Cereal Killer (32 page)

Savannah quickly switched it off, grumbling under her breath about the electric bill that she probably wouldn’t be able to pay. Not even when the bright red alarmist notice came in the mail—the one with all the bold print, exclamation marks, and evil threats.

Needing a quick fix of energy and a feeling of renewal after her latest Marietta encounter, she filled the sink with cool water, pulled her hair back with a headband, and bent over. Splashing the refreshing water on her tired eyes felt great, in spite of the fact that the room was still too hot and humid to breathe.

She picked a white hand towel out of the wicker basket on the back of her toilet tank and dried her face with it. Looking down at the towel in her hands, she remembered the soft, plush, spa-quality towels in Caitlin Connor’s bathroom and thought how nice they would feel in comparison to this nearly worn-out rag. Maybe she would treat herself to some one of these days when—

Suddenly, she dropped the towel onto the sink edge and whirled around. She stared up at the heat lamp in the ceiling for a long moment. Then she turned and ran out of the bathroom and into her bedroom.

She grabbed the phone on her nightstand and dialed Dirk.

He answered after five rings. “Yeah?”

“I know how they killed Cait,” she said.

She had expected him to be at least mildly enthused after hearing her announcement. But she had forgotten she was talking to Dirk.

‘Yeah, well, good for you,” he said. “I went by Charlotte Murray’s house, and she was gone. Her neighbor was working in the yard, and he said he saw Charlotte run into the house for a few minutes, then leave with a couple of suitcases about five minutes before I got there.”

“That stinks,” she said, “but I know how Connor did it, he—”

“Connor lawyered up is what he did. I brought him in just now and got all of ten words out of him before he clammed up and called that Marvin Klein dude to represent him. Klein was here in a flash, and I had to let Connor go.”

“Hmm, sorry to hear that; Klein’s tough, but—”

“So I’m back at square one. I hate this friggin’ job. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yeah, you mention it at least twice a week.” She took a deep breath, determined to keep talking this time no matter what. “Cait called Kevin at the hospital and told him she had made herself sick from working out and starving herself. He recognized the symptoms of heatstroke and sneaked out of the hospital. By the time he got home, she was probably already in bad shape, weak, maybe disoriented and confused—those are symptoms of heatstroke. She might have even been unconscious.” She paused to catch another breath. “Go on,” he said. “I’m with you.”

“So, all he had to do was drag her into the bathroom—that’s why her arms were up, also her hair, and her clothes bunched up on her body—and turn on the heat lamps. If I remember, there were two or three of them in die ceiling, over by the shower stall.”

“Yeah, I think there were. And those things can really heat up a place fast.”

“Tell me about it. You can’t breathe in my bathroom right now.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Anyway, all he had to do was leave her in there with the door closed. Maybe he waited a while outside the room, and when she didn’t come out, he knew he was home free.”

She could practically hear Dirk’s mental wheels purring on the other end. “And when he got home,” Dirk said, thinking aloud, “he could have just turned off the lights, let the room cool down a little, and called 911.”

“You got it.”

“Then how about Kameeka? If he’s so smart, why did he just bash her in the head the old-fashioned way?”

“Maybe he didn’t have time to think of anything better.”

“And Tesla Montoya?”

Tesla. Even the thought caused Savannah’s heart to ache. “We don’t know yet that she’s dead.”

“She’s been missing for three days,” he said softly.

“I know,” Savannah replied, a catch in her voice. “Believe me, I’ve been counting.”

Savannah sat in her Mustang, half a block down from James Oates’s house, watching, waiting, hoping that Nurse Charlotte Murray would make her brother’s house one of her stops now that she was officially on the run.

Detective McMurtry had been dispatched to Charlotte’s house, should she happen to return, and Dirk was serving a search warrant on Kevin Connor’s beach house. He had sent another detective from the station to serve the one on Murray’s hospital locker. Tammy was posted in front of Tesla’s place, just in case somebody suspicious decided to visit once more. It wouldn’t be the first time a killer returned to the scene of the crime.

Maybe, between all of their efforts, they could come up with something that would lead them to Tesla. At least, that was the plan.

As she sat there in her car, the windows rolled down, she breathed in the fresh, sun-warmed summer air and wondered if Tesla was still alive... if she could still breathe, and hear the birds sing, and feel the sun on her face.

She also found herself wondering what Charlotte Murray would look like, beyond the description that Dirk had given her: about five-two, petite, dark brown hair, blue eyes, swarthy complexion.

But other than the driver’s license stats, Savannah couldn’t help being confused by the idea of a nurse who took life as well as saved it. Savannah had always had a hard time getting her mind around the idea of a woman committing murder, let alone a professional health-care giver. For Savannah, who thought that the healing arts were the most important calling on earth, it was unthinkable.

She truly hoped that Charlotte would make an appearance while she had the place under surveillance. More than anything, she really wanted to talk to the woman, to find out who, why, when, and, most importantly, where Tesla was.

Sitting there, watching the house, she didn’t know what she would say if Murray did show, but she figured she’d think of something when the time came.

She didn’t have long to wait... or to think of any brilliant strategy. Because she had only been sitting there for twenty minutes—a relatively short time by surveillance standards—when she saw an older Honda pull up in front of the house.

It approached slowly, as though the driver was being cautious, then came to a stop at the curb across the street. No one got out for what seemed like forever and a day to Savannah. Then, the door opened and a woman answering Dirk’s description exited the vehicle.

She was carrying a large tote under her arm that appeared to be empty. Small, trim, with short dark hair, wearing surgical greens and a white sweater, she hurried across the street to Oates’s house, unlocked the door, and went inside.

