At the Stroke of Madness (25 page)

L
illian sat quietly, listening in disbelief as Henry told her and Rosie about the bodies they had found so far. Of course, it was all confidential, and she knew there were things he wasn’t telling them, couldn’t tell them. When he came in earlier, his distraught and exhausted demeanor had been enough for Rosie to suggest they close the store early, something Lillian thought she would never hear her partner suggest. Now they sat, sipping decaf among thousands of the best stories captured in print, and yet Lillian couldn’t help thinking Henry’s story had them all beat. Forget Deaver and Cornwell, this was something only Stephen King or Dean Koontz could concoct.

“Sweetie,” Rosie said to her husband, keeping her small hand on top of his large one. “Maybe it’s some drifter. Maybe this has scared him off.”

“No, O’Dell says he has a paranoid personality. Usually those guys stick to familiar territory because they are paranoid. I’ve been trying to think of everyone I know who lives alone out on acreages in this area. But those I can think of don’t seem like the type.”

“The profiler says he lives close by?” Lillian wasn’t sure why that made her heart skip a beat. Perhaps it made it all too real. She liked thinking about this case in terms of fiction.

“He’s probably watching the news coverage every day, getting his kicks.”

“But if he’s paranoid, Henry, he’s not getting kicks,” Rosie said. “Wouldn’t he be devastated that you discovered his hiding place? Maybe even ticked off?”

Henry looked at his wife, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to hit the nail right on the head. But it seemed like common sense. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist or Sherlock Holmes to know this guy would be upset. Lillian added to Rosie’s thesis, “Yes, very upset. Are you concerned that he might come after one of you?”

“That’s what O’Dell suggested.” He didn’t look happy that someone else would suggest the same. “She said the guy might panic, but I don’t think he would risk screwing up.”

Lillian couldn’t help feeling elated that she could have come up with the same idea the profiler had come up with. Maybe she was good at this. Who said you had to have life experiences to figure these things out, when all she had done was read about it.

“I’m guessing the profiler says he’s a loner, a plain sort of man who goes about his business without much notice.” She liked playing this game. She tried to remember some of her favorite serial killer novels. “Perhaps he’s someone who doesn’t draw much attention to himself in public,” she continued while Henry and Rosie listened, sipping their coffee, “but ordinarily, he seems to be a nice enough guy. He works with his hands, a skilled worker who has access to a variety of tools. And, of course, his penchant for killing will most likely be somehow tracked to the volatile relationship he probably had with his mother, who no doubt was a very controlling person.”

Now the pair was looking at her with what she interpreted as admiration or maybe amazement. Lillian liked to think it was admiration.

“How do you know so much about him?” Henry asked, but Lillian had been wrong about his look of admiration. It appeared instead to be laced with a hint of suspicion.

“I read a lot. Novels. Crime novels. Suspense thrillers.”

“She does read a lot,” Rosie said, as if she needed to vouch for her partner.

Lillian looked from Rosie back to Henry, who seemed to be studying her now. It caught her off guard and she felt a blush starting at her neck. She gave a nervous shove to her glasses and tucked her hair behind her ears. Did he really think she knew something about this case, about this killer?

“Maybe I should read more,” he finally said with a smile. “I could probably crack this case faster. But I have to tell you, for a minute there you sounded like you were describing someone, someone you knew fairly well.”

“Really?” she said, and tried to think of a character who might fit the bill. And suddenly her stomach did a somersault. She did know someone who fit her description, but it wasn’t anyone in a novel. The person she had described could very easily be her own brother, Wally.

L
illian sat quietly, listening in disbelief as Henry told her and Rosie about the bodies they had found so far. Of course, it was all confidential, and she knew there were things he wasn’t telling them, couldn’t tell them. When he came in earlier, his distraught and exhausted demeanor had been enough for Rosie to suggest they close the store early, something Lillian thought she would never hear her partner suggest. Now they sat, sipping decaf among thousands of the best stories captured in print, and yet Lillian couldn’t help thinking Henry’s story had them all beat. Forget Deaver and Cornwell, this was something only Stephen King or Dean Koontz could concoct.

“Sweetie,” Rosie said to her husband, keeping her small hand on top of his large one. “Maybe it’s some drifter. Maybe this has scared him off.”

“No, O’Dell says he has a paranoid personality. Usually those guys stick to familiar territory because they are paranoid. I’ve been trying to think of everyone I know who lives alone out on acreages in this area. But those I can think of don’t seem like the type.”

