Crash Into Me (35 page)

He
already had it.

Saying
nothing, he rinsed the blade and set the knife aside, his hair sticking up all
over the place, the muscles in his face tense. He sorted through the medicine
cabinet, finding antibiotic ointment and bandages.

He
cleaned up her cut and wrapped it carefully while she sat on the cold tile
floor, her back against the wall, body shivering, mind numb.

“I
won’t do it again,” she whispered, letting him help her up.

James
didn’t say he believed her, and he didn’t promise everything would be all
right. He just put her T-shirt back on and took her in his arms, stroking her
hair, holding her close.

The next morning Sonny woke to the sound
of an alarm. Reaching out with one hand, she turned it off with a weary groan.

She
could’ve sworn she’d only just drifted off.

Assaulted
by images of her wanton behavior with Ben last night, she punched the pillow
beneath her head, wishing she’d told him to go to hell. How could she have let
him use her that way? How could she have enjoyed it?

She
covered her face with her hands and moaned, hating him for making her feel
ashamed. Acting on impulse, sexually, was something she hadn’t done since high
school.

The
way she’d behaved as a teenager was tragic, but not atypical. After the rape,
she’d been removed from her mother’s home. She no longer had Rigo. She’d never
had a father. With equal parts self-loathing, self-pity, and self-destruction,
she’d sought to fill that void with any boy who showed an interest.

At
New Horizons Group Home, she’d been a very popular girl.

It
wasn’t until she’d gone to college that she’d learned how to respect, and
protect, herself. But she’d never learned how to enjoy herself with men, until
Ben.

Pushing
aside a dozen painful memories, and even more regrets, she dragged herself out
of bed and prepared to face the day. She’d overcome worse than this.

In
time, she’d get over him, too.

Last
night after Ben left, Grant had called and asked her to interview Stephen
Matthews. She also had the unenviable task of breaking the news to him about
his mother. Gabrielle Matthews’ severely decomposed body had been found between
cold layers of concrete in the Matthews’ backyard, wrapped up in garbage bags
and secured with duct tape.

Stephen
lived with his girlfriend in a run-down duplex on the seedy edge of town. Sonny
parked her rental car on the street and walked to the front door. As she
approached, she could hear them arguing, so she paused to listen.

“I
don’t need to get a fucking job, you need to get a fucking job! I take care of
the house, asshole! If you don’t come up with some cash soon, I’m going to
start throwing your shit out—”

A
man’s muttered retort was lost as the woman continued her shrill tirade.

Financial
troubles, Sonny deduced with a wry smile. Perfect.

When
Stephen’s girlfriend, Rhoda, answered the door, she looked Sonny up and down,
crossed her skinny arms over her flat chest, and said, “What do you want?”

Even
if she’d been polite, Sonny would have disliked her on sight.

Rhoda
had a mean, pretty face, ratty blond hair, and no figure to speak of. Her
pupils were huge and her pale legs were covered with the kind of bruises Sonny
associated with drug users and incredibly clumsy individuals. Dressed in cutoff
jean shorts, with a long-sleeved flannel shirt knotted at her scrawny waist,
she resembled a homeless anorexic. Someone should have told her the grunge look
went out with heroin chic.

Rhoda
Pegrine was trailer trash through and through. It took one to know one. While
Sonny considered herself a credit to that dubious heritage, she knew
intuitively that Rhoda embodied all of its negative stereotypes.

“I’m
Special Agent Sonny Vasquez,” she said. “I came to ask Stephen a few questions
about his father.”

Rhoda
shoved a hand through her bleached hair. “Where’s your credentials?”

Sonny
showed her ID.

Behind
Rhoda, Stephen approached, his air surprisingly protective for a boyfriend
who’d just been thoroughly bawled out.

Rhoda
let out an exaggerated sigh and let the door fall open. “Whatever,” she said,
pushing at Stephen’s chest rudely before she passed by him, twitching her bony
hips like an alley cat on the way to the couch.

As Sonny
stepped inside, she gave Stephen a tight-lipped smile, for he truly discomfited
her. With his prominent cheekbones and dark blue eyes, he had the Matthews good
looks, although he did his best to hide them. His hair was lanky and overlong,
he was too thin for his height, and he hadn’t bothered to shave in a while.

Was
this carbon copy of James more like Arlen on the inside?

She
sank into the deep cushions of an old chenille recliner—the only place to sit
besides the couch—that had been reupholstered liberally with duct tape. It was
impossible to maintain a professional posture in a chair the consistency of
marshmallow, so she gave up and leaned back, letting the cushions envelop her,
folding her hands over her stomach.

She
scanned the room, waiting for Stephen and Rhoda to get nervous enough to talk.

Sonny
was no domestic goddess, but even she found Stephen and Rhoda’s habitation
offensively cluttered. Video games, DVDs, and CDs littered the floor. The
coffee table’s surface was a maze of crushed beer cans and cigarette butts. She
couldn’t see the kitchen from her vantage point, but she could smell it. If
Rhoda’s sole responsibility was to take care of the house, she was failing
miserably.

Sonny
moved her gaze to the strange pair, studying their body language. Stephen was
nervous; he kept wiping his palms on the legs of his jeans. Rhoda, on the other
hand, didn’t seem the least bit concerned about Sonny’s presence. She propped
her skinny foot on the edge of the couch and resumed what Sonny supposed was her
idea of a pedicure. She was painting intricate designs on her toenails with a
black felt-tipped marker.

