Scream for Me (6 page)

Monday, January 29, 7:15 a.m.

“Alex.
Wake up.
”

Alex opened the bedroom door at Meredith’s hiss. “No need to be quiet. We’re both awake.” She pointed to Hope, who sat at the bedroom desk, her bare feet swinging inches from the ground, her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration. “She’s coloring.” Alex sighed. “With red. I got her to eat a little cereal.”

Meredith stayed in the doorway, dressed in her running clothes and clutching a newspaper in one hand. “Good morning, Hope. Alex, can I see you out here?”

“Sure. I’ll be just outside the door, Hope.” But Hope gave no indication she’d heard. Alex followed Meredith into the sitting room. “When I woke up she was sitting at the desk already. I have no idea how long she’d been awake. She didn’t make a sound.”

“I wish I didn’t have to show you this.” Meredith held out the newspaper.

Alex took one look at the headline, then sank onto the sofa as her legs gave out. Background noise faded until all she could hear was her own pulse pounding in her ears. MURDERED WOMAN FOUND IN ARCADIA DITCH. “Oh, Mer. Oh, no.”

Crouching, Meredith met her eyes. “It might not be Bailey.”

Alex shook her head. “But the timing’s just right. She was found yesterday and had been dead two days.” She made herself breathe, made herself focus on the rest of the article.
Please, don’t be Bailey. Be too short or too tall. Be a brunette or a redhead, just don’t be Bailey.
But as she read, her pounding heart began to race. “Meredith.” She looked up, panic shooting like a geyser. “This woman was wrapped in a brown blanket.”

Meredith grabbed the paper. “I only read the headline.” Her lips moved as she read. Then she looked up, her freckles standing out against her pale cheeks. “Her face.”

Alex nodded numbly. “I know.” Her voice was thin. The woman’s face had been beaten beyond recognition. “Just like . . .”
Just like Alicia.

“My God.” Meredith swallowed. “She was . . .” She looked over her shoulder to where Hope sat, coloring as furiously as before. “Alex.”

She’d been raped. Just like Alicia
. “I know.” Alex stood up, willing her knees not to buckle. “I told the Dutton police something terrible had happened, but they wouldn’t listen.” She straightened her spine. “Can you stay with Hope?”

“Of course. But where are you going?”

She took the newspaper. “This article says the investigation is being led by Special Agent Daniel Vartanian, GBI. GBI’s the state crime bureau and they’re in Atlanta, so that’s where I’m going.” She narrowed her eyes, back in control. “And by God, this Vartanian better not even consider ignoring me now.”

Monday, January 29, 7:50 a.m.

He’d expected the call ever since he’d picked his paper up from his front porch this morning. Still, when the phone rang, he was angry. Angry and afraid. He snatched the receiver, his hand trembling. But he kept his voice neutral. Even a little bored. “Yeah.”

“
Did you see?
” The voice on the phone was as unsteady as his own hand, but he wouldn’t allow the others to see his fear. One sign of weakness and the others would fall like dominoes, starting with the one who’d taken a stupid risk in calling him like this.

“I’m looking at it right now.” The headline had grabbed his attention. The article had grabbed his gut and squeezed, leaving him nauseated. “It’s nothing to do with us. Say nothing and it will just go away.”

“But if somebody starts asking questions . . .”

“We say nothing, just like we did then. This is just some copycat. Act naturally and everything will be fine.”

“But . . . this is really bad, man. I don’t think I can act naturally.”

“You can and you will. This has nothing to do with us. Now stop whimpering and get to work. And don’t call me again.”

He hung up, then read the article again. He was still angry and afraid. He wondered how he could have been so very stupid.
You were just a kid. Kids make mistakes.
He picked up the photo on his desk, staring into the smiling face of his wife with their two children. He wasn’t a kid any longer. He was an adult with far too much to lose.

If one of them broke, if one of them told . . .
He pushed away from his desk, went to the bathroom, and threw up. Then pulled himself together and got ready to face his day.

Atlanta, Monday, January 29, 7:55 a.m.

“Here. You look like you need this more than I do.”

Daniel smelled the coffee and looked up as Chase Wharton sat on the corner of his desk. “Thanks. I’ve been looking at these missing persons printouts for an hour and I’m starting to see double.” He gulped down a swallow, then winced when bitter dregs slid down his throat. “Thanks,” he repeated, far less sincerely, and his boss chuckled.

