The Eleventh Victim (21 page)

I
T WAS SILENT IN THE PRIVATE SIDE ROOM TO THE ROBERT E. LEE
Ballroom at Atlanta’s Marriot Marquis.

C.C. sat back limply on an overstuffed leather sofa. The world seemed warm and amber-colored through the haze of whiskey. Eyes closed, tie askew around his neck, his jacket was carelessly tossed beside him, legs stretched out in front of him, feet up on a matching leather ottoman.

The announcement of his candidacy for the Democratic bid for the governor’s spot went off without a hitch. Well-wishers, flacks, hangers-on, and party honchos had all crowded the ballroom, and oh how the liquor flowed.

The Democratic hordes ate all the free food, drank all the free booze, and left, along with reporters from the
Telegraph
and the rest of the local news media. Which was worse? Demo party flacks or journos? Who ate the most free food? That was a toughie, C.C. decided. Lay out a plate of sandwiches and you could put money on journos and party hacks to appear out of nowhere.

Hell…who cared? It was all business-expensed anyway.

Once C.C. was in the Mansion, he’d be able to throw any soiree he wanted, and the already-bloated state budget would pick up the tab. The state budget was so fat, none of it mattered anyway.

Eugene himself had made a brief appearance, wearing those damn aviator sunglasses again, even in the darkened ballroom. He spoke only a few words of congratulations as Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family” pulsated so loudly C.C. could hardly make out what Eugene was saying.

Whatever it was, it was something warm and supportive, C.C. was sure.

Before melting back into the crowded room, Eugene clapped C.C. on the back and spoke directly into his ear, saying something about C.C. deserving not only the governor’s bid, but one hell of a celebration.

C.C. planned to do just that as soon as he could lose his wife, Betty, up from Dooley County since the afternoon before on one of her rare trips up to the big Sin City.

He had to hand it to her, though. Betty had stood by him dutifully throughout the onstage regalia. She actually looked damn fine, decked out in a navy blue long-sleeved suit, hair back in a ’do courtesy of her beautician at Cut and Curl back home in Dooley.

The memory of another woman intruded as he thought wistfully of Tina. He had noticed that woman at the party tonight, in her mid-thirties and wearing a low-cut red dress. What a rack that one had.

Suddenly, the red dress stirred up surprising thoughts of romance that broke through C.C.’s hazy buzz.

Should he wrestle his way out of the easy chair and go try with Betty? For old times’ sake? Just to see what would happen?

It had been nearly four years since he’d last attempted such a thing. The rebuff was still fresh in his mind. Betty could be a cold, cold woman when she wanted to. It was after a bitter breakup after a brief affair C.C. had with a former court reporter, Janice. When he couldn’t “commit,” Janice had dumped him. He was sure Betty never knew about Janice, but the fact that his own wife rejected him when he needed her the most still hurt C.C. deeply.

Thank God Tina came into his life.

He started humming “their” song, “Freebird.”

He hadn’t seen her in nearly two weeks, and missing the club was making him cranky and antsy. To hell with it—after a stop at Phipps Plaza for some power shopping tomorrow, Betty would be long gone. Praise the Lord.

His first order of business once he got to the Mansion would be to re-examine the damn Hope Scholarship.

Currently, all Georgia Lottery proceeds, repeat
all proceeds
, went to education. That was just wrong. The state was sitting on a pile of money and it was all going to education. Whose idiot idea was that anyway?

Reform. That would be his platform! Genius!

Oh how he wished he could write that down so this thought wouldn’t just evaporate in a few hours the way so many of his breakthroughs did…but he had no idea where he could get a pencil.

Kicked back there in the leather chair, C.C.’s mind wandered, and surveying the world around him, he happened to spot his own shoes.

They were absolutely stunning. Italian leather, shined to a sheen. Who did that? he wondered. Made his shoes so shiny? Someone. Whoever did the laundry.

What a night. C.C. dozed.

M
ONDAY. MORNING. EARLY.

Something stirred in the morning quiet.

Virginia Gunn awakened and rolled over, twisting herself in the sheets, resisting the urge to open her eyes.

Something woke her up…hadn’t it?

Everything was silent in the house, upstairs and down…so what was it she just heard? Was it anything? In the still of her
bedroom, the only sound was the waves outside, lapping up against the thin strip of beach beyond her house.

