Tattooed (22 page)

A minute later, he was cruising home.

His entire body hummed with excitement. He wished he could see Kate Lange’s face when she opened the envelope.

He drove around for another half hour, restless, excited.

Then he went home, threw his jacket on the sofa and grabbed his sketch pad.

His body exploded with creative energy.

He was back.

The old McNally was finally back.

25

K
ate rolled over and fumbled for the button on her alarm. Damn. Was it 6:00 a.m. already?

She threw back the covers. Alaska nosed her bare leg. Charlie gave her a sloppy kiss. “Good morning, lady and gentleman,” she mumbled. “I hope you are ready for a good, long run.” She patted their heads. “’Cause I sure ain’t.”

Nine minutes later, she unlocked her front door and stepped outside with Alaska and Charlie at her heels. Fog brushed her skin. It was cool and damp—but also refreshing. It chased away the exhaustion induced by a night of insomnia. “Come on, guys.” She tugged the dogs’ leashes and jogged down the porch steps.

Her body shifted into automatic, her stride lengthening as her brain began to sort through her to-do list for the day:
check comments on news site for reaction to Frances’ interview, follow up with Harry Ow—

She stopped, the dogs jostling into her legs. An envelope gleamed damply under the windshield wiper on her car.

She tugged it free.

KATE LANG.

Her name was hand-printed in blue ink, the surname misspelled. The ink had blurred from the wet. It must have been on her windshield for a while. The heavy mist had dried up overnight.

Which meant…

Someone had come to her house at night, while she slept—because it hadn’t been there when she walked home from coffee with Ethan, and the dogs would have barked at anyone who had approached the driveway unless they were asleep… .

She tore open the flap and removed a sheet of folded paper.

Charlie whined. She wanted her walk. “Just a sec, girl,” Kate said, unfolding the sheet of paper. A newspaper clipping drifted to her feet. She bent and retrieved it, instinctively knowing before she looked at it what it was: the photo of her post–Body Butcher attack from yesterday’s front page news item.

Don’t think the worst. It could be a letter of support.

She held up the letter.

Oh, God.

THE BODY BUTCHER LEFT YOU FOR ME.

Her fingers began to tremble. She wanted to tear the paper into tiny pieces, throw it to the wind and kill the bastard who would try to scare her like this.

Her heart pounding, she ran up the porch and unlocked the door, both dogs dragging on the leash because they didn’t want to return to the house without their walk. “Don’t worry, we’re still going.”

She dropped the letter onto the console in her foyer. Then she set the house alarm, closed the door, testing it to make sure it was locked.

Alaska and Charlie bounded down the porch stairs, pulling Kate in the direction of the park. Kate didn’t try to slow them down.

She needed to run, to pound down the fear that pushed against her chest, tightened her throat and threatened to empty the contents of her stomach.

The streets were quiet, the fog enrobing the familiar route in drab gray.

Kate had run this route hundreds of times, had run through the park thousands of times, and had rarely felt unsafe. She was fast. She had two large dogs. Not too many people would try anything on her if they saw Alaska’s teeth.

But today was different.

Her eyes searched the foggy depths behind the trees as she ran down the paths of Point Pleasant Park. The unexpected crunch of a runner behind her made her heart lurch, despite her excellent conditioning.

THE BODY BUTCHER LEFT YOU FOR ME.

Are you kidding me?

Don’t you know what happened?

I killed the bastard.

I. Killed. The. Body Butcher.

But it still didn’t stop her from glancing over her shoulder every few minutes until she got home.

She took a shower and did all the usual preparations for work, trying to ignore the letter sitting on the console in her foyer.

Why had someone left it for her?

Was it a prank?

Or a threat?

God knew there were enough sick people out there.

But was it merely someone envious of her so-called “heroism”?

Or someone who wanted to harm her?

You should call the police.

No.
She was sick of calling the police.

Then call Ethan.

He would know what to do.

Yeah, but he will also get all protective on you. And think that you’ve opened the door to what he had been hinting at last night.

The note was a prank. Nothing more.

She glanced at her watch. She had just enough time to check on Muriel before going to work. She locked the door, setting the alarm, and hurried two doors down to the Richardsons’ house.

Enid’s friend answered the door. “Hello?” Her softly permed hair floated above her head as if it were a cumulus cloud.

“Hi, Mary. I’m Kate Lange. I just wanted to find out how Muriel is doing.”