“Sorry. I had to clear the bottom of the pot before I made a fresh one and you really did look like you needed it.” Chase looked at the stack of printouts. “No luck?”

“No. We got no hits on her prints. She’s been dead two days, but that doesn’t mean that’s when she disappeared. I’ve gone back two months and nobody stands out.”

“She might not be from around here, Daniel.”

“I know. Leigh’s requesting missing person reports from departments in a fifty-mile radius.” But so far their clerk hadn’t found anything either. “I’m hoping she’s only been gone the two days and nobody’s missed her, since it was the weekend. It’s Monday morning. Maybe somebody will report her today when she doesn’t show up for work.”

“We’ll cross our fingers. Are you going to have an update meeting today?”

“At six tonight. By then Dr. Berg will have done the autopsy and the lab will be finished with the crime scene.” He drew a breath. “Until then, we’ve got other problems.” From under the stack of printouts, he pulled the three pages that had been waiting for him on the fax machine when he’d arrived that morning.

Chase’s face darkened. “Sonofabitch. Who took that picture? What paper is this?”

“The guy that took the picture is the same one that wrote the article. His name is Jim Woolf and he owns the
Dutton Review
. You’re looking at today’s headline.”

Chase looked startled. “Dutton? I thought this victim was found in Arcadia.”

“She was. You might want to sit down. This could take a few minutes.”

Chase sat. “All right. What’s going on, Daniel? Where did you get this fax?”

“From the sheriff in Arcadia. He saw it when he stopped to get his coffee this morning. He called at six a.m. to let me know, then faxed me the article. From the angle of the picture, he’s thinking Jim Woolf was sitting in a tree watching us the whole time.”

Daniel studied the grainy photo and his anger surged again. “Woolf has got all the details in there that I would have held back—the victim’s broken face, her being found wrapped in a brown blanket. He didn’t even have the decency to wait until they’d finished zipping her body bag. Luckily Malcolm’s blocking most of his shot.” Her body was hidden, but her feet were visible.

Chase was grim. “How the hell did he get through your barricade?”

“I don’t think he got through, not if he was sitting in the tree Corchran thinks. There’s no way we wouldn’t have seen him climbing that tree.”

“So he was there before you got there.”

Daniel nodded. “Which at a minimum means that somebody tipped him off. Worst case, it could mean he tampered with the scene before we got there.”

“Who called this in? I mean initially?”

“Biker in the race. He said he called 911 without ever getting off his bike. I already filed a warrant to check his cell phone records to see if he called anyone else first.”

“Vultures,” Chase muttered. “Call this Woolf guy. Make him tell you who told him.”

“I’ve called him four times this morning, but there’s no answer. I’ll drive to Dutton today to question him, but I’m betting he’ll hide behind the First Amendment and won’t reveal his source.”

“Probably. Hell.” Chase flicked the fax like it was a bug. “This Woolf guy could have been the one to put her there.”

“That’s occurred to me, although I have to doubt it. I went to high school with Jim Woolf and knew his family. He and his brothers were always quiet, nice kids.”

Chase glared at the photo. “I think it’s safe to say he’s changed.”

Daniel sighed. Hadn’t they all? There was something about Dutton, Georgia, that brought out the worst in people. “I guess so.”

Chase held up his hand. “Wait. I still want to know why Dutton? If this crime happened in Arcadia, why tip off this Woolf guy in Dutton?”

“The victim yesterday was found in Arcadia, in a ditch, wrapped in a brown blanket. A similar crime happened in Dutton thirteen years ago.” Daniel showed him the article on the murder of Alicia Tremaine. “Her killer is now serving life in Macon State.”

Chase grimaced. “God, I hate copycat killers.”

“I don’t like the original ones too much either. At any rate, I’m thinking somebody saw the body earlier, remembered the Tremaine connection, and leaked the Arcadia story to Jim Woolf. It could have been the biker or anybody else on that race course. I talked to the race officials when I was trying to figure when the body had been put in the ditch to begin with and one of them said he’d ridden the course Saturday and hadn’t seen anything. I believed him because the guy wore glasses with Coke-bottle lenses.”

