Merciless (4 page)

“Zoe Morgan.”

“Where can I find her?”

“Works at the ballet now. I don’t know where she lives.” Burgess sighed. “Box-office sales were strong because of Sierra. She was a local favorite. I hate to think of the refunds we’ll have to process when word leaks out she won’t be in the play.”

“You said she had her sights on Hollywood and Broadway?”

“This was her last season with us. She planned to leave at Christmas after her surgery.”

“Surgery?”

“She was planning on getting a boob job.”

Malcolm shook his head. “She told you this?”

“Oh, yes. She was quite open about her plans. She understood the bigger the boobs the better the roles down
the line. She was pushing along her divorce so that she could get her financial settlement. Needed the money for the surgical work.” He scratched the back of his head. “She was on the phone with her attorney last week, yelling for a court date.”

“Who was her attorney?” Garrison asked.

“I’ll never forget the name. I heard Sierra yell it out enough. Angie Carlson.”

Eva’s sister. The Barracuda.

Garrison stiffened.

Malcolm muttered an oath. “Figures.”

“You know the woman?” Terry prompted.

“Yeah.” Last spring she defended local plastic surgeon James Dixon, who’d been accused of attempted murder of a prostitute. Malcolm and the other cops in homicide suspected that James might be linked to the disappearance of several other prostitutes, but they’d not been able to prove it. DNA had linked him to some of the women, but at the time each had vanished, he’d had an alibi.

However, the last hooker who’d survived her time with Dixon had run from their motel room after enduring several hours of his sadistic tastes. Bleeding, she’d run down a dark street screaming until an undercover vice cop had stopped her. She blurted out her story, and the cop put out an APB on Dixon. Officers stopped him six blocks away.

Dixon had been arrested for attempted murder. He’d hired Carlson, who had shredded the prostitute’s testimony on the stand. She proved the woman was a drug addict and an admitted liar. The jury accepted all of Carlson’s explanations and ignored the prostitute’s testimony. They found Dixon not guilty.

Malcolm didn’t believe Dixon was innocent for a
minute. He might have been a model citizen this past year, but he was like a spider nestled in a web. He was waiting for the right victim to come along before he pounced.

“Did she ever mention the name of her plastic surgeon?” Malcolm asked.

“Yeah. Talked about him a lot. James Dixon.”

“Say that again,” Malcolm said.

“Her doctor was James Dixon.” Burgess nodded. “I know who he is, and I even told her to stay clear of him. But she liked the fact that Dixon was surrounded by his own drama. Sierra liked drama.”

Malcolm ground his teeth as he glanced at Garrison. “Carlson and Dixon. The Dynamic Duo.”

“With those two,” Garrison said, “Sierra Day would have gotten her fill of drama.”

Malcolm tried not to let his mind run wild with scenarios. “Did Sierra Day have a dentist?”

“I suppose. Her husband would know. Why?”

“Because we’re going to need dental records to identify this victim.”

Wednesday, October 5, 7:05
A.M.

Angie Carlson lived and died by her routine.

Rise at five, arrive at the gym by six, swim laps in lane four for thirty minutes, and then shower. Breakfast was a bagel at Bill’s, and then she was at the office by seven-thirty.

As a defense attorney her days were jam-packed with meetings, briefs, motions, and court dates, and there was little time to do more than swim, work, and maybe catch dinner with her sister, Eva.

Her days were painfully predictable, and she liked it that way.

And the fact that she was an hour behind schedule irritated her. She’d not slept well last night. She’d hit snooze on her alarm one too many times.

Last week, she’d had her annual CT scan, blood work, and chest x-rays to see if her cancer had returned. Results were due in this morning. Though she’d been clear since her surgery a little over seven years ago, she never
lost the fear that the disease that had killed her mother had returned.

So to walk out of the ladies’ changing room and see that someone had taken lane four in the swimming pool only deepened her foul mood. Even as frustration and anger bubbled, she knew she was being silly.A lane was a lane and hardly life threatening. Her body didn’t care where she swam as long as she swam. But it was safer to fret over a lane than cancer so she allowed herself to sulk.

Angie tucked her shoulder-length blond hair under her cap and pulled her goggles up on top of her head. She scanned the pool and saw that the other lanes were full. Damn.

The swimmer in four paused at the edge of the pool and glanced up. He had a tanned, muscled body and dark, thick hair that he flicked away from blue eyes with the jerk of his head. He tossed her a boyish grin. “Want to share the lane?”

She returned the smile. “Yes, that would be great.”

“I’ll stay to the right.”

“I’ll go to the left.”

The guy shoved off from the wall and moved down the lane, effortlessly cutting through the water with cool, lean strokes. With a touch of annoyance, she noted he was a fine swimmer. Heck, a fine-looking man. The shimmer of desire surprised her. It had been almost a year and a half since she’d dated, enjoyed a man’s touch, and learned the painful lesson that she was better off alone.

Angie lowered into the pool, biting back an oath as icy waters shocked her system. She hated the cold; hated the first few chilly laps that bit.