Mary held open the door. “Come on in. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

“Just a quick one.” Kate followed her into the kitchen. Muriel stood at the counter, holding a knife with butter.

“Want some help with your toast, dear?” Mary gently guided Muriel’s knife onto the bread.

“Hi, Muriel,” Kate said.

“I thought it was Enie,” Muriel said. “Where’s Enie?”

“She’s at the…doctor’s, Muriel,” Kate said. “She’ll be home soon.”

Muriel’s eyes were watery. “Tell her to come home soon. I miss her.”

Kate’s throat tightened. “I will.” Her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. The Sloane file, she bet. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time for coffee. Work is calling.” She glanced at Mary. “But I’ll be here at six o’clock to spend the night with Muriel.”

Mary waited until they were at the door, then said, “The lady from the home-care agency is due to arrive in fifteen minutes. I’ll give her a tour and make sure Muriel is comfortable with her before I leave.”

“Thank you so much, Mary. I’m going to check in with Enid. If she has any news, I’ll let you know.”

She hurried back to her driveway, her dread rising as she unlocked her car and checked the interior. But there was no sign anyone had been in the car. She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, staring at the spot where the envelope had been.

There was no sign it had ever been there. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t erase the memory, but she sprayed windshield fluid on the glass anyway. She switched the wipers onto high speed.

* * *

“I saw your interview last night on television,” Liz, her executive assistant, said. “And from the looks of it, so did a lot of other people.” She handed Kate a stack of printed emails and phone messages.

Kate took them, her heart pounding. Could there be another message from the person who had left her the note?

“Three hundred and fifty-two emails so far. Seventy-six phone messages,” Liz announced. She glanced at the clock. “And it’s only 9:00 a.m.”

“Sorry, Liz,” Kate said, turning toward her office. “I think it will die down after a few days.”

Liz arched one of her perfectly shaped brows. “No pun intended, I presume.”

Beneath Liz’s frosty and immaculate exterior lurked a rather macabre sense of humor. They were a good match, given Kate’s recent cases.

The stack of messages burned in her hand. “None intended at all. Thanks for all your help, Liz. I know it’s above and beyond your usual duties.”

“In this instance, I’m happy to help.”

Kate hurried into her office and closed the door, spreading out the stack of messages on her desk. Her first glance was reassuring. None of the emails were written in all-caps. And any references to the Body Butcher were in the context of her “heroism.”

Less nervous, she sipped her coffee. The interview had been successful for her client. She calculated that roughly seventy percent of the messages were in support of assisted suicide.

Time to give Mr. Owen a call.

She bit back a smile.
A wake-up call.

He did not keep her on hold this time.

“Mr. Owen, it’s Kate Lange calling.” She tried to keep her voice neutral, not wanting to give a hint of gloating at the obvious success of her campaign.

“Ms. Lange, lovely to hear from you.” He sounded disconcertingly unperturbed.

“I take it you saw my client’s interview last night?”

“Yes.”

“And…what did you think?”

“I think she is a very compelling figure.”

Kate detected a “but” in his tone of voice. “And?”

“And I think that she is the unfortunate victim of a deadly disease that is the exception, rather than the norm.”

“The norm should be a standard of compassion for the vulnerable rather than washing one’s hands of the situation.” Before he could respond, Kate added, “I received hundreds, if not thousands, of messages from the public supporting my client’s cause, Mr. Owen.” That was a teeny exaggeration, but one Kate was sure most lobbyists would make.

“That’s not surprising, Kate.” His tone was that of a pro explaining the rules of the game to the rookie. “You are her advocate. I have received an equally large number of messages from my constituents who are vehemently opposed to it.”

“I see. Well, I’d like to propose that you meet with my client, Mr. Owen. You owe it to your constituents to hear both sides of the argument.”

“Your client presented her case on television last night, Ms. Lange. A further meeting is not necessary.” He paused. “And I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“What isn’t fair is the assumption that you are on the moral high ground, Mr. Owen.”

“Perhaps not. But there I stand, with the entire Government of Canada behind me. Good day, Ms. Lange.”

He hung up before she had the satisfaction of doing it herself.

Damn him.

26

T
he neighborhood canvass had paid off for Lamond.

“One of the residents remembered that some teenagers used the bunker for doing drugs,” Lamond told Ethan while they drove out to Chebucto Head.

“In 1995?” Ethan bit into his sandwich, one hand on the wheel. The wrapper lay scrunched on his lap.