“But if he was riding earlier, others might have been, too. Dig deeper.” Chase frowned. “But what’s this about the Tremaine connection? I don’t like you being on a case that involves Dutton. Not right now.”

Daniel had been ready for the argument. Still, it left his palms clammy. “Simon didn’t kill this woman, Chase. There’s no conflict here.”

Chase rolled his eyes. “Hell, Daniel. I know that. I also know the names Dutton and Vartanian together make the brass real nervous.”

“That’s not my problem. I haven’t done anything wrong.” And maybe someday he’d believe his own words. For now, he just needed Chase to believe them.

“Okay. But as soon as you hear a whisper of a bad Vartanian, you’re gone, okay?”

Daniel smiled wryly. “Okay.”

“What are you going to do next?’

“Identify this woman.” He tapped the photo of the victim. “Find out who told Jim Woolf what and when, and . . . follow up on Alicia Tremaine. I’ve left a few messages with the sheriff down in Dutton. I want to get a copy of the police report from the Tremaine case. Maybe there’s something in it that can help me now.”

Chapter Three

Atlanta, Monday, January 29, 8:45 a.m.

A
lex paused outside the office for the Investigative Division of the GBI and prayed Agent Daniel Vartanian would be more helpful than Dutton’s Sheriff Loomis. “Check Peachtree and Pine,” Loomis had snapped when she’d called his office for the fifth time on Sunday morning, trying to get someone to give her information on Bailey. She’d googled and found Peachtree and Pine was the location of several homeless shelters in Atlanta. If she was wrong . . .
God, please let me be wrong
. . . and this victim wasn’t Bailey, Peachtree and Pine would be her next stop.

But the years had made Alex a realist and she knew the chances were good that the woman found in Arcadia was Bailey. That she’d been found the same way as Alicia . . . A shiver of apprehension ran down her back and she took a moment to compose herself before opening the office door.
Focus on the quiet. Be assertive.

At least she was confident in her clothes. She’d dressed in the black suit she’d brought in case she needed to appear in court to get custody of Hope. Or if Bailey was found. She’d worn the suit to more than a few funerals over the years. Praying she wouldn’t be attending another, she steeled herself for the worst and opened the door.

The counter held a nameplate that said Leigh Smithson, Clerk. The blonde behind the counter looked up from her computer with a friendly smile. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Agent Vartanian.” Alex lifted her chin, daring the woman to refuse.

The blonde’s smile dimmed. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But it’s important. It’s about a newspaper article.” She’d pulled the
Dutton Review
from her satchel when the woman’s eyes flashed fire.

“Agent Vartanian has no comment for your paper. You reporters . . .” she muttered.

“I’m not a reporter and I don’t want information on Agent Vartanian,” Alex snapped back. “I want information on this investigation.” She swallowed hard, appalled when her voice broke. She controlled it, lifting her chin. “I think this victim is my stepsister.”

The woman’s expression instantly changed and she lurched from her chair. “I’m so sorry. I assumed that you . . . What is your name, ma’am?”

“Alex Fallon. My stepsister is Bailey Crighton. She disappeared two days ago.”

“I’ll tell Agent Vartanian you’re here, Ms. Fallon. Please have a seat.” She pointed to a row of plastic chairs and picked up a phone. “He should be with you any moment.”

Alex was too nervous to sit. She paced, looking at the wall covered with childish renderings of cops, robbers, and jails drawn by schoolchildren. Alex thought of Hope and her red crayons. What had that baby seen?
Could you even handle it if you knew?

She stopped midstep, the taunt catching her off-guard. Could she handle it? She’d have to, for Hope’s sake. The child had no one.
So you have to handle it this time, Alex.
Although in the quiet of her mind she knew she hadn’t handled it well so far.

She’d dreamed
the dream
last night. Dark and pierced with a scream so long and loud that she’d woken in a cold sweat, trembling so hard she thought she’d wake Hope. But the child never stirred. Alex had wondered if Hope dreamed, and what she saw.

“Miss Fallon? I’m Special Agent Vartanian.” The voice was rich and deep and calm. Still her heart raced.
This is it. He’ll tell you it’s Bailey. You have to handle this.

S
he slowly turned and had a split second to stare up into a ruggedly handsome face with a broad forehead, unsmiling lips, and eyes so piercingly blue she caught her breath. Then those eyes widened and Alex watched them flicker wildly for just a moment before his unsmiling lips fell open, and the color drained from his face.

