Superstition (35 page)

A tape recorder rested in the middle of the table. Joe’s gaze touched on it and moved on: Ghost voices were going to have to wait. Instead, his eyes fastened on Dave, who was standing not far from the door.

Joe jerked his head at him in what he hoped was a subtle
come here
.

“Uh, we got a call about a possible assault on the premises,” Dave explained in an undertone as he sidled close. The babble from the rest of the group was so loud that he could have shouted and they probably wouldn’t have paid any attention, but Dave clearly considered the information he was imparting sensitive enough to warrant a whisper. “Livvy’s husband claims—”

“I don’t care.” Joe cut him off ruthlessly. “Come with me. We got a problem.”

As Dave’s eyes widened, Joe looked at Nicky, who had sunk into a chair at the table and was now the center of the group’s fascinated attention. He had no doubt at all that she was regaling them with an account of the fright she had just experienced.

So much for keeping certain details secret to the investigation.

“Nicky,” he said, sharp enough to cut through the chatter, and she broke off what she was saying to look up at him with raised brows. “I have to go. Stay in the house. Don’t go outside. Understand?”

She frowned, then nodded.

“And for God’s sake, somebody come lock the door. And keep it locked.”

What kind of damned clueless community routinely leaves their doors unlocked anyway?
Joe thought savagely, then answered himself:
Oh yeah, paradise again
.

John pushed back from the table, clearly intending to do as Joe had requested and lock the door. Joe registered this and headed out, fishing Nicky’s phone from his pocket as he went. He was outside, and the heavy wooden door was being closed and locked behind him as he checked Nicky’s phone log again.

“The perp called her,” he said over his shoulder to Dave, who had followed him out the door as he strode along the porch. Joe was dialing out on his own phone even as he spoke. “He knew she was on the beach.”

Joe was already halfway down the steps when the dispatch operator answered. His gut tightening, he gave her the name and address from which the call Nicky had received on the beach had originated.

“Get somebody over there
stat,
” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the operator answered.

Despite the cooling effects of the brisk ocean breeze, he was starting to sweat as he ran for his car. And the reason was that he remembered much too vividly the only other phone call Nicky had received from this guy.

It had originated from the phone belonging to his victim.

15

T
HE HOUSE WAS a small stucco-and-frame bungalow much like the one Joe lived in, but instead of being blue like his, it was painted a cheerful lemon yellow, and it was shaded by a leafy pawpaw tree and located on a quiet side street full of houses just like it except for the color. The only difference was the pair of black-and-whites parked in the driveway.

The blue flash of their stroboscopic lights lit up the night.

Too late, too late, too late.
The refrain beat through Joe’s head in time with his quickened heartbeat as he pulled in behind the cruisers, parked, and got out. Neighbors were already starting to emerge from the surrounding houses, some standing on their stoops, peering at the action, others venturing toward it. Joe ignored them as he loped toward the front door, where, he saw at a glance, a third of his force was milling around, waiting for him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dave’s cruiser pull to a stop on the curb in front of the house. He heard the door slam as Dave got out, and then he, too, was hurrying across the yard.

“She’s not answering,” George Locke greeted Joe. Locke, Andy Cohen, Randy Brown, and Bill Milton were clustered on the stoop, looking tense. Locke, Cohen, and Brown were middle-aged white guys. Milton was a middle-aged black guy. They’d all been on the force for years. It was the kind of job where you took it, you got comfortable, and you stayed until retirement, unless something happened to screw you up. Shoplifting, simple assault, public intoxication, DUI, domestics, the occasional bust for possession: That’s what they were accustomed to.

Homicide wasn’t supposed to be part of the program. They weren’t trained for homicide. They weren’t prepared for homicide. But all of a sudden, homicide seemed to be the name of the game.

“It’s locked,” Cohen added. “So’s the back door. I tried it, too.”

The house was dark, not a light on anywhere inside. It was always possible that the owner wasn’t home, but . . .

There was a car in the driveway.

That, coupled with the call to Nicky, was good enough for Joe.

