said.

“If she had a secret guy, she didn’t call him from her cell phone,” Sinclair said.

“Okay. Financials?” Malcolm said.

“No expenditures that seemed out of the ordinary,” Rokov said. “Day carried nearly sixteen thousand in credit card debt. And almost all her expenses were related to clothing, drinking at Duke Street Café, gas, and publicity pictures. No out-of-town trips or hidden hideaways where she might have gone with this mystery lover we’ve heard about.” He tapped his finger on the table. “Sinclair and I also spoke to her neighbors
and colleagues, and no one noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Carlson told us that Sierra’s mystery boyfriend liked to buy her lingerie. And that he flew her down to Florida.”

Sinclair shook her head. “We found lingerie in her room. One piece still had the tags on it. It was purchased from an exclusive store in the District. The clerk did not have sales records and promised to have the store owner check when she got back into town tomorrow.”

“Did you show the clerk a picture of Dixon?” Malcolm asked.

“I did. He’s not been in the store.” Sinclair frowned. “We’ve all been so focused on Dixon, who I might add has an airtight alibi for the days Sierra went missing. I think we need to cast our net farther afield. Our tunnel vision could very well be allowing another killer to go free.”

Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck. The muscles had tightened like bowstrings. He’d begun to worry about that as well. “You could be right, but I’m just not ready to cut Dixon loose.”

Sinclair shook her head. “Sierra’s lover Marty Gold had assault charges filed against him last year. Maybe we need to squeeze him a little bit.”

“Sure, follow up on that.” It felt like the wrong path, but Malcolm just couldn’t prove it yet. “We also are exploring another angle. Garrison and I spent the better part of the morning looking for Lulu Sweet.” He quickly reviewed her connection to Dixon and Angie.

Garrison, who sat to the right of Malcolm, added, “We’ve found no trace of her.”

“Lulu’s purse vanished from the bar, and a Maureen White who works at ZZ’s found Lulu’s shoe in the alley
behind the bar. According to Maureen, Lulu went to the alley to hook up with a drug dealer named Tony.”

“Maybe it’s as simple as her overdosing,” Sinclair said.

Malcolm nodded. “I visited with her mother. She’s not seen Lulu.”

“Or maybe someone’s going after Carlson’s clients?” Rokov said. “She’s made her share of enemies in the courtroom. I can’t say I’m her number-one fan.”

Sinclair flipped pages in her file. “Carlson is good at what she does. And I do respect that. But that could have made enemies.”

Malcolm too had gained a begrudging admiration for Carlson. Love her or hate her, she was smart and dedicated. And the idea that she’d been targeted did not sit well with him. “Sierra’s roommate mentioned she’d received notes. What about them?”

“Forensics found them in a magazine in her room,” Rokov said. “They were handwritten on plain paper. The writing is distinctive and does not match samples we have of Dixon’s. And without something to compare it to, we don’t have much of a lead. Paulie did say something about having it analyzed by an expert, but that will take time.”

“Okay,” Malcolm said.

Sinclair cleared her throat. “I had a ViCAP hit about an hour ago. It’s a stretch, but the case has similar characteristics.” ViCAP wasn’t a perfect system, but from time to time it did match current violent crimes in other jurisdictions.

Malcolm shifted his attention to her and waited. “Let’s hear it.”

Sinclair pulled an old police file out from under her notepad. “Seems like a fairly remote link.”

“If remote equates to a lead then I am all for it,” Malcolm said.

“I haven’t had much time to read the file,” she said. “I just got it from archives a few minutes before the meeting.”

“Let’s have it.”

She flipped over a page and read the investigating detectives’ notes. “Thirty years ago, bones were found deposited at a construction site. These bones should have ended up buried under a ton of concrete, but a scheduling conflict with a cement contractor delayed the job. A couple of kids poking around the site found clean bones that had been dumped in a hole.”

Malcolm leaned forward. “How were the bones stripped?”

“Investigating cops didn’t know.”

“Did they identify the victim?”

“Yes.” She flipped over a page and read. “Just like us, they dug into their missing persons file. Long story short, they determined that their victim was Fay Willow. She was thirty-one and employed as a secretary.”