She rolled over again, yawning.

As she tried to fall back to sleep, her thoughts naturally drifted to the pressing problem at hand.

Time was of the essence…there were millions riding on the Palmetto high-rises, and she knew it. She did some digging around at the County Clerk’s Office and discovered the possible moneyman was Floyd Eugene, a cutthroat…a political majordomo out of Atlanta. Property in surrounding blocks had changed hands during the past two years, and Virginia smelled a rat.

Her raids on his property were costing him money. How much longer until payback came around? She’d have to—

A loud thump suddenly ripped the silence.

Immediately, the old wooden beach house was filled with an intense storm of barking from a pack of hysterical wiener dogs…
her
wiener dogs.

Obviously, the newspaper boy had driven up and stepped through the gate of the high wooden fence surrounding her yard to sling the morning paper, rolled and rubber-banded, at the front door. The boy’s bull’s-eye hit in the center of the front door sparked the usual fear of deadly attack among the wieners and, in an effort to protect everything they lived for, i.e., Virginia, the house, the doggie treats in the kitchen, they commenced to throw themselves violently at the door in the entrance hall.

“Shut up, damn it…
shut UP
!” she screamed into the empty space in her bedroom, not bothering to roll over off her stomach, much less trudge out to the top of the stairs and yell down at them.

She could see them in her mind’s eye right now, a snarling, furry mass at the foot of the front door, barking their lungs out at the tiny slit of light between the base of the door and the hardwood floor…prepared to maul to death their would-be attacker.

The sharp reprimand she screamed out didn’t make a dent. It just bounced off the bedroom walls and disappeared into the carpet, while the barking continued at the same fevered pitch.

The newsboy would have been toast if Virginia hadn’t locked the doggie chute at the bottom of the front door last night.

Opening one eye only, she looked over to see the digital clock display. It was only 7:15 a.m. What the hell. They’d never let her sleep now, and the furious barking had woken up the birds, all housed in elaborate cages in the dining room.

Claudine the parrot was squawking full blast and attacking the little row of bells Virginia had attached directly beside her water bowl…a distraction…. something for the bird to play with. Quietly. Delicately. In a manner befitting a beautiful bird…a beautiful tropical bird that Virginia had paid good money for in order to spring her from a pet store in Baxley, Georgia. What the hell was the bird doing? Tearing the bells out of the cage with her bare claws?

Then came the last straw.

The phone began to ring.

She still refused to move. It was too early. She lay on her stomach, face to the side underneath a pillow, counting. She silently counted fourteen rings.

In Virginia’s mind, fourteen rings at this hour amounted to stalking. Any idiot would know that after four to five rings, either the callee wasn’t at home or obviously
didn’t want to be bothered. Hello!
Didn’t anybody have any damn manners on this Island?

At last, the phone went quiet, the barking subsided, the bells on the bird cages were stilled…peace.

Virginia burrowed down under the covers and tried to re-enter the deep REM state she was in earlier.

The phone started again.

Eighteen rings this time. It was either a stalker or an emergency. The odds were against sleeping any later, so she finally gave in, rolled over, and eased out of bed toward the phone.

“Hello. It’s early. It better be good.”

“V.G., can you come down?”

Larry was on the other end, and he sounded choked up.

“What’s wrong, Larry?”

“Today’s the anniversary of the D.”

She needed some coffee. “What the hell is a D?”

“Dale!”

He broke off abruptly. She could tell he was crying.

Dale…Dale…

It took a moment to make the connection.

The walls of Larry’s garage were covered in huge, colored posters of his idol, the late, great, Dale Earnhardt. More than once, his father had driven him for hours, crisscrossing the Southeast just to see the D race round and round a NASCAR track.

“V.G., they’re memorializing him on TV. I’ve been watching the instant replays of the crash all morning on the thirteen-inch here in the store. I can’t take it.”

“Listen, I’ll be right there.”

Virginia hung up and stepped into a light pink sweat suit she had taken out of the dryer the night before and thrown on the easy chair in the corner of her room. After clamping her old Atlanta Braves baseball cap down snug on her head, she pulled her long, dark ponytail through the adjustable hole in the back. She picked up her favorite windbreaker, one she had bought on the side of the street during the ’96 Olympics. It was covered in the interlocking Olympic rings with eagles swooping across the back. It had seemed glorious and patriotic at the time.