“The profiler says he lives close by?” Lillian wasn’t sure why that made her heart skip a beat. Perhaps it made it all too real. She liked thinking about this case in terms of fiction.

“He’s probably watching the news coverage every day, getting his kicks.”

“But if he’s paranoid, Henry, he’s not getting kicks,” Rosie said. “Wouldn’t he be devastated that you discovered his hiding place? Maybe even ticked off?”

Henry looked at his wife, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to hit the nail right on the head. But it seemed like common sense. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist or Sherlock Holmes to know this guy would be upset. Lillian added to Rosie’s thesis, “Yes, very upset. Are you concerned that he might come after one of you?”

“That’s what O’Dell suggested.” He didn’t look happy that someone else would suggest the same. “She said the guy might panic, but I don’t think he would risk screwing up.”

Lillian couldn’t help feeling elated that she could have come up with the same idea the profiler had come up with. Maybe she was good at this. Who said you had to have life experiences to figure these things out, when all she had done was read about it.

“I’m guessing the profiler says he’s a loner, a plain sort of man who goes about his business without much notice.” She liked playing this game. She tried to remember some of her favorite serial killer novels. “Perhaps he’s someone who doesn’t draw much attention to himself in public,” she continued while Henry and Rosie listened, sipping their coffee, “but ordinarily, he seems to be a nice enough guy. He works with his hands, a skilled worker who has access to a variety of tools. And, of course, his penchant for killing will most likely be somehow tracked to the volatile relationship he probably had with his mother, who no doubt was a very controlling person.”

Now the pair was looking at her with what she interpreted as admiration or maybe amazement. Lillian liked to think it was admiration.

“How do you know so much about him?” Henry asked, but Lillian had been wrong about his look of admiration. It appeared instead to be laced with a hint of suspicion.

“I read a lot. Novels. Crime novels. Suspense thrillers.”

“She does read a lot,” Rosie said, as if she needed to vouch for her partner.

Lillian looked from Rosie back to Henry, who seemed to be studying her now. It caught her off guard and she felt a blush starting at her neck. She gave a nervous shove to her glasses and tucked her hair behind her ears. Did he really think she knew something about this case, about this killer?

“Maybe I should read more,” he finally said with a smile. “I could probably crack this case faster. But I have to tell you, for a minute there you sounded like you were describing someone, someone you knew fairly well.”

“Really?” she said, and tried to think of a character who might fit the bill. And suddenly her stomach did a somersault. She did know someone who fit her description, but it wasn’t anyone in a novel. The person she had described could very easily be her own brother, Wally.

I
t was late by the time Maggie got to the Ramada Plaza Hotel. She started to feel the exhaustion of the day. A tight knot throbbed between her shoulder blades. Her eyes begged for sleep. And she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. In the parking lot, while she unloaded her bags, she felt someone watching her. She had looked around but saw no one.

As she waited for the desk clerk—or rather, according to Cindy’s plastic clip-on badge, “desk clerk in training”—Maggie tried to decide what she’d tell Gwen. After everything that had happened today, she wasn’t any closer to knowing where Joan Begley was. For all she knew the woman was still here at the Ramada Plaza Hotel, lying low and simply escaping.

Maggie watched the desk clerk as she plugged in her credit card information. Hotel policy wouldn’t allow them to give out Joan’s room number. And Maggie didn’t want to draw attention to herself or cause alarm by whipping out her FBI badge. So instead she said, “A friend of mine is staying here, too. Could I leave a note for her?”

“Sure,” Cindy said, and handed her a pen, folded note card and envelope with the hotel’s emblem.

Maggie jotted down her name and cell phone number, slipped the card into the envelope, tucked in the flap and wrote “Joan Begley” on the outside. She handed it to Cindy, who glanced at the name, checked the computer and then scratched some numbers under the name before putting it aside.

“Here’s your key card, Ms. O’Dell. Your room number is written on the inside flap. The elevators are around the corner and to your right. Would you like some help with your luggage?”

“No thanks, I’ve got them.” She slung her garment bag’s strap over her shoulder and picked up her computer case, taking several steps before turning back. “Oh, you know what? I forgot to tell my friend what time we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. Could I just jot it down quickly?”

“Oh, sure,” Cindy said, grabbing the note and sliding it across the counter to Maggie.

She opened the envelope and pretended to write down a time before slipping the card back in, this time sealing the envelope and handing it back to Cindy. “Thanks so much.”