“What about the notes?”

“The lead detective interviewed her roommate, who commented she’d received notes at home and work before she vanished.
I love you. Always together.
Endearing if you like the sender, creepy if you don’t know the sender.”

“Where did she work?” Malcolm asked.

Sinclair scanned the page. “The Talbot Museum.”

Malcolm sat straighter. “That was the museum that Angie Carlson’s father managed.”

“How do you know that?” Sinclair asked.

“Made it a point to know all I could about her during the Dixon trial.”

Sinclair nodded and sat back. “Interesting coincidence.”

“Is it?” Malcolm challenged. “What can you tell us about Willow?”

Sinclair dug out a picture of a young woman wearing a turquoise ruffled blouse and blond hair curled back off her face. She was smiling, and blue eyes sparked as if she knew a secret. “Who did she work for at the museum?”

She scanned the page. “Wow. Frank Carlson. She was his secretary for two years.”

Malcolm’s heart raced faster. “What does the file say about Fay Willow?”

“She was a smart, efficient woman with ambition. She liked the finer things. Months before she vanished, coworkers said she traded in her old car for a much nicer one. She also started wearing fancy jewelry and clothes. Friends figured she was sleeping with her boss, Frank.”

“Could his wife have gotten wind of what was going on?” Garrison said. “Maybe that’s why she left him.”

Sinclair flipped through more pages. “According to this, police interviewed Frank, who had great alibis, but they never talked to his wife. The officer did note that Carlson looked agitated. Carlson mentioned that his wife had just left him.”

Garrison drummed his fingers on the table. “Any mention of a Blue Rayburn in the file?”

She flipped through pages. “He was the museum’s head of security. He was interviewed but said nothing of real help to the detectives.”

“Were any of her bones missing?” Malcolm asked.

She pulled the autopsy report and quickly read through it. “Several bones were missing. But because she was found outside, it was assumed animals carried them off.”
Sinclair flipped through a few more pages. “Guess who else was mentioned?”

“All ears, Sinclair,” Malcolm said.

“Darius Cross.” She smiled, pleased with herself as she scanned the page. “He was seen with Willow a couple of weeks before she vanished. The museum was holding a big party, and Darius was seen flirting with Willow. Rumor had it they were having an affair. Cross was briefly interviewed, but nothing came of it.”

“Interesting.” Malcolm shrugged. Louise Cross, Darius’s wife, might well have known Fay Willow. Mrs. Cross was serving three life sentences in prison for killing three women last year. “Mrs. Cross probably knew her.”

“She’s been mute since her arrest,” Garrison said.

“What if we enlisted the help of her son Micah?” Rokov said. “He was helpful last year.”

“As I remember, she refused to see him as well,” Garrison said.

“She has requested interviews with Eva,” Malcolm said.

“No.” Garrison shook his head. “Eva is not going to talk to that woman. She’s been through enough.”

Malcolm glanced at his partner, wondering whether the dark circles under his eyes suggested that he and Eva had made up or not. Whatever their situation, the tenor of Garrison’s voice spoke of his love for the woman he was protecting.

“Well, we know Mrs. Cross couldn’t have killed Sierra Day,” Malcolm said. “But she did know Ms. Willow, a woman who’d been flirting with her husband.” He rubbed the tension from the back of his neck.

“Louise Cross very well could have known the woman,” Rokov offered. “Might have some insight.”

“There’ve got to be other people who knew Fay Willow,” Malcolm said.

“Want me to reopen Willow’s case?” Sinclair said. “I could try and track down the old witnesses.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Another detail,” Rokov said. “Day’s husband is pushing to get the remains of his wife returned. He wants to bury her.”

Malcolm shook his head. “Why would he suddenly care about her? He had nothing nice to say about her when we spoke to him.”

“He’s the grieving widower now,” Sinclair said.

“What is his insurance payout on the wife?” Garrison said.

“Zip,” said Malcolm. “Her death does save him a costly payout when the divorce is final.”

“He’s got the flair for the dramatic like his late wife,” Garrison said. “Maybe killing his wife just wasn’t dramatic enough.”

