Ornaments of Death (16 page)

It didn't work.

Panic-fueled blood raced through my veins. Terror made my skin crawl, as if spiders were running up and down my arms and legs. I looked up and over and around. There was nowhere to go. I was trapped.

Oh, no,
I mouthed.
My tote bag.

I'd left it under the desk. It wasn't out in the open, but to someone searching, it would be apparent.

Thrashing and cracking sounds thundered outside the door. Remembering what I'd seen at the institute, I could easily imagine what was happening here. The attacker was dumping Becca's clothing, hurling drawers against walls or smashing them against the floor, and shredding the mattress. No one spoke. Either it was a well-organized team or one person was working alone.

With my eyes fixed on the narrow crack, I gingerly stepped into the tub. The rupturing and tearing noises continued, one act of destruction followed by another. I lay flat, scrunching my way up toward the faucet, out of sight, I hoped, from someone who might enter looking not for a person hiding but for booty to steal. Grasping the shower curtain hem, I eased it toward the back until I was cocooned. I rolled onto my side, raised my knees toward my chest, and curled my shoulders inward, tucking my head down, trying to make myself as small as possible.

A big piece of furniture, maybe the tallboy, went down with an earthshaking boom. I winced and closed my eyes. Smaller thumps followed. Fabric tore.

The silence, when it came, was as stunning as the previous cacophony had been. I held my breath waiting for the next round of destruction to begin. It didn't come. I felt like a mouse knowing there's a cat right outside the door. I waited more. A door opened, then closed.

“Ms. Prescott?” a man called.

I didn't recognize the voice and was terrified it was a setup designed to draw me out.

“Ms. Prescott?” the same voice called again.

After two more calls, I heard footsteps drawing closer.

“What the—” A pause. A change in tone, from casual to worried. “Ms. Prescott, this is Officer O'Keefe. Are you all right?”

I sat up and leaned my head against the cold tiles. “I'm—” I broke off, coughing, and tried again. “I'm in the bathroom.” My eyes filled with tears of relief.

“Are you okay?” Officer O'Keefe asked again. His eyes were round with concern. He squatted beside me. “Do you need medical attention?”

“No.” I extended a hand and he helped me up. “Thanks.”

With his hand on my elbow, he walked me out of the bathroom and into the vortex.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I stood in the center of Becca's room while Officer O'Keefe called in the burglary. I couldn't stop shivering, maybe from the cold. The wind whistled through the shattered window. My tote bag had been emptied upside down and tossed aside. He told me not to touch anything. I saw my wallet, my phone, my notebook, and my silver card case. Hard as it was to believe, it looked as if nothing had been stolen.

From what I could see, no inch of the room had been left unscathed. All the furniture was toppled over; the mattress lay askew from the frame, slashed and torn; clothes were heaped on the bed; papers were strewn across the floor.

“The detectives are on their way,” Officer O'Keefe told me.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I asked. “I want to call Chief Hunter.”

“Sure.” He handed it over. Ellis answered on the first ring.

“We have a kind of situation down here,” I said. “I think you're going to want to be on-site for the investigation.”

As soon as I explained what had happened, he said he'd see me in an hour.

Officer O'Keefe and I picked our way across the floor and walked into the kitchen. Ethan opened the front door and frowned when he saw us.

“This is getting to be quite a habit,” he said, his eyes on me. He turned his gaze on Officer O'Keefe. “Not for nothing, but I'd like a little privacy.”

“Sorry, sir,” O'Keefe said. “This is a crime scene.”

“What's going on?”

“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you not to touch anything and to join us here in the kitchen.”

“Who are you?”

“Officer O'Keefe. And you are?”

Ethan held up his key. “A tenant.”

“There's been a break-in. The detectives will be here shortly.”

“Josie?” Ethan asked, turning my name into a question.

“Let's wait for the detectives,” O'Keefe interjected before I could reply.

Ethan closed the door, tossed his keys onto the telephone table, and swung his backpack off, wedging it against the wall.

