Nowhere to Hide (33 page)

Jake stepped out of the unit and said, “It would be easy enough to climb the fence. He scanned the area and said, “There are cameras.”

“Maybe they keep a tape or digital copy,” September mused, knowing she had no idea when the killer, or whoever, had stolen her belongings. Knowing also that the perp would most likely be wearing something to hide his features.

“Maybe,” Jake said.

“How did he know about this place, when the only one who did was Rosamund?”

“Maybe he knows Rosamund?”

September shivered. “Could Rosamund be a target? I thought he was after me because I’m the cop on the case, or was, and maybe that was the kickoff. He started killing right after my picture was in the paper announcing my new position with the Laurelton PD. But maybe there’s something more there. My father has a number of enemies. . . and Rosamund looks a little like me, too, and Emmy and Sheila and Glenda.

“Or, maybe not,” she said, shaking her head. “He killed that prostitute, too, but everyone seems to think that’s because she was available.”

“He killed Glenda right after your interview with Channel Seven,” Jake pointed out.

“What do you think?” she asked him as Jake pulled the garage door back down and replaced the faulty lock to make it appear as if it were secure.

“Maybe he works here?” he asked, glancing toward the darkened office.

September followed his gaze. “We can check in the morning.”

“No.” His abrupt tone caused her to gaze at him in surprise, and he reminded her, “You’re off the case. You can tell your partner in the morning.”

“Oh, to hell with that. I want to know. This is my family.”

“Then talk to Rosamund. She’s the only one who would have an idea. But tell your partner. Let her be the lead dog.”

September pulled out her cell phone as they drove back through the gate and away. She didn’t want to hear his logic. She wanted him to be on her side, come hell or high water, which was unrealistic, but it was what she wanted. “I’m calling July. I don’t have Rosamund’s cell number, and I’m sure as hell not talking to my father.” She saw him smile in the darkness, but he didn’t comment. “So glad I’m a source of amusement,” she grumbled.

“I kinda like it when you’re in a bad mood.”

“Bad mood? You haven’t seen me in a bad mood, but I’m getting there.”

He chuckled and July’s voice mail came up. “Hi, it’s September. I don’t have Rosamund’s cell number. Would you have her call mine? I need to talk to her about the storage unit. Thanks.”

She clicked off, and then realized they were heading south out of Laurelton. “Where are we going?” she asked suspiciously.

“Westerly Vale B&B,” he said. “I got us the room that looks over the vineyards.”

“Oh . . .” She sank back into the seat. She was bound to meet Colin and his wife, and they would then be aware of her relationship with Jake.

She felt her anxiety start to rise as they turned into the long drive that led to the winery and bed and breakfast, but when Jake opened the front door for her and they entered the welcoming front room, and Jake’s brother came and clasped his hand, and September was introduced to his wife, Neela, who both seemed thrilled to have her with Jake, she relaxed. Jake introduced her as September, not Nine, which said something, she supposed, though she wasn’t quite sure what, but Colin treated her like an old friend, which she was, in a way, and Neela was as warm as anyone she’d met in recent years.

There was a bottle of dessert wine and cookies on a tray and everyone had a small glass and there was a lot of talk about the winery. It couldn’t have been better, September realized, somewhat surprised. It took her mind off the case and her family troubles, and by the time she and Jake were in bed, curling into each other and making love, she’d pretty much put the worst of the day behind her.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, a few minutes later. “Don’t fall asleep. There’s some stuff I want to tell you.”

“What kind of stuff ?” She pulled the covers over her breasts.

“I’ll tell you as soon as I’m back.”

Alone, she stared up at the ceiling fan that was lazily swirling the air in the room around, creating a comfortable breeze. There was air conditioning as well. It was a really wonderful place and September wanted to smash her face in the pillow and stay there forever.

But then her mind started tripping along familiar pathways and she thought about calling Della back. She reached for her messenger bag and pulled out her cell, checking the time. It was after ten. Not a great time for placing a phone call, and yet almost as the words crossed her mind, her phone rang in her hand.

Another unfamiliar number. Maybe Rosamund?