Malcolm thought about the actor’s smooth hands and his clean desk. “It’s messy work stripping bones. I don’t see Humphrey doing it.”

“Then why worry about giving his wifeaproper burial?”

“He cares about appearances.” He’d seen this often enough when he’d interviewed people. “Better to play the part of the grieving widower than the angry ex-husband.”

“Has Dr. Henson released the remains?” Garrison asked.

“No. I asked her to hold on to them.”

“Good. Let the guy stew.”

Friday, October 7, 6
P.M.

The Cross mansion was located just north of Mount Vernon and sandwiched between Route One and the Potomac River. The rolling riverfront land in this area was premium and beyond expensive. A half acre could run millions. The Cross family owned six acres along the river.
If you have to ask about the land’s cost, then you can’t afford it
, Malcolm mused.

Garrison drove down a gravel driveway lined with cypress. “Easy to imagine we’ve left the real world.”

Malcolm shook his head. “I know the rich put their pants on just like me, but they are a different breed of cat. They live in a rarified league of their own.”

“They make their own rules.” Hostility rarely crept into Garrison’s voice as it did now.

“I guess from your tone you and Eva are still on the outs?”

“She won’t talk to me.”

“Go by King’s and see her.”

“I did. She wasn’t there. King said she took a couple of days off to finish a paper. She’ll be in tonight.”

“And?”

“And one way or another she’s going to tell me what’s eating her.”

“Just like that?”

“Damn right.”

“Best of luck.”

Garrison parked the car at the top of a circular drive behind two construction vehicles. The name on the truck doors read LANE CONSTRUCTION.

Black lacquer covered the front doors and reflected the afternoon light. The house was constructed of an ancient brick, and the windows had the wavy appearance of hand-blown glass. The house screamed old money, but the Cross family was anything but. Darius Cross had grown up poor and had clawed and scraped his way to the top. It was often said of him, “He’d drive a pike in his mother’s back to get ahead.”

No truer words had been spoken. Cross had locked up his homicidal wife in a home for the mentally ill. She’d languished there almost twenty years. And then when Cross realized he was dying, he had turned his wife free so she could kill and maim the last of his enemies.

Garrison tightened his hands on the wheel. “I hate this guy.”

His partner rarely spoke so frankly. “Micah’s been nothing but helpful.”

“I know. But he has a way of worming under my skin.”

“You’re tense about Eva. Why don’t you let me do the talking?”

Garrison rattled change in his pocket. “I’ll be fine. I won’t blow this.”

“Let me do the talking.”

Garrison’s jawline tightened and then released. “Sure, fine.”

Seconds after they rang the front bell it opened. A woman dressed in a maid’s uniform greeted them. They showed her their badges; she nodded and invited them in to the foyer.

Inside the house, the sound of hammers clanged and banged from the upstairs. The scent of fresh paint wafted through the house. “Doing a bit of work?” Malcolm said.

The woman nodded. “Mr. Cross is redoing the house top to bottom. Said it’s time for a change.”

So the new head of the clan was feeling his oats and was ready to make his mark.

The maid escorted them into a side room. When they’d been here a year ago the room had been filled with heavy mission-style furniture, and the walls had been papered in a heavy green pattern. Now a light beige coated the walls, and the antique furniture had been replaced with Scandinavian-style furniture that gave the room a more modern feel.

A fire crackled in a large stone hearth as it had a year ago, but above the mantel the portrait of Darius had been replaced with an impressionistic painting that featured light blues and hints of red. The photos of Micah and his twin Josiah were also gone.

“Doing his best to erase all traces of the old man,” Malcolm said.

“Can’t blame me, can you?” The response came from behind them.

The detectives turned and found Micah Cross standing on the threshold. He wore jeans, a black turtle-neck, loafers, and horn-rimmed glasses. His hair was slicked back.

Malcolm opted not to respond to the comment. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“I’m a friend to the police. I am here to serve.” He held out his hand, indicating the two should sit. “What can I help you with today?”

“We’re investigating a current murder that matches an older killing that took place almost thirty years ago. The victim’s name was Fay Willow. Rumor had it she was having an affair with your father.”