“It's cold in here,” he said.

A rat-a-tat sounded, and two men in suits strode in.

*   *   *

I was stuck in Becca and Ethan's apartment for an hour recounting what happened, then at the precinct house for two more giving a formal statement. Ellis listened in on my last rendition, the one I delivered to a video camera. His first act was to convince his contact to start the technicians on my tote bag and its contents, so everything could be released to me before I left.

“Thank you,” I said as he walked me to my car. “Any fingerprints on my stuff?”

“No. It looks like whoever broke in wore gloves, no surprise.”

“I figure he found my tote bag, realized I was probably somewhere in the apartment, and tore out of there.”

“That's what I think, too. How long did you stay in the bathroom after it got quiet?”

“I don't know. A while. I was scared. Why did Officer O'Keefe come in?”

“Shift change. He was going off duty and wanted to introduce you to his replacement,” he said.

“He's a good cop.”

“I'll pass that along.”

“Do you think the phone calls were to verify that no one was at home?” I asked.

“Probably. Or they were from a robo-call telemarketer.”

“Can you check?”

“We already have. They came from a disposable phone that was purchased at a small electronics store in New York City five months ago. Someone bought six of them.”

“That's fast work!” I said.

“One of the detectives has a contact at the phone company. No one on staff remembers the buyer.”

“Any security cameras?”

“Yup. They only keep the digital recordings for ninety days, though.”

I looked up but couldn't see any stars. I wondered if it was cloud cover shrouding the sky or city lights that made the sky look ink black. I was exhausted, the kind of to-your-bones fatigue that weighs you down after a crisis. And, oddly, I was ravenous.

“Ty texted that he's waiting dinner for me. By the time I get home, it'll be ten.”

Ellis glanced at his watch. “Nine thirty, probably. Call him before you leave, so he'll have it ready.”

“Yeah. I will.” I raised my shoulders and lowered them, and turned my head to the left, then to the right. All my muscles were tight. “How about you? When will you eat?”

“I'll be fine.” He touched my upper arm. “Are you okay? For real?”

“Yeah.” I clicked open my driver's door. As I reached for the handle, I added, “I should have tried to get a look at him. I could have hidden behind the door and peeked out.”

“Don't, Josie. Don't beat yourself up. You did exactly the right thing. You focused on staying safe.”

“I feel all wussy.”

“That's silly,” he said.

Anger flared. Telling me not to feel what I was feeling was like telling someone with a headache to shake it off.

“It's how I feel,” I said.

“Fair enough. Just know I don't think you're wussy.”

“Thanks.” I stood up straight and stretched, arching my back, working the kinks out.

“Are you okay to drive? I can get someone to take you home.”

“I'm fine.” I looked Ellis in the eyes as I opened the car door. “Whoever did this killed Ian.”

“We don't know that.”

I slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Ellis closed the door. I lowered the window.

“You're a good friend, Ellis,” I said.

“You are, too, Josie.”

I raised the window, put the car in gear, and drove home.

*   *   *

After a hot bath, a cold Prescott's Punch, and a bowl of leftover pot roast, I leaned back against the pillows at the short end of the L-shaped bench framing my kitchen table and sighed, an exhalation of pleasure.

“Yum,” I said.

“I reheat a mean pot roast,” Ty said.

I smiled and took his hand.

“I got so scared lying in the tub,” I said. “I felt so powerless. So vulnerable.”

“Makes sense. You were.”

We sat for another hour as I recounted what I'd heard and seen and felt. Ty was unwaveringly calm and reassuring, and as I slid off the bench, I thought how lucky I was to have him in my life. Even though I knew it was nothing more than an illusion that things actually got better through talking, I felt better, and that was something.

*   *   *

I hadn't returned any of Wes's texts or calls, but when the phone rang at seven thirty Friday morning, I recognized his number and took the call.

“I can't believe you didn't call me back,” he said by way of greeting.

“I had a hard day.”

“That's no excuse, Josie, and you know it.”

