When All The Girls Have Gone (11 page)

Victoria threw the last two items—a nightgown and a robe—into the overstuffed suitcase and closed the lid.

It had been a righteous game back at the start, an opportunity to play the role of an avenging goddess. Sure, there had been some risk involved, but none of them could have foreseen the disaster that was unfolding. They had convinced themselves that they were safe behind the seemingly impenetrable wall of anonymity provided by the online world.

It was a struggle to get the bag zipped. Under other circumstances she would have packed a second suitcase, but there wasn’t much point in taking a lot of stuff. She was not going on vacation. She was going into hiding. She certainly didn’t require an extensive wardrobe. She wouldn’t need any of her professional suits and there would be no call for her prized collection of high-heeled shoes.

She hauled the suitcase off the bed, set it on the floor, gripped the handle and rolled it out of the bedroom. She went down the hall, turning off lights along the way. Tears burned in her eyes. She loved her precious little condo. Leaving it was one of the most painful things she had ever done.

At the front door she paused to take one last look around the home she had worked so hard to create. Until now it had embodied all the things she had longed for as a young girl trapped in a nightmare—a safe and serene refuge.

It was the home she had fantasized about when she had hidden in the closet in a desperate effort to shut out the terrible sound of her drunken stepfather beating her mother. It was the place she had dreamed of when her mother had awakened her in the middle of the night and told her they were leaving. She had stuffed her most valuable treasures into her school backpack.

She’d had only one brief glimpse of her stepfather as she and her mother had rushed across the living room. He was passed out in front of the television, an unfinished bottle of booze on the floor beside the chair.

Her mother had driven them straight to her aunt’s home out on the coast.

They had lived with the threat of the bastard hanging over their heads for months until he had done everyone a favor and killed himself in a single-car accident. He had been driving drunk at the time.

Victoria was fiercely proud of the fact that she had triumphed against long odds. She had earned a degree in arts and communications at a small college and wound up in a field she loved—marketing. She was good at what she did.

The future she had been crafting for herself had been full of promise—right up until the fateful moment when Madison Benson had introduced her to the other members of the investment club. Madison had seemed like the very embodiment of the avenging warrior queen that the terrified little girl inside Victoria longed to emulate.

The members of the club had told themselves that they were all strong, powerful women; women on a mission.

But somewhere along the line they had taken one risk too many and now they were being hunted.

She locked up her condo and went down the hall to the elevator. It dawned on her that what troubled her the most was that once again she was running, just as she and her mother had run all those years ago.

Walking through the concrete garage unnerved her. The shadows were long and her footsteps echoed loudly in the gloom. She moved more quickly. By the time she reached her car, she was sprinting.

She checked the backseat before she opened the door. There was no one hiding there. No one leaped out from behind a pillar.

She got behind the wheel and locked the doors, reversed out of the parking stall and drove toward the exit. The steel gate seemed to take forever to operate. She had visions of being trapped in the garage with the killer.

Who are you?
she wondered.
Are you one of us?

Madison was right. Money was a huge temptation and there would be a fortune at stake if the Keyworth buyout went through.

Or are you one of our targets?

Revenge was an equally powerful incentive. She knew that all too well.

When the gate finally opened, freeing her vehicle, the relief was nearly overwhelming.

A short time later she was out of the city center, driving fast toward the one place she was certain the killer would never think to look for her.

“I’m surprised Detective Briggs even remembered my stepsister’s case,” Charlotte said. “At the time Jocelyn was convinced that he didn’t believe her or, if he did believe her, he considered it her fault that she was attacked. She said that the cops took the blame-the-victim approach to the investigation. The campus security guards were even more obnoxious.”

“Briggs said he believed Jocelyn’s story but he was never able to identify a solid suspect,” Max said. “He also implied that he didn’t get much cooperation from the campus security people.”

“I can believe that,” Charlotte said. “I’m sure they were told to make the problem go away.”

“Briggs did say that the school authorities exerted pressure on the chief to keep things quiet. The college was new and trying to establish a reputation. The people at the top were afraid the bad publicity would hurt when it came to recruiting staff and students.”

He was sitting in the biggest chair in the small living room. The chair was not all that large, however. It was small and sleek, almost dainty. He just hoped it would not collapse under his weight. He was trying to make a good impression.