“Break it down,” he ordered.

“Wait, wait, don’t do that, I have a key.” The speaker was a seventy-ish woman, gray-haired and plump in a flowered housecoat, who’d been hurrying across the yard toward them and reached the edge of the stoop in time to hear what he’d said. She was holding out a key ring and fumbling to locate the right key. “Here it is. What’s wrong? Is something wrong with Marsha?”

“You need to go home, Greta,” Milton told her as another neighbor, a stoop-shouldered elderly man in a robe over what looked like pajama bottoms, reached them and started asking questions, too.

“Keep ’em out,” Joe said over his shoulder to Milton. With the key, the door opened easily. Joe found himself looking directly into a dark living room. Nothing moved—nothing to see but shadows everywhere.

“Police officers,” Joe yelled through the open door. “Anybody home?”

No response. At his signal, they started moving in, cautiously, weapons drawn. Just to be on the safe side, he yelled again. Nothing.

“Don’t touch anything you don’t have to,” he cautioned his men. They were already fanning out, moving carefully around the perimeter of the room toward the two arches at either end, one of which presumably led to the kitchen and the other to the bedrooms. The living room itself was a typical setup: couch, two chairs, some tables, lamps, a TV. A peculiar buzzing sound caught Joe’s attention as he neared the couch. It was not all that loud, but it was insistent, irritating—
familiar
. Frowning, he tried to place it as he paused to turn on the lamp beside the couch. The instant the light came on, he saw what it was.

There was a white princess phone on the end table at the other end of the couch. It was off the hook, the receiver dangling from its cord toward the floor, and was clearly the source of the annoying drone.

Was he looking at the phone from which the call to Nicky had been placed? Maybe. Probably.

“Shit,” Joe said, at almost the same moment as Locke, who had moved into the hall that led to the bedrooms, started yelling, “Here! In here!”

Seconds later, Joe stood in the doorway of the house’s single bathroom, staring down at the blood-soaked body of a petite woman lying sprawled on the gray tile floor. She was blonde and barefoot, wearing a long, pale-blue nylon nightgown that was hiked up past her knees. The small bathroom looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood was everywhere; on the floor, on the walls, on the sink and toilet and tub, splotching curtains and towels with gore. The woman lay facedown between the toilet and the bathtub in a still-growing pool of crimson that shone beneath the overhead light like wet red paint.

The smell was sickening. It reminded him of rotting meat. Breathing it in, Joe fought to keep his face impassive.

He knew that smell. He hated that smell.

“Oh, Jesus,” somebody whispered behind him. “It’s Marsha Browning.”

Marsha Browning. That was the name that had come up on top on Nicky’s phone log. The call Nicky had received on the beach had come from her phone. Once again, the killer had called Nicky from his victim’s phone.

The thought made Joe’s gut clench.

“I HAD A KEY to her house, and she had a key to mine, in case of emergencies or something, you know. We’ve lived next door to each other for nine years.” Tears ran down Greta Frank’s face as she looked into the camera that was balanced on Gordon’s shoulder. “She was just a lovely person. I can’t believe . . . Why would anybody do something like that?”

“When did you last see her alive?” Nicky asked softly. The true ramifications of the horror of what had happened in the house behind her was something that she refused to allow herself to think about just yet. For now, all she could do was operate on pure professionalism until the job was done. The cold little tendrils of fear that shivered around the edges of her consciousness were just going to have to wait.

The killer had called her from Marsha Browning’s phone, probably after she was dead, just as he’d called her from Karen’s phone after murdering her. He’d known she was on the beach. He might even—and the possibility was like an icy finger trailing down Nicky’s spine—be watching her now.

As the thought occurred, only by exercising every ounce of self-control that she possessed did she manage to keep her eyes on Mrs. Frank.

“About seven,” Mrs. Frank answered. “She was watering the flowers in her backyard. We waved at each other, and then I went inside. I don’t know what she did after that.”