“That’s what she said. She could date it because she knew one of the kids who went there.” Lamond checked his notepad. “The girl’s name was Kenzie Sloane.”

At the mention of her name, Ethan gulped down his mouthful of sandwich. “Any relation to Frances Sloane—you know, the woman who is on a crusade to change assisted suicide?”

“Yup. Frances Sloane is Kenzie Sloane’s mother.” Lamond flashed him a look. He knew that the assisted suicide campaign struck a little too close to home for Ethan. The Clarkson case had been ugly, and even though the court had ruled in favor of the prosecution, Ethan had not come out of it smelling like roses.

Ethan took a large sip of his Zen green tea. “That’s an interesting connection.” So was the fact that Kate represented Frances Sloane—

The turnoff to Frances Sloane’s private road suddenly appeared. “Damn.” He jerked the wheel hard to the left. Lamond threw him a look. They headed down the driveway to Frances Sloane’s house.
Stop thinking about Kate’s reaction.

Kate’s a professional. She knows this case is a totally different matter than her client’s campaign. But she also would be aware of the effect of negative publicity on Mrs. Sloane.

The assisted suicide campaign was a battle for people’s hearts. The mother of a murder suspect wielded a blighted sword.

Around the bend, Frances Sloane’s residence appeared.

“That is one whacked-out house,” Lamond said, peering through the windshield.

Ethan parked the car to the side of the main entrance, next to a budding Japanese maple.

“It’s called modern architecture.”

“Looks more like a glass box. I could have designed that.”

Ethan raised a brow. “If you could actually draw a straight line…”

“Not bad, Drake.” Lamond grinned. “You are also looking surprisingly chipper today. Finally getting out of the house?”

Lamond had uncanny intuition sometimes. Ethan bit into his sandwich. “Just had a good night’s sleep.” That wasn’t true. It had been hard to fall asleep after his coffee date with Kate.

You see? You don’t know until you try, Drake.

Enough with the self-help crap.

But Kate
had
looked incredible. He’d had to fight the urge to pull her to him and bury his fingers in her hair. He remembered how it slid like strands of silk through his fingers—

“Tell me her name,” Lamond said, an amused expression in his eyes.

Ethan refused to meet his gaze, making a point of studying the glass-and-steel house. “Anyone else corroborate the fact that Mrs. Sloane’s daughter hung out at those bunkers in ’95?”

Lamond shook his head. “I knocked on eight doors. Four of them answered. Two of them hadn’t lived in the area at that time. One couldn’t remember a thing. The fourth one remembered the kids at the bunker.”

“Could she ID Heather Rigby?” They had a photo of Heather taken shortly before she went missing.

Lamond shook his head. “She said she’d never seen her before.”

“But she recognized Frances’ kid, Kennedy Sloane?”

“Kenzie Sloane,” Lamond corrected, biting into an apple. “She said she had long red hair. Hard to miss.”

“Does she know if Kenzie Sloane still lives around here?”

“She says she moved away. But obviously her mother is here.” They climbed out of the car and walked up the front walkway. Ethan could detect no movement inside.

They rang the doorbell. It echoed for a long time. They were just about to leave when the door opened.

“Yes?” A woman in a personal-care-attendant uniform gazed at them.

“We are Detectives Drake and Lamond,” Ethan said. They held out their badges. “We are investigating the death of Heather Rigby, whose remains were found about three miles from here. We would like to speak to the owner of the house.”

The caregiver’s gaze flicked from the badges to their faces. “Mrs. Sloane is not well.”

“It is important,” Ethan said, his voice firm. “We won’t take a lot of her time.”

The caregiver glanced at the badges again and held open the door. They stepped into the cavernous foyer. “Please wait here. I’ll get her ready.” She closed the door behind them. “It will take a few minutes. You have to understand that she is very unwell. She can’t speak clearly, and she gets tired easily, so please choose your questions with care.”

Ethan felt as if he had just been reprimanded by a schoolteacher. But he respected the caregiver. She was doing her job.

The woman left them in the hall. Ethan examined the view from the windows. “I bet you could follow the coastline and get to the bunkers without ever taking the highway.”

He made a note to take a hike this weekend.

They waited, studying the house, the exits, the view of the property through the windows. Finally, Lamond said, “She wasn’t kidding when she said it would take a few minutes. It’s been at least ten.”

Three minutes later, the caregiver ushered them to the back of the house.