She pulled the door to her bedroom gently shut, hoping not to alert the dogs she was going out and avoid a mob scene.

Quickly and quietly, she went down the stairs and out the back door. She tiptoed to the Jeep, knowing that the moment the engine turned over, the pack, led by Sidney, would resume their hysterical barking, throwing themselves at the door and running in circles around the den.

Virginia backed out of the gravel driveway. She shifted and turned it wide to swing out into the street.

The morning was still cool and wet…the sun hadn’t scorched everything in sight just yet. The breeze off the ocean smelled fresh and salty. No other cars were out yet.

T
HE AIR WAS STILL FRESH AND THE SIDEWALKS WERE COVERED IN
a blanket of glistening snow, still undisturbed, when Hailey went into work. Her walk the night before in the cold air had left her feeling so much better. Her mind was clear, and while still sad over Melissa, at the same time she felt happy to be alive and rededicated to helping her other patients. But the eerie similarities between Melissa’s death and a string of cases she prosecuted in Atlanta wouldn’t leave her mind for long. Of course, murders didn’t happen just in Atlanta, and she really didn’t know all the details about Melissa’s death yet.

Hailey stepped into the foyer, kicked snow off her boots, went upstairs three flights, and put on hot water. Not a soul was stirring in the little brownstone this early. She puttered around the suite and flicked on the computer to work on the outline for her article. Hayden wasn’t due for another forty-five minutes. She was often late, but never early.

Hailey was seated at her computer when a light rap on her office door broke the silence.

“Hello? Who’s there?” Hailey called out, rising from her seat, heading to the door. That was odd…she hadn’t heard a sound…no one had gotten buzzed up.

No reply.

Hailey opened the door to Kolker.

“Mind if I come in?”

“Hi. What’s up? Come on in. Any news on Melissa?”

“I think you know,” Lieutenant Kolker said cryptically.

“Excuse me? What happened?” she returned, as his handheld police band radio squawked.

Kolker held up the index finger on his right hand to her as he listened to a handheld police band radio he held in his left, signaling
her to hold on. She did. He then finished the transmission by barking a series of numbers into the lower end of the radio.

“I’m really feeling much better now and I’m happy to talk to you. I do have a patient coming in just a few moments, would later today be okay? I can definitely meet you when I break at lunchtime.” Hailey walked around to her desk, sat down, and started flipping through her appointment book, a thick full-size black spiral notebook.

“Ms. Dean, I wish it were still that simple. Things have changed since we last met. For you, anyway,” he said flatly.

He leaned over toward her with his palms spread on her desk. “Ms. Dean, Hayden Krasinski was also one of your patients, correct? Just like Melissa Everett was?” His voice was cold. His eyes never left her own.

“Lieutenant, you know as well as I do that any communications between Hayden Krasinski and myself are protected under the doctor-patient privilege. I will say, though, that I know Hayden very well.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“I spoke with Hayden last week and plan to see her this morning, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask? Wait…Kolker, please don’t tell me you think Hayden has anything to do with Melissa’s death.”

When he didn’t respond, she went on, “I assure you—no, I’ll go so far as to
personally
vouch for Hayden. She’s incapable of violence. She’s a very caring and sensitive person.”

He let her go on with neither comment nor reaction.

“Listen, I give you my word on that, as both a psychologist and an officer of the court. You
do
know that I am an officer of the court, Lieutenant? You seem to know everything else about my clients and me.”

“Believe me…I do.”

What was with his attitude?

“Then you know I’ve probably handled just as many felonies as a prosecutor as
you’ve
handled as a detective. And I swear to it…
Hayden’s not involved in Melissa’s death, and if you’re trying to find her so that you can—”

“Ms. Dean, we don’t think Hayden was involved.”

She looked back at him across her desk, closing the appointment book and standing. “Then why all the questions about Hayden?”

“I don’t think Hayden was involved. This is about you. We don’t want to locate Hayden Krasinski. We know where she is. She’s at the morgue, Ms. Dean. Hayden Krasinski is dead. She was stabbed and likely strangled in the last twenty-four hours, and not too far from your office, either.”