They were standing in the small, well-tended front yard of Marsha Browning’s house just a few yards from the open front door. Through the barely-there veil of the screen, which was closed, Nicky—and the camera—had already gotten glimpses of the cops’ methodical search of the premises, of the living room being dusted for fingerprints, and of various vivid images that she might or might not be able to use, such as a paramedic emerging from the nether regions of the house, peeling off his bloody surgical gloves, and the burly mayor cursing his head off as he pushed his way into the crime scene. Now, as she stood in front of it, interviewing Mrs. Frank, the entire house was ablaze with lights. Beyond that artificial brightness, darkness waited like a crouched predator. The moon was small and pale and distant overhead, sailing high in a black sky chockablock with tiny, cold stars. A stiff salt breeze blew in off the ocean, carrying the coconut scent of the pawpaw with it. It whipped Nicky’s hair back away from her face so that it fluttered behind her like a banner. Still clad in the same outfit she’d been wearing for a good eighteen hours now, Nicky was just becoming conscious of a creeping exhaustion that was leaching away her concentration. Microphone in hand, she had angled herself and Mrs. Frank so that as much of the scene behind them as possible could be included in the shot. It was getting close to two a.m. on Sunday morning, and she and Gordon had been working the story since not long after the body had been discovered around eleven. They’d managed to get a lot of good shots and a few good interviews, all of which still had to be edited for use on that night’s broadcast, which meant sleep remained a distant, theoretical concept rather than a concrete possibility. Fortunately, Nicky was getting the sense that things at the murder scene were starting to wrap up. The county coroner’s van had arrived not long before, and was now parked at the curb. A stretcher had been taken inside. Police and various other official-looking types were moving out of the residence instead of the earlier pattern of arriving and disappearing inside. The crowd of neighbors still huddled on the lawn near the edge of the driveway, but the group was smaller now, as the less prurient—or more exhausted—had started to drift away. There was another TV news crew—WBTZ, a local channel—and a couple print reporters on the scene now as well.

There would be more as soon as word of what had happened got out, Nicky knew. The murder would lead the morning news locally—barring a catastrophe of some sort, of course—and that would alert the pack. Her own report on Marsha Browning’s slaying would be included on that night’s edition of
Twenty-four Hours Investigates
, which, she calculated, could be confidently expected to scoop the national scene by virtue of its timing if nothing else. However, she could probably count on having other news teams converging on Pawleys Island pretty shortly after it aired. The sensational aspects of the crime were sure to draw the competition like buzzards to roadkill.

“This, it is becoming increasingly clear, is the second of the three murders threatened by Lazarus508,” Nicky said into the camera. “The newest victim, Marsha Browning, was a reporter for the local
Coastal Observer
. She was forty-six years old, recently divorced, childless, and lived alone. Like the previous victim, Karen Wise, Marsha was brutally slashed to death. The hair around her face was hacked off. And the killer called this reporter on . . .”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The question exploded behind Nicky without warning. She jumped, almost dropping the mike. The voice was male, loaded with suppressed anger, and familiar.
Way
familiar.

“Cut,”
Gordon said, disgusted, and lowered the camera as Nicky looked around to meet—no surprise—Joe’s glare. Since he’d left her in her mother’s kitchen, she hadn’t seen him. As far as she was aware, he hadn’t even known she was on the scene. Now, obviously, he did. He was standing behind her, fists on hips, his stance radiating aggression. In the garish glow of the lights that had been set up around the house, his face looked tense and drawn, and there were lines around his eyes and mouth that she hadn’t seen there before. His jacket and tie were gone, the top couple buttons on his shirt were undone, his sleeves were rolled up, and his thick, black hair was wildly unruly, as if he’d been running his fingers through it.

All in all, he looked tired, grouchy—and still sexy as hell.

“You scared me.” Nicky blew out a breath of relief. Despite the fact that he obviously didn’t reciprocate the sentiment, she was glad to see him. Of its own accord, a smile quivered around the corners of her lips.

“I’m glad to know
something
can scare you.” His tone was grim. His expression matched, as his eyes moved over her face.