It
was
Bailey, then.
Alex pursed her lips hard, willing her legs to hold her up. She’d known what the answer would be. Still, she’d hoped . . . “Agent Vartanian?” she whispered. “Is that woman my stepsister?”

He stared at her face, his color returning. “Please,” he said, his voice now low and taut. He held out his arm, gesturing for her to go in front of him. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Alex complied. “My office is through this door,” he said, “on the left.”

It was a stark office. Government-issue desk and chairs. Maps on the wall, along with a few plaques. No pictures, anywhere. She sat in the chair he pulled out for her, then he took his seat behind his desk. “I have to apologize, Miss Fallon. You look like someone else. I was . . . startled. Please, tell me about your stepsister. Miss Smithson said her name is Bailey Crighton and she’s been missing for two days.”

He was staring at her with an intensity that left her unnerved. So she stared back, finding it helped keep her focused. “I got a call from Social Services on Friday afternoon. Bailey hadn’t come to work and a coworker found her daughter alone in her house.”

“So you came to take care of the daughter?”

Alex nodded. “Yes. Her name is Hope. She’s four. I tried to talk to the sheriff down in Dutton, but he said Bailey had probably just taken off.”

His jaw tightened, so infinitesimally that she might have missed it had she not been staring at him as hard as he was staring at her. “So she lived in Dutton?”

“All her life.”

“I see. Can you describe her, Miss Fallon?”

Alex clenched her fingers in her lap. “I haven’t seen her in five years. She was using then and she looked hard and old. But I’ve heard she’s been sober since her daughter was born. I don’t know exactly what she looks like now and I don’t have any pictures of her.” She’d left them all behind when Kim and Steve took her away thirteen years ago, and later . . . Alex hadn’t wanted any pictures of the drugged-out Bailey. It was too painful to watch, much less capture on film. “She’s about my height, five-six. Last time I saw her she was very thin, maybe one-twenty. Her eyes are gray. Then, her hair was blond, but she’s a hairdresser, so it could be any color.”

Vartanian was taking notes. He looked up. “What color blond? Dark, golden?”

“Well, not as blond as yours.” Vartanian’s hair was the color of cornsilk, and so thick it still held the ridges from where he’d shoved his fingers through it. He looked up, his lips bending in a small smile, and she felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said kindly. Even though he still stared at her with that same intensity, something had changed in his demeanor and for the first time Alex let herself hope.

“Was the victim blond, Agent Vartanian?”

He shook his head. “No. Did your cousin have any identifying marks?”

“She has a tattoo on her right ankle. A sheep.”

Vartanian looked surprised. “A sheep?”

Alex’s cheeks heated again. “A lamb actually. It was a joke between us. Bailey and my sister and me. We all got them . . .” She cut herself off. She was rambling.

His eyes flickered once more, just barely. “Your sister?”

“Yes.” Alex glanced at Vartanian’s desk and saw a copy of the headline from this morning’s
Dutton Review
. Suddenly his extreme reaction on meeting her made sense and she wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or annoyed. “You’ve already read the paper, so you know about the similarities between my sister’s death and the woman you found yesterday.” He said nothing and Alex decided she was annoyed. “Please, Agent Vartanian. I’m tired and scared to death. Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Fallon. I don’t mean to play games with you. Tell me about your sister. What was her name?”

Alex sucked in her cheeks. “Alicia Tremaine. For God’s sake, you must have seen her picture. You looked at me like you’d seen a damn ghost.”

Again his eyes flickered, this time in an annoyance of his own. “There is a strong resemblance,” he said mildly.

“Considering we were identical twins, I’m somehow not surprised.” Alex managed to keep her voice level, but it took effort. “Agent Vartanian, is that woman Bailey or not?”

He toyed with his pencil in a way that made Alex want to leap across his desk and rip it from his hands. Finally he spoke. “She isn’t blond and she doesn’t have a tattoo.”

The relief left her light-headed and Alex fought to quell the tears that suddenly threatened. When she was back in control, she slowly exhaled and looked at him. But he didn’t look as relieved as she felt.

“It can’t be Bailey, then,” she said evenly.

“Tattoos can be removed.”

“But there will be some physical scarring left behind. Your ME can check this.”