Stunned, Hailey grasped the edge of the desk to keep her balance. The pain showed in her eyes and her immediate, gut reaction was one of disbelief. Her mind couldn’t accept the news, and the color drained from her face.

“Don’t bother to look so shocked,” Lieutenant Kolker said dryly. “That stunned, hurt look might have fooled me once, Hailey Dean, that’s right. It worked the first time you used it at the hospital, but it ain’t workin’ this time. You nearly had me snowed in there. Man, was I a fool. I guess you’ve used your looks before. It’s not working this time, Counselor.”

“What?” Her thoughts were spinning. She couldn’t take in the news about Hayden. “Lieutenant, I’m not—”

“Don’t bother to tell me what you’re not,” he cut in rudely, “because I’m going to tell you what you
are
. You’re under arrest.”

“For what?!” Anger took her over. Her patients were being singled out for death, and her words came out sharp as steel.

“Do you want me to repeat it?”

She said nothing back, the desire for revenge against the killer so strong now, her whole body was coiled and ready to spring.

“Melissa Everett
and
Hayden Krasinski are both dead. Two innocent women murdered just weeks apart, and you know what, Ms. Dean? You’re the only connection to the both of them.”

“But that doesn’t mean—”

“Same MO. Single females in their twenties, both slight of stature, both emotionally troubled and easy to take advantage of, both
strangled
and
stabbed—very unusual—both in the evenings on a city street, no robbery…sound familiar? Both murdered just blocks from your office. Both had your business card on them. Both had your home number and cell in their address books. Both trusted
you
, Hailey Dean. They’d do whatever you told them, wouldn’t they? They never saw it coming, did they, Hailey…just walking along and the stab in the back. Too much of a coincidence for my taste.”

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be happening. The man was an imbecile. How could she be connected to violence, much less murder…and of her own patients?

“Oh, and nice touch, leaving that little message on Melissa Everett’s answer machine…as
if
you had no idea where she was when you knew she was lying stiff and cold in an alleyway. But nice touch. You’re a real pro, Dean. A jury’s gonna love that!”

“Kolker, you know this is impossible. Why are you doing this? I can’t believe it…. Hayden’s been killed? What happened to her?”

“Don’t ask me. It’s up to headquarters if you get any more information up front. I’m sure your defense lawyer will file discovery and tell you anything you need to know about your
patients
. For now, that information’s off-limits to you. All you need to know is that they’re
dead
.” He eyed her as if she were a dangerous snake loose in the office. “Look, cut the crap. I know you lawyer types…anything we tell you, you’ll just use it against us in court. Isn’t that the game you lawyers play?”

Hailey hardly knew where to begin. “What in the hell are you talking about? What are you saying? I cared about Hayden
and
Melissa. They were both friends to me.”

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken a word.

“You handled serial murders, didn’t you? Never lost a case, did you, Dean? Always a winner, right? Well, you’re not a winner now. You lost this time. We’re on to you.”

Kolker was having a field day. He kept talking, hoping for a reaction, a statement, an outburst, maybe even an admission. Anything he could use against her in court. She knew this. Far in the
back of her mind, the wheels started turning. Years and years of courtroom strategy were piercing through the shock.

“I’m actually a little disappointed in you. Should have tweaked the MO. Changed it up just a little bit. Hell, a smart ex-prosecutor like you can afford to be creative once in a while…right? Not make it so easy for us dumb cops to figure out.”

“What are you talking about?”

Kolker went on, unfazed. “But what I don’t get is…is it some sick sex thing for you? Because I just don’t seem to pick up on that particular vibe from
you
. Or did you just crack?”

“You moron!” She shrieked it. “You’re arresting me while a killer’s out there stalking my patients? You’re wasting time!”

“Hailey, Hailey, Hailey, temper, temper.” Kolker waggled an index finger at her like she’d been a bad schoolgirl.

That was it.

Hailey pulled back and gave Kolker what he asked for. Before he knew it was coming, her right elbow wound back and released with a force neither of them could have predicted, landing a right punch to his left chin. It landed with a loud
thwack
, slicing up to his nose, too, and blood immediately began gushing down the front of his shirt.

It happened so fast and was so unexpected, Kolker was caught completely off-guard.