Micah raised a brow. “I was two then, and I have no memory of this woman. But it wouldn’t be a stretch to say my father had a mistress. He had many.”

“Would your mother have known Fay?” Malcolm asked.

Micah frowned. “Hard to tell what Mother knows and doesn’t know.”

“Would you be willing to visit her with us and ask her a few questions about the woman?”

“She’s refused my last six visits. And I doubt she’d speak to either of you. She would talk to Eva.”

Garrison’s jaw tightened, and a small muscle pulsed. “No.”

Micah smiled and shifted his gaze to Garrison. “How is Eva doing? I think about her a lot. I worry about her.”

Garrison looked relaxed, but Malcolm knew tension rippled through his partner’s limbs. “No need to worry.”

If Micah sensed the tension, he didn’t care. “You two are still together, I assume?”

Garrison grinned, a sign of danger. “So you won’t visit your mother with us?”

“It would be a waste of time.” Micah’s eyes narrowed barely a fraction.

“Do you have any papers, records, or diaries that might
have belonged to your father? Something that might have referenced Fay?”

“My father burned all his personal papers before he died.” Micah shifted his attention back to Eva. “Is Eva still working at King’s? I’ve been meaning to visit her. She’s come so far. I hear she graduates in the spring.”

Garrison’s grin did not waver. “Have a nice day, Mr. Cross.”

“Can’t you answer a few simple questions about Eva? Deep connections run between us.”

For a split second, fury blazed in Garrison’s eyes. “No, they do not.”

The text Olivia had sent Malcolm had been uncharacteristically brief.

Normally, Olivia sent chatty texts that highlighted tidbits from her day.

But not today.

This text sounded like an order.

Malcolm had been back in town for three days, and he’d yet to see his girlfriend Olivia. They had spoken on the phone a couple of times, but with the Day investigation going full throttle, he’d not been able to break
away. This terse text reminded him he owed her a meal and a visit.

When she’d chosen King’s he’d almost said no. They’d never eaten there as a couple. King’s was where he ate with cops. And until this moment he’d been careful to keep his personal and private lives separate. But she’d been complaining that he compartmentalized too much, so he’d said yes.

He had arrived on King Street a few minutes early, found a great parking spot, and realized he had time for a quick shower and shave. So he’d jogged across the street to the deco building and climbed the steps to his third-floor apartment.

He pulled off clothes as he crossed the large Spartan room, furnished with a huge couch and a wide-screen television. He jumped in the shower and ducked his head under the hot spray. It felt good to get the grime of the day off him.

Ten minutes later he had showered, changed into khakis and a dark turtleneck, and shrugged on his leather jacket over his brown leather gun holster.

He paused at the kitchen bar, flipped through his mail, and then glanced through the picture window toward King’s. There was a time when seeing Olivia sent a thrill of excitement through him. Not tonight. And that surprised him. He liked Olivia. She’d done nothing wrong.

“Fatigue,” he muttered.

He saw Olivia push through the front door of King’s.

Malcolm dashed down the steps and shoved through the pub’s front door just after seven. The place was packed, each table and booth filled with a variety of customers: tourists, squeezing in the last of the fall-season
tours; folks who worked in the shops nearby; and a handful of cops.

Olivia had gotten a booth in the back. She raised her hand to catch his attention.

Smiling, he nodded and moved toward her, leaned in, and kissed her on the cheek. Her dark hair smelled of roses and crayons; her pale skin felt so soft to the touch. “You smell like an art project.”

She kissed him back. “Hazard of being a kindergarten teacher. We began our section on Halloween and the letter T today.”

He liked hearing about the kids in her classroom. He slid into the seat across from her. “So is that towheaded kid learning to stay in the classroom?”

“Andy. He and I drew a line across the threshold yesterday. We discussed that it’s the line he’s not supposed to cross.” Kindergarten had been Andy’s first experience with formal school. For the last few weeks he’d taken to running out of the classroom and down the hall when the mood struck.

Malcolm laughed. “And that worked?”

“He’s very proud of his line. In fact he showed it to his mom today.”

He traced circles on the table with his thumb. “I got to feel for the little guy. He’s got a lifetime of rules waiting for him.”