Anxious to get moving, she set the timer on her waterproof watch, pulled her goggles down over her eyes, and
pushed off from the wall. Her first few strokes were choppy and stiff, but soon she settled into the rhythm:
reach, pull, breathe, reach, pull, and breathe.

She and the other swimmer passed each other without effort, and soon she forgot about him. Her body warmed and her thoughts drifted.

Swimming was Angie’s daily therapy. It kept her sane.

Almost eighteen months ago when her sister, Eva, returned to Alexandria, Angie’s life had been on the verge of sinking. She was haunted by the fact that she’d defended and helped free a sadist like Dr. James Dixon. From the moment Dixon had sauntered into her office and declared his innocence, she’d sensed something that was off about him. It was the kind of feeling that had her perching on the edge of her seat and glancing toward the exit. But Dixon had sworn he was innocent and he was wealthy, ready to pay top dollar, and as the newest attorney at Wellington and James, she’d been anxious to make her mark. She’d shoved aside her gut reactions and focused on the facts, which in the right light proved his innocence.

In the courtroom, she’d jabbed at the prosecution’s case and shredded the testimony of the prostitute Lulu Sweet. By the time Angie had finished, the young girl’s story was in shreds and Lulu in tears. When the acquittal had been announced, the cops who’d made the arrest had grunted their displeasure as Dixon had thrust his arms in the air. She’d left the courtroom, the congratulations of peers buzzing in her ears and the press swarming for a quote. After that case, she’d not lacked for business. In fact, she’d had to turn some away. Overnight, she’d gone from an unknown, idealistic defense attorney to “The Barracuda.”

That’s about the time she’d started having a few
glasses of wine before dinner. She’d fought so hard to stay alive just a few years before, and suddenly she needed wine to make life more bearable. Soon a couple of glasses didn’t do the trick, so she drank four or five. Before she realized it, she had a full-on drinking problem. A disastrous affair with a reporter, coupled with the fact that her sister had almost been murdered, had shaken something free in Angie.

Humiliation and fear had shoved her toward an AA meeting, where she confessed her fears. She’d never consider herself fixed, but she could now proudly say she had been sober four hundred and seventy days.

Her limbs pushed through the water. The water now caressed her skin.
Three pulls. A breath. Three pulls
.
A breath.
When the other swimmer finished his laps and got out of the pool, she glided to the lane’s center and picked up her pace.

When her watch beeped and signaled she’d swam thirty minutes she glided to the wall, breathless but totally relaxed. She pushed out of the water and crossed to the bank of chairs where she’d draped her towel. She’d barely dried her eyes and hair when she heard a deep voice call out her name.

Angie stiffened. She recognized the gruff baritone. Detective Malcolm Kier. The cop made no effort to hide his contempt for her and her work. Instantly, she wished she had on her business suit and high heels. She straightened her shoulders and faced him. “Detective Kier. What a lovely surprise.”

He possessed a powerful build. Not more than an inch taller than her, he radiated a raw energy and a don’t-fuck-with-me demeanor that intimidated most everyone. He rattled her as well, but she’d decided long ago that she’d eat dirt before she ever let him know it.

“Counselor. Good to see you stay in shape.” He wore denims with muddied hems, a faded flannel shirt, a jean jacket, and scuffed work boots. A leather gun holster peeked out from under his jacket.

“I try. You just roll in from the mountains?”

“Just about.”

“You’re a regular Grizzly Adams.”

His grin did not reach his eyes. “That’s right.”

Water dripped from her suit. Drying herself off in front of Kier felt awkward. But the cooling air and her refusal to be intimidated motivated her to slowly begin drying her arms and legs as if she didn’t have a worry in the world. “So what brings you to the gym, Detective? Looking into membership?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “No, I’m here on official business.”

She wrapped the towel around her waist, tucked it in place, and scooted her feet into waiting flip-flops. How had he found her? And then she remembered that she’d once told Kier’s partner, her sister’s boyfriend, that she swam daily here. “Need an attorney?” she goaded. “I’d be happy to see you in my office. Feel free to call my secretary for an appointment.”

“I don’t need your services.”

“Then why are you here? Bored? Here to rattle my cage a little more?” Kier had been a constant shadow presence since the Dixon trial. It seemed he never missed an opportunity to annoy her.

“I don’t rattle your cage.” The smugness didn’t support the words. “I could care less about you.”

“That why I see you at King’s several nights a week?”

He shrugged. “I like the food. Plus you know I took an apartment across the street.”

“Right. So why is it you always make a point to hold me up in the courthouse when I’m late?”

“Just making conversation.”

“How about the four parking tickets I’ve gotten in the last year?”

“The city marks its no-parking zones clearly.You’re being paranoid.” He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a theater program. “I’d like you to look at this.”

Annoyance crept up her back, bunching the muscles she’d worked so hard to relax. “This is not the best time for me to discuss the arts, Detective.”

As if she hadn’t spoken he turned a program toward her. “Do you know this woman?”

She held his gaze, not wanting to look and give him the satisfaction that he’d won this little standoff. “Like I said, call my secretary.”