Grabbing a bandanna out of his back pocket, he wiped his mouth and nose, furious and embarrassed at the same time over the fact she’d been able to land a hit square to his face. Now he’d be the punch line back at the station for this and he knew it. Maybe he’d just leave it out of his report.

“Oh, the jury’s gonna love this. A temper out of control. Fits right in with my scenario. Want to tell me all about it? I’ll listen. I’ll even make sure they go easy on you downtown. What happened? Get a little too involved in your cases back home, Hailey? Push yourself a little too far? You couldn’t take it anymore…”

She had committed a horrible tactical mistake—she showed anger. She actually punched a cop. She had to rein it in for her own sake. With immense self-control and a throbbing right hand, she
now remained perfectly silent, taking in everything she could, gleaning every fact possible before he got wise and clammed up.

“That’s my theory…you cracked and left the law, didn’t you, Hailey Dean? I’ve read about you. We checked up on you, we did our homework on this one, don’t worry about
that
. You quit prosecuting after that last big-deal serial murder case you won. And now…your patients start dropping like flies, dead…
just like them…just like the hookers in Atlanta
.”

She lifted her head and looked him square in the face. Surely he couldn’t mean it.

“I mean, come on, these killings are copycat to the max…right down to the four-pronged stab wound. Can’t you come up with another plan?”

Four-pronged stab wound?

She knew there’d been a strangulation-stabbing…but this was the first she knew of a four-pronged wound. Her blood ran cold.

“What I don’t copy is what you
get
out of it all. No robbery…no previous hatred or animosity with the victims. Do you just want to be in the spotlight again? Somehow swoop in with vital evidence and make yourself the big star all over again? Is that it, Hailey? You know…to look so good, you’re one twisted chick.”

She finally answered.

“Shut up, you stupid son of a bitch. You know this is impossible. What’s the real deal, Kolker? You guys need to make yourselves look good with an arrest instead of admitting the truth…that you don’t have any remote idea who’s committing the murders?”

In the back of her mind she knew it was deadly to “chat” with police when you’re clearly a criminal target. Whatever you said was guaranteed to be misconstrued, but she went on anyway.

“For your information, I didn’t ‘crack.’ I just got sick of it…the bloody crime scenes, the murders, and the double-dealing in the courtroom. The cruelty…
that’s
what I quit. Don’t you ever think of it yourself, Kolker? What is it…do you
like
dead bodies?”

He looked pained. She kept going.

“Don’t you ever get tired of defense attorneys who beat the system, Kolker? And the morons who sit on the bench and call themselves judges? The witnesses who lie with a straight face? Ever wake up at night dreaming about the last victim…the last trial…the last investigation? Ever get worn down from just fighting the fight…finishing one case and forty more land on your desk? Or is it you just don’t have the
guts
to do anything else?”

At last, he rallied. “Save it,
Counselor
. Don’t fight me on this. I’ll end up taking you in anyway, so you might as well make it easy on yourself and not cause a scene. Remember this, Hailey Dean…I don’t
need
to figure it out. I don’t
need
a motive. All I need is a perp, and the perp is you. I’ve got you on motive and opportunity, plus,
we’ve got forensics to back it up
. I don’t have to untangle the snakes in that little blonde head of yours. I’ll leave that up to your court-appointed
psych
. Hell, you’ll need one to explain this to a jury. Nice going, Counselor.”

Forensics? How could that be? Forensics…blood, fluid, DNA? Linking her to the murders? Impossible!

Hailey clamped her mouth shut while he cuffed her, knowing at this point that anything she said could and would be held against her in court. Why her? What did they have? But she wasn’t getting any more out of Kolker, not right now, anyway.

How many times had she repeated those same Miranda warnings to how many suspects?

You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law, you have the right to an attorney…

She knew the words by heart and they rang like a nursery rhyme through her head.

The cuffs were cold metal and tight on her wrists. Her side was hurting so badly it felt like it was on fire. Throwing the punch had cost her, but it was worth it. Kolker’s nose was still dripping blood.

He grabbed her purse from the rug beside her desk and shoved it under his arm.

“Let’s go, you’re under arrest for double murder, the stabbing deaths of Melissa Everett and Hayden Krasinski,” he said, leading
her out her own door, his grip tight on her arm above the elbow, as though she would take off at any minute and try to outrun him