“Give me a break, Wes.”

“You can make it up to me. Tell me exactly what happened at Becca's. Let's meet for breakfast.”

“I've already eaten,” I told him to give myself time to decide whether I felt like dealing with him or not. I adored Wes like a kid brother, but boy oh boy, was he work.

“Come on, Joz,” he whined. “Meet me for coffee.”

Wes might think I owed him, and maybe I did, but that didn't mean I had to pay up now. I wasn't going to share the photos I took; that was certain. Not when so much was unclear. The last thing I wanted to do was complicate the police investigation. I decided to go, not to give, but to take. I was willing to bet Wes had information he would share. I would even up the tally later. Plus, Ellis wanted me to talk to Wes, to get him to rally the troops.

“Okay,” I said. I glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall over the refrigerator, a mahogany beauty, a Chessman original. “Half an hour. The Portsmouth Diner.”

I got there first and ordered coffee.

Since Wes had hooked up with his Maggie, he'd cleaned up his act. No longer did he breakfast on a double order of bacon and a Coke; instead, he ordered a fruit salad, coffee, and an English muffin, no butter.

“So … talk,” he said to me, after the waitress had delivered our coffees.

I did. I told him about the break-in and my paralyzing terror. I described the sounds the glass made as it tumbled to the ground, hiding in the tub curled in the fetal position, and the shambles the burglar left behind.

I sighed, remembering the anxiety, the fear, the helplessness. “What about Becca? Is there any word on her whereabouts?”

“Nope. Same old, same old. No sightings. No credit or debit card usage. No E-ZPass records at the tollbooths. Her car is old; it doesn't have GPS built in.”

“What about planes?”

Wes shook his head. “She's not on any passenger manifest. She could have bought a train ticket for cash. They're checking security cameras.”

“How could they? There must be thousands of train riders each day.”

“They use facial recognition software.”

“Really? That's amazing.”

The waitress delivered Wes's food and refilled our cups.

“Do you think Becca has the paintings with her?”

I thought of the secret drawer in the desk, empty, not quite closed. “Maybe. Any word from the medical examiner?”

“Based on the points of impact, she's determined that Ian was struck by a small sedan, and that there is likely to have been significant damage to the vehicle.”

My eyes opened wide. “Becca drives a small car.”

“I know,” he said, with relish. “The ME estimates that the car was moving at thirty-five to forty miles per hour at the moment of impact.”

“On a short dead-end street?”

“There's more. From the tire tracks, there's no way the body could have ended up where it was found, facedown, under a bush, without human intervention. She's ruled the death a homicide.”

“Oh, Wes,” I whispered. “How awful.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, sounding bloodthirsty.

“You should write an article asking people to call the police if they see her, saying that maybe she's in trouble and needs help.”

“Do you think she's in trouble?” Wes asked, intrigued.

“I don't know.”

“So you don't think Becca killed her dad?”

“I can't bear to think about it, Wes. I just can't.”

I couldn't stop the image of Ian and Lia laughing and flirting at my party from coming into my mind, either. Lia's first moment of hope after a year of misery, as dead as Ian. As unseemly and off-putting as Lia's initial reaction to Ian's death had been, I understood how she could feel that way. Poor Lia. She seemed unable to yank herself out of the quagmire that was sucking her into a morass of wretched despair.

“I looked it up,” Wes said. “When a daughter kills her father, it's called patricide. It's rare. Only about a hundred occurrences a year.”

“But it happens.”

Wes grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

*   *   *

When I got to my office around nine, Gretchen showed me Wes's tweets. Within minutes of leaving the diner, he tweeted:
Becca Bennington, call the Rocky Point police at 603.555.1919. Your help is needed. #FindBecca.
The second one read
Have you seen Becca Bennington? She may be injured or sick. If you've seen her, call 603.555.1919. #FindBecca.

I didn't know how to react to Wes's tweets. He was doing as I asked, but it seemed so out there, I couldn't imagine anyone responding.