Savannah sat there a few minutes, allowing her to get involved in whatever she was doing inside the house.

Then she reached into the back floorboard of her car and rummaged around until she found an empty paper bag that had contained her latest order of Avon.

Opening her glove box, she pulled out a flashlight, a small package of tissues, and a couple of cassette tapes, and she popped them into the bag.

Avon sack in hand, she got out of the car and walked the half block to the house.

After ringing the doorbell, she waited and, as she had expected, no one answered. She could easily imagine the nerve-rattled Charlotte inside, quaking in her nurse’s shoes.

“Hello?” she called out cheerfully. “Avon. Mrs. Winter-bourne, it’s me, your Avon lady. I have your skin softener and your bath gels.”

No one answered. She didn’t hear a sound from inside the house. But she could instinctively feel the other woman just on the opposite side of the door.

“Come on, Mrs. Winterbourne. I know you’re home. You’re always home at this time of day.” She rang the bell several more times in rapid succession and pounded with the brass door knocker. “You might as well answer, because I’m not going away until you answer this door.”

Finally, the door opened just a crack. She could see that the woman inside had put on the chain. One eye peeped out at her, wide and frightened.

“Go away,” she said. “You’ve got the wrong house. My brother lives here, not somebody named Winterbourne.”

Savannah smiled and glanced down at the bag in her hand. “Then maybe this is his order.” She looked inside the sack. “Yes, now that I take another look, it’s some men’s shaving lotion and cologne. Is your brother named Jim?”

‘Yes, but he isn’t here right now, and you should leave,” she said, starting to shut the door.

Quickly, Savannah shoved her foot in the crack, preventing her from closing it all the way. “You have to talk to me, Charlotte,” she said. “I can save your life, but not if you don’t talk to me... right now.”

The eye that was peeping through the opening widened, then filled with tears. “Who are you really?” she said.

“My name is Savannah Reid,” she told her.

“And you don’t sell Avon.”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I had to get you to open the door for me.”

“Are you a police officer?”

“No. I’m a private detective. I’m not here to arrest you. I’m here to help you.” Savannah’s eyes pleaded with the nurse’s. And her voice was as soft as peach skin when she added, “Charlotte, if you’ve ever believed anybody and trusted anyone in your life, girl, you’d better trust me now and open up this door.”

“But I can’t.” Charlotte began to sob. “I can’t talk to anybody. I have problems. Terrible problems.”

“I know what you mean. So do I. We’re both just a couple of women in an awful situation. Let me inside, and we’ll talk. We can help each other. I promise you.” Savannah waited, not daring to breathe as the tortured woman weighed her options.

“I don’t think anybody can help me now,” Charlotte said. “I think it’s all gone too far. It’s over. There’s no way that this can have a happy ending.”

“You’re right about that,” Savannah said. “But maybe if we put our heads together, we can think of something we can do to keep it from getting any worse than it already is. Charlotte, let me inside. Let’s talk.”

“Move your foot,” she said at long last.

Savannah was afraid that if she moved her foot, she would get the door slammed in her face. But she couldn’t stand there like that all day. So she did as she had been asked.

The door closed.

But then she heard the chain jangling on the other side. And it opened.

Nurse Charlotte Murray was standing there, tears streaming down her face. “Come on in,” she said. “I don’t think I really deserve anybody’s help at this point. But if you’re willing to give it, I’ll take any I can get.”

“Smart lady,” Savannah said, hurrying inside. “Let’s make a pot of coffee, if Jim’s got some, and we’ll have us a good, long, heart-to-heart. Believe me, I just became your new best friend.”

Chapter

23

“I
never thought I’d wind up in a situation like this,” Charlotte said as she cupped her hands around the coffee mug as though drawing strength from its warmth. “I just fell in love with a married man and then... got stupid.”

Savannah thought of Marietta. At that very minute she was hurrying back to Georgia to be with a man who was
considering
leaving his wife and kids to be with her... again.

“Yeah, there seems to be a lot of that ‘stupid’ stuff going around these days. Maybe it’s an airborne virus.”

They were sitting in Jim Oates’s living room, a bachelor’s pad with an enormous television, an oversize stereo system, and assorted gym equipment. The diminutive Charlotte was half buried in a giant beanbag chair, while Savannah sat on a denim futon. And while their surroundings could hardly have been classified as cozy, Charlotte seemed surprisingly open and at ease once she began to confide in Savannah.

‘You were at the Connor house with Kevin the other morning when I came by,” Savannah said, not asking... just letting her know that she had placed her there.

When Charlotte didn’t deny it, Savannah continued, “Kevin didn’t tell me your name that day. He said that you were married and he was protecting your interests.”

“Kevin was protecting himself, not me. I’m not married,” Charlotte replied. “I was for a while. But Mr. Murray and I went our separate ways several years ago. It seems like I’ve been choosing the wrong guys all my life.”

“You aren’t the only woman to make some bad investments when it comes to romance. We’ve all been there.”

Charlotte’s face fell, and she began to cry, one hand over her mouth. “Not every woman has done what I’ve done for a man,” she said between sobs. “I used to think he was such a wonderful person. Now I know better, but it’s too late.”

Reaching into her purse, Savannah found some tissues. She left the futon, walked over to the beanbag chair, and handed the tissues to Charlotte.

Sitting on the floor at the woman’s feet, Savannah placed a comforting hand on her knee. She knew from the DMV that Charlotte Murray was only in her early thirties. But she looked so much older. She had the sunken-eyed appearance of a person who wasn’t sleeping, but suffering enormous grief and guilt.

“You need somebody to talk to about it, Charlotte,” she said. ‘You can’t hold something like that inside. It will eat you alive.”