Charlotte was perched on the edge of a delicate sofa that looked like it had come from the same store as the chair, a store that evidently specialized in miniature furniture for small apartments. There was a classy little glass-topped coffee table between the sofa and the recliner.

The entire apartment probably would have fit into the front room of his new house, but it was warm and cozy and oddly lush. There were plants everywhere—big ones framed the windows, small ones decorated the dining bar that separated the kitchen and living room area and still more pots of greenery sat on various end tables.

The space was also colorful.
Very
colorful. It looked like a spice factory had exploded in the small space. Saffron walls were set off with cinnamon trim work. The area rug was the color of crushed red peppers and accented with splashes of turmeric. Anson would approve, he thought. Anson had learned to cook after he found himself with three young boys to feed. He had gotten very good at it.

Max wasn’t sure what he had expected when he walked through the front door of the apartment a short time earlier. But now it occurred to him that he liked the sunny, vibrant palette. He liked it a lot. He wondered if Charlotte would be willing to advise him on paint colors when he finally got around to painting his house.

“The problem was that there was so little to go on,” Charlotte said. “Jocelyn never saw her attacker.”

“For what it’s worth, Briggs said that may have been what saved her life.”

Charlotte set her wineglass down very carefully. “That did occur to us later, believe me.”

Max reached for another cracker and another slice of cheese. “Briggs said that he did develop a few theories. He’s willing to discuss them with us.”

“When?”

“I told him that we would drive to Loring tomorrow. Will that work for you? Sorry I didn’t check first. I didn’t want to waste any time or give Briggs an opportunity to change his mind.”

“Yes, tomorrow is Saturday. No problem.” Charlotte paused, brows scrunching together a little. “You said that Louise Flint drove all the way to Loring and back shortly before she died.”

“According to her car’s GPS, yes.”

“Did you ask Briggs if Louise had contacted him recently?”

“No. I thought I’d save that for our interview with him.”

Charlotte looked first surprised and then curious. “Why?”

“Hell if I know. Just the way I work. In my experience, it’s easier to judge a person’s reactions when you’re face-to-face.”

“That makes sense.” Charlotte sat very straight on the sofa, determination radiating from her. “What time do you want to leave?”

“Briggs said he was going fishing in the morning and that he had some chores to do after that. He asked us to show up in midafternoon. So what do you say I pick you up a little after noon?”

“I’ll be ready.”

He looked at the plate on the glass coffee table. He had eaten the last of the cheese and crackers.

Crunch time,
he thought
.
Make it look casual. Just business.

“Want to grab a bite to eat?” he said, going for an offhand vibe so that it wouldn’t sting too much if she turned him down.

She appeared surprised, as if she hadn’t given dinner any thought.

“All right,” she said. “There’s a nice little place on the corner. Gluten free, vegan, paleo and vegetarian friendly.”

He felt as if he had just taken a very strong tonic. He felt good. Thrilled.

Just business, he told himself.

“So long as there is actual food,” he said.

She smiled. “Don’t worry, there will be crab cakes. With actual Dungeness crab. And French fries. The traditional Pacific Northwest comfort food.”

Suddenly the spicy hot room got even brighter. He had been right, he thought. Charlotte’s smile was the real thing.

“How did you end up in the private investigation business?” Charlotte asked.

Max thought about the question while he munched a bite of the very good crab cakes he had ordered.

The restaurant was one of those casual, comfortable places that were scattered around Seattle and its neighborhoods. It featured an extensive list of craft beers and regional wines. There were also a lot of “small plates” on the menu. He had ordered a full entrée, but Charlotte had opted for two little dishes—roasted Brussels sprouts and a tiny dish of deviled eggs. Evidently in addition to buying miniature furniture she ate miniature food. No wonder she looked a little thin.

“My ex-wife asked me the same question,” he said.

Belatedly he remembered having read somewhere that one of the rules of successful dating after a divorce was that you weren’t supposed to bring up the ex. On the other hand, this was not a date. This was business. But there were rules about discussing your personal life with a business associate, too.

Charlotte winced. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dredge up old history.”

“My fault.” He drank some beer. “I’m the one who mentioned my ex.”

“Yes, well, it’s not like I haven’t got one of my own. Sort of.”

“How long has it been since the jerk told you that he wasn’t planning to show up at the wedding?”