“Hello,” she answered cautiously.

“Detective Rafferty?” a male voice asked. “It’s Phil Merit.”

Not Rosamund. “Oh. Hello.”

“You gave me your number and I’ve been debating on calling you back.”

September sat up in bed. “You’ve remembered something about Sheila Dempsey, or . . . ?”

“I didn’t tell you everything about Sheila. I’ve been kicking myself, but it seems so . . . it just can’t be related. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I had her make out a will,” he rushed out. “I’m an estate lawyer and I just told her everyone should have a will. So, she did. She thought it was dumb because she didn’t have anything, really, outside the marriage. Maybe a car. But she didn’t want her husband to get anything of hers, so she wrote in the name of another beneficiary. I never filed the papers and I just sorta let it go . . . we were drinking at The Barn Door, and then at the house . . . and it wasn’t supposed to be serious. Then when she was killed I knew I could probably be in trouble for half-assing the whole thing, and . . . God . . . I don’t mean to try to excuse myself, it’s just my thought process, y’know. I just waited too long.”

“Okay.”

“I should have told you earlier. It’s meaningless, but I should have told you earlier.”

September felt her heart start to pump heavily. “The beneficiary?” September asked, but she didn’t need to. She knew. She knew already.

“Jake Westerly. The guy she was so wild about at that time. She thought it was fun to put his name in, like they were connected, or something. But like I said, it’s meaningless. I just should have told you earlier.”

Chapter 19

September sat at her desk, staring straight ahead, watching Bethwick’s mouth move, only picking up one or two syllables at a time. “. . . cord . . . small fibers . . . all four victims . . . Demp . . . blinds . . . must bring with . . . his kills . . .”

It was Friday morning and she wasn’t on the case, which now was just as well, after Phil Merit’s bomb dropped last night. In her gut she knew he was right: it was meaningless. Jake was about the last person to have a reason to kill Sheila Dempsey for what she’d supposedly left him. He was wealthy, a self-made man, probably with a net worth in the millions. It made no sense at all. It was just one of those curve balls that happened in an investigation that could make you lose focus. She wasn’t going to let it happen.

But she’d lain awake in the dark listening to Jake’s breathing and thinking about all the coincidences, the numerous points on the axis where Jake crossed into her investigation. They’d gone to the same elementary school, and junior high, and high school. He remembered both the falling leaves artwork and that he’d done a report on the migration of blue whales while she’d written a report on sea anemones. He’d known Sheila Dempsey as a friend, in grade school and from meeting her again at His and Hers Hair Salon. He’d joined her and several friends at The Barn Door for drinks, and he’d even faced off with Sheila’s estranged husband, Greg Dempsey.

She shook her head and glanced down at the note on her desk. Channel Seven was trying to get another interview with her. They didn’t know she was off the case, and she wasn’t going to tell them. Wadding up the note, she threw it at her waste can and was gratified when it bounced off the rim and in.

Staring ahead of herself, she felt a seething anger building. Though it was completely off point, she found herself furious with Deputy Dalton. He hadn’t interviewed Phil Merit and therefore it
wasn’t
all in the report, like he’d claimed. He’d stopped at Greg Dempsey and hadn’t learned about Sheila Dempsey’s will.

Her head ached. All of this was such little stuff, really. They’d gone to school together so it was likely he would remember some of their art projects. He had a passing relationship with Sheila, one of Do Unto Others’s victims, who had then, on a lark, named him as her beneficiary.

She doubted he even knew what Sheila had done.

And there was something else now, too, which while irrelevant to the case, said something about Jake. He’d wanted to talk to her about something, but she’d faked being asleep when he came out of the shower. Then, this morning, as they were waking up, he’d received a call on his cell phone that had made his expression turn grim when he saw the number. She’d felt her heart begin to pound, wondering what now? She was holding so much in. What they’d shared, physically and emotionally, was so new and precious that she’d been loath to chance destroying it.

He’d clicked off the call without answering it, then caught her eyes on him. She could almost see the calculation running across his mind.

“What is it?” she’d asked, almost afraid to know.