“No problem.” And Cindy put the card aside, not realizing she had just shown Maggie Joan Begley’s room number.

Maggie threw her bags onto the bed in her own room. She kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket and untucked her blouse. Then she found the ice bucket, grabbed her key card and headed up to room 624. As soon as she got off the elevator, she stopped at the ice machine to fill the plastic bucket, and she padded down the hall in stocking feet to find Joan’s room. Then she waited.

She popped an ice cube into her mouth, only now realizing she hadn’t eaten since the sandwich at the quarry. Maybe she would order some room service. And as if by magic she heard the elevator ding from around the corner. Sure enough a young man clad in white jacket and black trousers with a tray lifted over his head turned the corner, walking away from her to deliver to the room at the far corner. She waited until he came back and saw her, before she slipped her key card into the slot.

“Darn it,” she said loud enough for him to hear.

“Is there a problem, miss?”

“I can’t get this key card to work again. This is the second time tonight.”

“Let me try.”

He took her card and slipped it into the slot, only to get the same red-dotted results. He tried again, sliding it slower. “You’ll probably need to have them give you a new card down at the front desk.”

“Look, I’m beat, Ricardo,” she said, glancing at his name badge. “All I want to do is watch a little Fox News and crash. Could you let me in, so I don’t have to go all the way back down tonight?”

“Sure, hold on a minute.” He dug through his pockets and pulled out a master. In seconds he was holding the door open for her.

“Thanks so much,” she told him. She was getting good at this. She stood in the doorway and waved to him, waiting for him to round the corner. Then she went inside.

Maggie’s first thought was that Joan Begley must do quite well as an artist. She had a suite, and from first glance Maggie guessed that she hadn’t been here for at least the last two days. Three complimentary
USA Today’s
were stacked on the coffee table. On the desk was a punch card for a week’s worth of complimentary continental breakfasts. Every day was punched except for Sunday. There was also an express checkout bill dated Sunday, September 14, with a revised copy for Monday and another for Tuesday.

Several suits and blouses were hung in the closet by the door. A jacket remained thrown over the back of the bedroom chair. Maggie patted down the jacket pockets and found a leather checkbook. She flipped it open, pleased to find Joan Begley kept track of her transactions. There were few since she had arrived in Connecticut. The first was to Marley and Marley for $1,000, listed as a “funeral down payment.” There was one at the Stop & Shop with the notation, “snacks.” Another at DB Mart, “gas.”

The last entry was on Saturday, September 13. At first she thought nothing of it. The check had been made out to Fellini’s Pizzeria with a notation, “dinner with Marley.” She glanced at the earlier notation. Dinner with one of the funeral directors? Would they meet for dinner to discuss funeral business? Yes, that was possible. If it were something else, a date, perhaps, Mr. Marley probably would have paid.

Saturday, September 13. If Gwen was right, Joan Begley may have disappeared later that night. But obviously she had come back to the room or the checkbook wouldn’t be here. Had she come back to change? Was Marley the man she was meeting again when she called Gwen?

She started to replace the checkbook when she thought about the autopsy. Whoever the poor woman was from barrel number one, she had been murdered shortly after having pizza, maybe at Fellini’s. Maybe shortly after meeting someone, perhaps even the killer for pizza. Maggie slipped the checkbook into her own trouser’s pocket.

She continued to survey the suite. A Pullman was spread open on the valet table. Two pairs of shoes lay tipped underneath where they had been kicked off. In the bathroom, various cosmetics and toiletries were scattered. A nightshirt hung on the back of the bathroom door.

Maggie stood in the middle of the suite, rubbing at her tired eyes. There was no doubt that Joan Begley hadn’t just picked up and escaped to the shore or somewhere. Even if she had run off with some new man in her life, she wouldn’t have left her things. No, it looked as if Joan had intended to come back to her suite. Yet it was obvious that she hadn’t done so for several days. So what happened?

She looked around the two rooms again for any clues, and this time she remembered to check the notepad alongside the phone. Bingo! She could see some indentations on the top page. It was an old trick, but she found a pencil in the drawer and with its side, shaded over the top page of the notepad. Like magic the indentations in the page turned into white lines, forming letters and numbers. Soon she had an address and a time: Hubbard Park, Percival Park Road, West Peak, 11:30 p.m.

Maggie ripped off the page and pocketed it. She stopped at the door for one last look. And before she turned out the light, she said to the empty room, “Where the hell are you, Joan Begley?”