“Two months, one week and three days.” Charlotte smiled a very bright, shiny smile. “Not that I’m counting.”

He grinned. “Of course not.”

“But on the plus side, I managed to pay off the dress and the florist’s cancellation fees last month. That was a very good day in Charlotte-land. Unfortunately I got stuck with the full price of the dress because it had already been altered.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Sold it for pennies on the dollar to a rental shop. It wasn’t like I was ever going to wear it.”

“What if you decide to get married again?”

She looked at him as if he had said something extremely foolish and/or incredibly dumb.

“Obviously, if that happens, I’ll get a new dress,” she said patiently.

“Right,” he said. Feeling like a complete idiot, he made a stab at getting the conversation back on track. “Financially, I’m free and clear, too. She got the house outside of D.C. and I cashed in my retirement account to come up with the settlement, but it was worth it. I wanted a clean break.”

Charlotte nodded and took a bite of her roasted Brussels sprouts. “Sounds like we’re both in the process of reinventing ourselves.”

He almost choked on his beer. “That’s putting a positive spin on things.”

“You don’t believe in the possibility of reinventing yourself?”

He reflected briefly. “People are what they are. Mostly they don’t change. Not much, at any rate.”

“That’s a rather negative view of human nature.”

He smiled slowly. “It has an upside. I make my living by identifying patterns of behavior and predicting people’s actions. The fact that most folks don’t change much over time is very good for my business.”

“I take your point. And I do see plenty of real-world examples of your theory at Rainy Creek Gardens. People don’t change much. They just become more concentrated versions of what they always were.”

“Uh-huh.” He ate a French fry. “Like I said, it’s one of the cornerstones of my business model.”

“You said you used to be a profiler,” she said after a moment.

“We had a fancier name for the job—forensic behavioral analysis—but, yeah, I was a profiler. I worked for a consulting firm that took contracts with various police departments around the nation and the occasional government agency.”

Charlotte put down her fork and studied him with a somber expression.

“How did you stand it?” she asked.

He had been about to eat another bite of his crab cakes. Slowly he lowered the fork.

“I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that,” he said. “When people find out what I used to do for a living, they ask me all sorts of questions. They want to know if real-world profiling works the same way it does on television. They ask me to tell them about the worst case I ever worked. They ask if I ever caught any famous killers. All kinds of questions. But not that one.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to get so personal. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “The answer is that there were a lot of times when I didn’t think I would be able to go to one more murder scene. Times when I got sick to my stomach. Times when I woke up sweating from the nightmares. Times when I had to use booze or meds to get some sleep.”

“But still you did the work.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. What can I say? It paid well.”

“That’s not why you did it.”

He raised his brows. “No?”

“No. I think you did the work because you were good at it and because someone has to do it. Sounds like it was a calling for you.”

He considered that briefly. “Don’t know about a calling. In the end I had to leave.”

“You burned out on the profiling?”

It was a simple question—with a devastating answer. He should never have allowed the conversation to get this deep into the weeds of his personal problems.

He met her eyes. “There was a case. It ended badly. Afterward my issues—the night sweats and the insomnia—got worse. The company shrink concluded that I was no longer a useful member of the team. My colleagues thought I had become a full-blown paranoid. My wife announced she wanted a divorce. I was asked to resign. It was either that or be fired. So I resigned.”

He braced himself for the fallout. He hadn’t meant to tell her that much; he shouldn’t have told her that much. But for some inexplicable reason, he wanted her to know the truth. He was not sure what to expect. Shock, maybe. Alarm, for sure. After all, she now knew that she was working with an investigator who had been forced out of his last job because he’d lost his nerve.

But Charlotte simply nodded in an understanding way, accepting the news in a manner that indicated she had sensed it before he told her—sensed it and wasn’t concerned about it.

“So you moved out west to Seattle to find another way to use your talents,” she said.

He wasn’t sure where to go with that.

“Yes,” he said.

“Why Seattle?”

Again he found himself surprised by her question.

“I was born here,” he said.

“Did you grow up here?”

“No.”

“But you feel a connection to Seattle because this is where you were born. I understand.”

“My turn to ask the questions,” he said. “How did you and Jocelyn come to be stepsisters?”