He moved his head slowly, from side to side, as if weighing how to tell her. Fear shot along her nerves. She subconsciously braced for something devastating.

“This is what I wanted to tell you. That was Marilyn Cheever, Loni’s mother. Loni’s in the hospital. She overdosed on a combination of pills that she’d probably been hoarding . . . she’s done it before. Marilyn wants me to come see her again, and it’s a cycle I need to break. That’s where I was yesterday when you called.”

September had just stared at him. It was such a complete left turn from what she’d feared that she hadn’t known how to respond. Misinterpreting, he’d added, “It’s over with Loni. Has been since January, like I told you. She’s bipolar and it started after high school, or maybe even while we were in high school, I don’t know. Sometimes she’s fine and well . . .” He sighed in frustration. “You know the drill. But don’t . . . please . . . let this affect what’s happening between you and me.” He moved his hands to include her and him together. “This is good. I spent way too many years with Loni. A lot of it out of guilt. Don’t let this ruin it for us.”

“I’m not worried about Loni,” September had said truthfully, but then had quickly climbed out of bed and run through the shower, dressing in haste, unable to really meet his eyes, so she knew she’d given him the wrong impression.

She tried to act like nothing was wrong on the way to her apartment and her car, but he’d grown progressively quieter while she’d become a magpie, chattering about every inconsequential thing that entered her mind.

Now, she didn’t know what to do. Though she wasn’t supposed to act on the case, she needed to at least appear alert and taking in information at every meeting, and she could feel the feds’ gazes touch on her, along with Gretchen, George, and D’Annibal’s. Luckily, she’d gotten enough, if asked. Though she’d only heard bits and pieces, she understood that the feds had gotten the lab report back on the type of cord the killer used as his method of strangulation. It was identified as a common cord used in window coverings, specifically blinds.

“We also interviewed Emmy Decatur’s parents,” Bethwick said, turning his flat stare accusingly at September and Gretchen. “They asked why we were interviewing them again. They thought we would be checking with Grandview Hospital, since they’d revealed that Emmy went there for several years.”

September saw Gretchen’s face flush dark red, but she was too involved in her own personal hell to really react. Let ’em be mad. She didn’t much care. Gretchen quickly explained how they’d spoken to Dawn Markam-Manning, who’d been a nurse at Grandview, but that she hadn’t offered up any real information. She invited the agents to recheck with Dawn, and then allowed that maybe it would be better if they checked with someone else who’d worked at the hospital, someone who might remember Emmy Decatur better.

Silence followed. If September had been more involved, she would have enjoyed Sandler’s inherent snappishness, for once.

The meeting broke up shortly afterward and Gretchen came steaming over to September’s desk. She was pissed, mostly at herself for getting caught, but eventually she realized September wasn’t feeling the same slap down. She gazed at her hard. “You okay?”

“Never better,” she said, to which Gretchen snorted her disbelief.

“You look like you’re not even really here,” she said. “What gives? What did you do yesterday?”

September almost snarked back, “Nothing,” but stopped herself. It wasn’t Sandler’s fault she’d been taken off the case. Deciding she needed to be a team player, she said, “I actually learned a few things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Keeping her voice down, September said, “Oh, let’s see. I had a visit with Hague Dugan about ‘Wart.’ I had dinner at my father’s and, what do you know, I have another brother. Half-brother, actually. And then I found out that my latest stepmother didn’t tell me that she shipped all of our stuff—us Rafferty kids’—to a storage unit, and when I went to see what was in that unit, the only box missing was mine.”

Gretchen sat down at her desk, looking at September thoughtfully. “Wow. That’s a lot in twenty-four hours. You think our doer took your schoolwork from the unit?” She kept her voice low as well.

“Looks like he took the whole box.”

“That puts a different spin on it.” She gave September an assessing look. “So, you’re still working on the case.”

September shot a glance around the room, but the agents were gathering their stuff and heading out and not paying any particular attention. “Just tying up some loose ends.”

Gretchen, in turn, threw a glare at the two agents, a hard look at George who was on the phone, and another one toward D’Annibal’s office for good measure. The lieutenant was also on the phone. “Tell me more.”