It was as if they had stepped right onto the ocean. The view from the back windows was spectacular. There was a sense of unfettered space—sky and ocean as far as one could see. The owner of this pièce de résistance studied him, her gaze wary.

Ethan wondered, as he noted the straps to keep Frances Sloane upright in her wheelchair, whether the vast openness she saw through the window gave her peace—or merely reminded her of her own loss of freedom.

They sat down on the sofa. Judging by the closed expression on Mrs. Sloane’s face, he was sure she knew something. “Mrs. Sloane, as you may be aware, the body of Heather Rigby was discovered in a peat bog by the old bunkers, approximately three miles from here.” He studied her face for a reaction.

“Yes,” she responded. Her voice was slurred, nasal. He hoped she wasn’t under the influence of medication. “I heard.”

“We believe Heather was killed on the night of the Mardi Gras in 1995.”

“I read in the paper she wore a mask.”

Lamond leaned forward; it was difficult to understand her.

“Yes. The last time she had been seen was at a Mardi Gras party in downtown Halifax.” He held out Heather’s photo. “Did you see her that night?”

Frances Sloane studied the photo. “No.”

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

“Had you ever seen her in your neighborhood? Babysitting, hiking…?”

“No.”

It was difficult to read her body language or the inflection of her voice. Only her eyes had remained untouched by disease. They were a startling sky-blue, sharp and incisive. But he sensed, rather than saw, fear in their depths.

“Do you have any children, Mrs. Sloane?”

If she could have stiffened, she would have.

“Yes. Two.”

“And how old were they in 1995?”

“My son was fourteen, my daughter seventeen.”

Lamond wrote that down. Frances Sloane’s gaze darted from Ethan to Lamond and back to Ethan again.

“I understand that your daughter liked to hang out at the bunkers?”

She swallowed, working her throat to speak. “Who told you that?”

“Someone who lives close to them. She told us that a group of teenagers used to hang out there. And one of them was your daughter.”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“What is her name?”

“Kenzie.”

“Did Kenzie ever mention Heather Rigby to you?”

“No.”

Ethan had the impression that Kenzie hadn’t mentioned much to her mother. “Who did Kenzie go to the bunkers with?”

“Friends.”

Frances Sloane wasn’t trying to be deliberately brusque, Ethan guessed. Communication—both verbal and nonverbal—was difficult for her. “Any kids that you knew?”

She exhaled. “Some girls. Crystal Burton. Imogen Lange—”

“Did you say Imogen Lange?” It was difficult to tell with her speech, but that was an unusual name.

“Yes. Why?” Her eyes scanned his face.

Ethan struggled to keep his expression impassive. Kate’s younger sister had hung out at the bunker with Frances Sloane’s daughter?

Was that why Kate was putting herself on the line as a lobbyist for Frances Sloane?

And yet, hadn’t she told him that in her final days Imogen had been hanging out with a bad group of kids?

Was Kenzie one of them?

He made a note to call Kate.

Then crossed that off as fast. She couldn’t talk about her client.

“I know Imogen’s family,” he said.

“Her death was so tragic.” Frances’ gaze searched his.

“After Imogen Lange died, who did Kenzie hang out with?”

Frances Sloane closed her eyes. A spasm crossed her face. Ethan wasn’t sure if it was from a bad memory or was a symptom of her disease. She opened her eyes and said, “No one. After Imogen died, she stopped going.”

“Kenzie was in grade twelve in 1995, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did Kenzie use drugs at the time?”

Frances Sloane’s eyelids flickered. “I don’t know.”

Or you didn’t want to know.

“Did her friends do drugs?”

“I don’t know.” She swallowed. “What does this have to do with Heather Rigby?”

“Were you at home on the night of the Mardi Gras in 1995?”

“That was a long time ago. But I believe so.”

“Where was Kenzie?”

She exhaled. “She went downtown. To the bars. But then she came home.”

“At what time?”

“Before midnight.”

Lamond, who had been taking notes, paused. Heather Rigby had been spotted on the bar security cameras
at 1:09 a.m.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because her curfew was midnight. And I would remember if she had broken it.”

Lamond made of note of this flimsy rationale.

Frances Sloane’s head drooped sideways. Her caregiver jumped to her feet. “Mrs. Sloane is getting tired, Detectives.”

“One more question, if I may, Mrs. Sloane,” Ethan said.

She gazed at him. She hadn’t moved a muscle but he had the sense she was bracing herself.