“My father died when I was a kid. Jocelyn lost her mother when she
was in her teens. My mom and Jocelyn’s dad got together when they each made the decision to go to their high school reunion. It turned out they had dated in their senior year, but they went off to different colleges and their lives took different directions.”

“I take it that the old spark was reignited when they got together at the reunion?”

“Yes. They were quite happy together, but we lost both of them two years ago.”

“What happened?”

“Jocelyn’s father was a pilot. Owned his own plane. He and Mom were on their way to a resort in Colorado. They ran into bad weather over the mountains. The plane went down. They were both killed.”

“I’m sorry,” Max said.

“Thank you.”

“So now it’s just you and Jocelyn?”

Charlotte nodded and drank some of her wine.

“I take it you and Jocelyn got along after your parents married?”

“Are you kidding? We hated each other at first.”

“When did the two of you become close?” Max asked.

“I told myself I didn’t want to be friends with Jocelyn, but the truth was, she was everything I wanted to be—what every teenage girl wants to be—savvy, gorgeous, confident, bold. She had a sense of style and she always had a boyfriend or three on the line. Plus she got good grades.”

“An A-list girl.”

“Definitely.” Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “I was B list, believe me.”

“All good reasons for you to resent her.”

“Sure. But she had one other quality that changed everything. Jocelyn was kind to me.”

“Kind?”

“Somewhere along the line she started to feel sorry for me. She kept an eye on me. For example, I got asked out by a senior. He was one of the A-list boys. Played on the football team. Dated the prettiest girls. Got
accepted into a fine university. Needless to say, I was thrilled when he asked for a date. I’d never had a real date and now I’d been asked out by one of the most popular boys in school.”

“Something tells me this story doesn’t end well.”

Charlotte raised her wineglass and looked at him across the top. “What’s wrong with this picture, hm? You’re right. It didn’t end well. At least, that was what I thought at the time. But the truth was, Jocelyn rescued me. When I told her who had asked me out, she was furious. At first I thought it was because she was jealous. But she knew that the creep was involved in a nasty competition with some of the other boys on the team. They racked up points by having sex with as many girls as possible in their senior year. The guy who asked me out saw me as an easy target.”

“You took Jocelyn’s advice, I hope?”

“After a lot of heavy drama, yes, I took it. I was crushed, of course. But even then I knew that Jocelyn was a lot smarter than me when it came to the dangerous games played in high school. And she had one very important thing going for her when she made her pitch.”

“What was that?”

“I’m risk averse, according to my therapist,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t know that back in those days, I just knew I wasn’t terribly brave.”

“The cautious type, huh?”

“Yep. Jocelyn, on the other hand, is an adrenaline junkie. I always leave the bungee jumping to her. At any rate she gave me enough details about what would happen on my big date with the football hero to scare the hell out of me. I canceled.”

“So what went wrong with the fiancé? Why didn’t Jocelyn save you from that mistake?”

“Good question. Brian Conroy seemed perfect. Jocelyn agreed. When we did the postmortem, we decided that we had both overlooked the obvious red flag.”

“Which was?”

“Brian was just too good to be true.”

Max picked up his beer glass. “So Jocelyn isn’t always right when it comes to her judgments of other people?”

“Nope. But, then, nobody is.”

“Yeah, the sociopaths are out there and they can fool anyone, at least for a while.”

Charlotte frowned. “I’m very sure that Brian isn’t a sociopath.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“He’s just . . . commitment-phobic. I don’t think he realized it himself, until he got to the edge of the abyss and looked down.”

“Speaking of ex-boyfriends, was your stepsister seeing anyone before she disappeared?”

Charlotte looked startled. “Wow. Slick way to change the subject.”

He could feel himself turning red. Luckily the restaurant was heavily shadowed.

“Sorry,” he said. “I do that sometimes when I’m working a case.”

“Jump from one topic to another?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the answer is that Jocelyn wasn’t seeing anyone in particular recently. There is no stalker lurking in the background, if that’s what you’re wondering, at least not that I know of.”

“That would have been too easy.”

Charlotte hesitated. “But there is one thing you should know.”

“What?”

“If Jocelyn had attracted a stalker, there’s a very real possibility that she would not have told me. She wouldn’t have wanted me to worry about her.”

“We need more data. With luck, we’ll get something useful from Briggs.”