His stare darkened like an angry storm on the horizon, but it didn’t waiver, nor did the picture in his hand. “Look here, or look at the station. Makes no difference to me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to steal a few billable hours from you.”

Asshole. He’d do it. She blinked and lowered her gaze to the program. The young woman’s pale face and blond hair accentuated a high slash of cheekbones. Bright green eyes sparked and her lips curved upward as if she knew a secret.

Angie knew her. “Her name is listed in the program. You can read, can’t you?”

He held the picture out an extra beat, then slowly
tucked it back in his jacket pocket. “How long has Sierra Day been your client?”

Staring down angry cops and prosecutors was part of any defense attorney’s turf. “I don’t discuss my clients. You remember attorney–client privilege, don’t you, Detective?”

“Why did she hire you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Tell me about the divorce. Was it nasty?”

“Seeing as you have all the answers, why are you here?”

“Word is she and her soon-to-be ex-husband mixed it up a few times.”

“Talk to him.”

“I’m asking you.”

And then she cut through her own indignation and really thought about why he was here. Kier was a homicide detective, and he wasn’t making a social call. What had happened? She thought about the last time she’d seen Sierra. The woman had breezed into her office unannounced and demanded that Angie settle her divorce immediately. Sierra needed cash and wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

“Do you know where she might be?” Kier asked.

Sierra could be reckless. “Why the interest in Sierra Day? Is she in trouble?”

“She was reported missing by the West End Theater manager ten days ago.”

“You don’t work missing persons.”

He shifted his stance. “Did her husband ever threaten her?”

“Has something happened to Sierra?”

“Like I said, she is missing.”

“And like I said, you don’t work missing persons. What aren’t you telling me, Detective?”

He studied her. “Sierra’s stats match the characteristics of a body we found late last night.”

“Characteristics?”

“Female. Mid-twenties. Five-foot-six to five-foot-eight.”

“That fits Sierra and a lot of other women.” Her skin chilled. “What else do you know about your victim?”

“Not much.”

“Meaning?”

He studied her, as if wondering how much to give for maximum return. “All we have are bones.”

“Bones.” For a moment her heart softened for the unknown young woman who’d died. “It can’t be Sierra. I just saw her about ten days ago. It’s been so cool the last few weeks. A body wouldn’t decompose that quickly.”

“Like I said, her missing persons report matches the medical examiner’s preliminary examination.”

“So you’ve not made a positive identification?”

“We’re in the process.”

“The link between A and B sounds slim.”

“It’s a start.”

Her gaze narrowed. “We don’t have anything to say to each other until you have a positive identification on your Jane Doe.”

His lips flattened, signaling frustration. “Do you still represent Dr. Dixon?”

Mention of Dixon’s name caught her off guard. She tightened her grip on the towel and jerked it up. “What does Dixon have to do with this?”

“He was Sierra’s plastic surgeon.”

Sierra was vain and never satisfied with anything. Plastic surgery made sense. But to use Dixon … what woman would allow him to cut into her flesh? “Dixon has a lot of patients.”

“When is the last time you saw him?”

She frowned, annoyed. “It’s been a couple of years. He’s not my client anymore.”

“Did Sierra ever mention Dixon?”

Until she spoke to Sierra she had to walk a fine line and not breach her attorney–client relationship. “Do you believe Dixon is linked to your Jane Doe?”

“Let’s just say when Dixon’s name comes up, I pay attention.”

“So there is no evidence connecting Dixon and your Jane Doe? And your links between Jane Doe and Sierra Day are slim.”

He frowned.

“You don’t have squat.”

“I will soon.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Kier tensed. “I’ll be in touch.”

It took effort not to take a step back. “I can’t wait.” She moved to leave.

He blocked her path, and for a split second she glimpsed his gnawing anger and frustration. “Do you even give a shit that your client is missing?”

A burst of air from a vent above hit her skin puckering it with gooseflesh. “I’m not the bad guy here, Detective.”

“So you say.”

The jab was intended to piss her off and make her say something she shouldn’t. She’d used the technique herself. “Call me when you have proof.”

Angie moved around Kier, walking toward the ladies’ shower room with careful assured steps.

When she was abletostrip off her bathing suit and duck under the hot spray of the shower, she was trembling. Sierra was missing. Was this just another Sierra stunt? Did the connection to Dixon matter? Both bits of evidence could be totally unrelated. Likely they were not linked.

Still, she decided to make a few phone calls when she got back to the office and see if she could find Sierra.

Malcolm got into the waiting gray unmarked car parked in front of the gym and glanced over at Garrison, who sat behind the wheel. His body was relaxed back against the seat, and his wrist rested easily on the top of the steering wheel. He’d kept the car running and the heater blasting. “How did it go?”

“How do you think? She gave me nothing.”

Garrison sighed. “I should have talked to her. It’s no secret you two don’t care for each other.”

“Yeah.” Kier wondered that himself as he’d left the gym and strode across the parking lot. He’d been too anxious to drop the bad news on Carlson to see her reaction. He’d wanted to see her tossed off balance and upset.