“And I’ll make sure that she does,” he said in a way that told Alex his next words would be a promise to call her when he knew something. She didn’t want to wait.

Alex lifted her chin. “I want to see her. The victim. I need to know. Bailey has a child. Hope needs to know. She needs to know her mother didn’t just abandon her.” Alex suspected Hope knew exactly what had occurred, but she kept that to herself.

Vartanian shook his head, although his eyes had softened to something approaching sympathy. “You can’t see her. She was badly beaten. She isn’t recognizable.”

“I’m a nurse, Agent Vartanian. I’ve seen dead bodies before. If it’s Bailey, I’ll know. Please. I need to know one way or the other.”

He hesitated, then finally nodded. “I’ll call the ME. She was supposed to start the examination at about ten, so we should be able to catch her before she begins.”

“Thank you.”

Monday, January 29, 9:45 a.m.

“This is our viewing room.” Dr. Felicity Berg stood aside as Daniel followed Alex Fallon through the door. “If you’d like to sit down, please do.”

Daniel watched Alex Fallon take in the room with a sweeping glance. Then she shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ll stand,” she said. “Is she ready?”

She was a cool one, Miss Alex Fallon. And she’d given him the shock of his life.

It’s her,
was all he’d been able to think when she’d looked up into his face. He felt lucky he hadn’t embarrassed himself more than he had. When she’d said he looked like he’d seen a ghost, she’d hit the nail on the head. His heart was still unsteady when he looked at her, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

When he really looked at her, he could see she was different from the smiling photo of her sister. She was thirteen years older, but that wasn’t it. There was something different in her eyes. They were whiskey-colored, identical to her sister’s, of course. But the laughter he’d seen in Alicia Tremaine’s eyes was nonexistent in Alex Fallon’s.

She’d been through trauma, thirteen years ago and again now, so perhaps her eyes had once held mischief and fun. But now Alex Fallon was cool and collected. He’d witnessed brief spurts of emotion—fear, anger, relief, all quickly controlled. Watching her stand before the curtained window, he wondered what was going through her mind.

“I’ll go check,” Felicity said and closed the door behind her, leaving them alone.

Alex stood quietly, her arms at her sides. But her hands were clenched into fists and Daniel fought the urge to pry her fingers apart.

She was a beautiful woman, he thought, finally able to look at her without her watching him in return. Her eyes had rattled him, as if she’d seen more than he’d wanted her to. Her lips were full but unsmiling. She was slender, but her sensible black suit still hinted of curves beneath. Her hair was the same dark caramel color as her sister’s and it fell midway down her back in waves, thick and sleek.

Because the thought of touching her hair, of caressing her cheek . . . because the thought had actually entered his mind, Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets. She flinched when he moved. She’d been aware of him, even if she hadn’t been looking at him. “Where do you live, Miss Fallon?”

She turned, just enough so that she could see over her shoulder. “Cincinnati.”

“Where you’re a nurse?”

“Yes. I work in the ER.”

“Tough job.”

“As is yours.”

“You don’t use the name Tremaine.”

A muscle moved in her throat as she swallowed. “No. I had it changed.”

“When you got married?” he asked and realized he was holding his breath.

“I’m not married. I was adopted by my aunt and uncle after my sister died.” Her tone dared him to push further, so he turned the conversation a different way.

She wasn’t married. It didn’t matter. But it did. Deep down, he knew that it mattered very much. “You said your stepsister has a child. You called her Hope.”

“Yes. Hope is four. Social Services found her hiding in a closet Friday morning.”

“The locals think Bailey abandoned her daughter?”

Her jaw tightened, as did her fists. Even in the dim light, he could see her knuckles whiten. “That’s what they think. Hope’s teachers said Bailey would never have left her.”

“So you came straight down to take care of the child?”

She did look at him then, straight and long, and he knew he wouldn’t have been able to look away if he’d tried. Alex Fallon had an inner strength, a purpose . . . whatever it was, it demanded his attention. “Yes. Until Bailey’s found. One way or another.”

He knew it was a bad idea, nevertheless he took her hand and uncurled her fingers. Her neat, unpolished nails had left deep gouges in the tender flesh of her palm. Gently he rubbed the creases with his thumbs. “And if Bailey’s never found?” he murmured.