She feigned sadness. “Look who’s talking; the man who never met a rule he liked. You’re the worst for following rules.”

“I follow them.”

“When you make them.”

He shrugged, no hint of apology in his demeanor.

A waitress, a cool blonde with a perky face, arrived
at the table and laid menus in front of them. “What can I start you folks off with?”

Malcolm sat back in the booth, dearly wishing he could order a beer and knowing he had too much work in front of him to allow the luxury. “Coffee.”

Olivia smiled. “White wine.”

“Mind if I go ahead and place my order? I’ve got to get back to work soon,” Malcolm said.

Olivia, ever calm, smiled. “Sure.”

“Number six,” he said without opening the menu. “Mustard on the side.”

Olivia glanced at the waitress. “Give me the same.”

“You don’t like red meat,” Malcolm said.

“Oh, well, that’s what I get for hurrying things along. Just a salad then.”

As Malcolm watched the waitress walk away he couldn’t help but scan the room for Angie. She came in here for dinner a lot. But not tonight. Disappointment tweaked.

“You must eat here more than I realized,” Olivia said.

“Food is good. And you know Garrison dates a gal that works here.” He still wasn’t sure how he felt about sharing this part of his life with her.

The waitress reappeared and served Malcolm his coffee and Olivia her wine. He sipped, grateful to have something to do. A coworker had once told him he had ice water in his veins. He wished now that were so.

Olivia sipped her wine. “Look, Malcolm, I’m not one to beat around the bush.”

And he’d appreciated that about her. “Sounds ominous.”

“Not really. It’s time we talked.”

“About what?”
Damn. The M-word.

She sat back in her seat, a frustrated sigh escaping her
lips. “It just seems like if we were really that close, we would talk more about what you do.”

“I like to keep you away from that kind of stuff. It’s not nice or pretty, and I don’t want that hanging between us.”

“But I don’t mind hearing your problems.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to talk about them.”

She stared at him as if trying to peel away his skull and peer into his brain. “Where do you see us going?”

He wished he’d ordered that beer now. “I see us together down the road.”

“‘Down the road.’ Is that code for,
I see us getting married one day?
” She enunciated each word, and he had the sense that she’d used the same tone with Andy when she’d drawn the line over the threshold.

He met her gaze. “I still haven’t thought that far.”

“Well, I have. I love you, Malcolm. I’ve told you that often enough. I know you’re not a hearts-and-flowers kind of guy, so I’ve not worried so much that you never say it back. But we’ve been together nine months. And I still remember the panic in your eyes when I mentioned marriage a couple of weeks ago.”

He arched a brow.

She pressed her palms on the table. “Nine months is long enough for me to know I want marriage, Malcolm. A family. A home. I want more than to just be your girlfriend.”

Tension rippled through his body. He did not want to have this conversation any more than he had wanted to have it the last time. “Your timing is really bad, Olivia.”

“I know. You’re on a case. But the fact is that you’re on a case most days. Cases are a fact of life for you. So now is as good a time as any.”

“What are you asking?”

She laid her hand on his. “I’m saying I want marriage. And I want you to think long and hard about what you want. If you don’t want marriage you need to tell me.”

“I just haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You know where this is headed whether you realize it or not.”

He felt backed into a corner. “And if I don’t want marriage?”

“Then we move on with our lives. We find people that will give us what we really want. I’m not trying to be a bitch, Malcolm. I just want more.”

More. A lumbering heaviness settled in his limbs. “I can’t do more now.”

“When then?” Her voice was whisper soft and full of sadness.

“I don’t know.” And he really didn’t. All he knew now was that he had a killer to catch.

She took a healthy gulp of wine before she set the glass down. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He couldn’t summon any anger. She’d been clear about what she’d wanted from the beginning, and he’d loved that about her. He’d thought he’d wanted her and all the traditional things she represented. But now he wasn’t so sure. “How long do I have?”

“I turn thirty in two weeks. Two weeks should be enough time for you to figure it out.”

A huge decision and she gave him two weeks. It seemed like the blink of an eye. But when he had a suspect in his sights he could make life-or-death decisions in seconds. “Olivia, I’m not going to be much smarter about life in two weeks.”