Sonny
was familiar with the effects of crystal methamphetamines. Both Stephen and
Rhoda were exhibiting classic signs of addiction, but while Rhoda was high as a
kite, lost in her own mind, Stephen was sober, focused, and obviously in
withdrawal.

He
nudged Rhoda gently, aware that she was giving them away. “Why don’t you offer
the lady something to drink?”

Rhoda
stared at him like he was the world’s biggest moron. “We don’t have anything in
the fridge. What do you want me to offer her, tap water?”

Stephen’s
eyes darkened at her harsh tone but he didn’t say anything more.

It
wasn’t difficult to understand the dynamic between these two. Like his brother,
James, Stephen had probably been beaten and ridiculed his entire life. Children
of abusers often chose a domestic partner who took up where the parent left
off.

With
her small stature and frail body, Rhoda wasn’t a physical threat. But a person
didn’t have to be big to be a bully.

Sonny
dug a twenty out of her pocket. Most struggling neighborhoods had liquor stores
on every corner, and this area was no different. “Why don’t you go buy us
something, Rhoda? You can keep the change.”

Rhoda
regarded her suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Just
a bottle of water.”

Rhoda
didn’t bother to ask what Stephen would have. After snatching the crisp bill
from Sonny’s hand, she shoved her tweaked-out toes into a pair of chunky-heeled
sandals and was out the door in a blink.

“She’ll
be gone for hours,” Stephen explained.

Sonny
smiled. “Good.”

He
stared back at her through guarded eyes, the way a man looked at a woman he was
alone with…and afraid of.

She
felt her smile slip. Oh, Stephen, she thought, feeling her heart break for him
a little bit. You and I are a lot alike. Grant sent her to do this interview
because Stephen had been so sketchy and uncooperative at the police station. He
thought Stephen would be more comfortable with a lone female. He wasn’t.

To
put Stephen at ease, she would have to move to another setting, one where he
felt less closed in. “Do you have a backyard?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“I
could use some fresh air.”

He
hesitated. “It’s kind of cluttered out there. I usually sit on the front
stoop.”

She
nodded, standing. “This will only take a few minutes.”

Stephen
led her out front and waited for her to take a seat before he hunkered down
beside her, giving her plenty of space. Sonny took out her photographs of the
victims. “Do you know any of these women?”

He
looked them over, pausing only on the one of Lisette. “I don’t think so.”

Sonny
pointed at Lisette’s pretty face. “She and your little brother had oral sex in
your closet.”

“Really?”
He studied it more closely, seeming impressed.

“She’s
dead now.”

“Oh.”
The photo slipped from his trembling hands. “Is she the one from the net?”

“Yes.
Are you sure you haven’t seen the others?”

He
shrugged. “Rhoda invites a lot of people over. Strangers. I don’t pay that much
attention to the girls.”

Sonny
arched a brow. “Are you more interested in the boys?”

A
flush crept over his cheekbones. “No. I keep an eye on anyone who might cause
trouble. Girls usually don’t.”

She
believed him. Being wary of the opposite sex and repulsed by them were two
separate issues; she was proof of that. She’d only asked because DeGrassi had
posed a similar question to James, and it had made her wonder about the
killer’s profile. Strangulation was usually sexually motivated.

She
thought of a question DeGrassi hadn’t asked James. “Do you know any surfers?
Someone Rhoda invites over, or a friend of your dad’s?”

He
looked doubtful. “My dad didn’t have any friends. And surfers don’t usually hang
around with…”

“Meth
addicts?”

His
cheeks darkened further, but he inclined his head.

She
cut to the chase. “James told us that your father sexually abused prostitutes
on numerous occasions. Can you confirm that?”

He
snuck a glance at her, his blue eyes swimming in the sun. “Yes.”

“Do
you think he killed these women?”

“I
don’t know,” he said, returning the photos. He was silent for a moment,
watching the steady flow of traffic on Harbor Drive. “I hope not, but I really
don’t know.”

“Do
you know who killed him?”

His
mouth formed a thin, hard line. “No. I wish I did.”

“Why?”

“So
I could shake his hand.”

Sonny
took a deep breath, dreading the words she was about to say. Having little
choice in the matter, she looked her half-brother in the eye and told him that
his mother had been murdered, just like all of the young, vibrant women in the
pictures she’d just shown him.

Ben felt like he hadn’t been surfing in a
week. Over the past couple of days, the physical activities he’d engaged in
weren’t quite as meditative as time on the water.

He’d
wanted to talk to Carly the night before, but she’d been asleep by the time he
finished his discussion with Nathan.

Now
she was still asleep, as was James, snoring softly on the living room couch.
Ben wandered around the house aimlessly for a while, checking every window and
lock. Then he gave up, abandoned paranoia, and surrendered to the call of the
waves.

JT
was already out, standing at the edge of the water with an insulated mug in his
hand. When Ben came up beside him, his lackadaisical friend greeted him with a
complicated handshake and an engaging grin. JT didn’t keep up with most current
events, so he must not have heard about Lisette. Thank God.

“How
is it?” Ben asked, nodding toward the surf.

“Better
than yesterday,” JT replied. “Way less eggy.”

Ben
grunted at the expression, which pretty much meant that the waves didn’t suck.

“So
what’s up with that new wahine of yours?” JT asked. “She wax your stick?”

“No,”
he said, staring out at the ocean.

“Really?
I thought you were in to her.”

“Maybe
she wasn’t in to me.”

JT
laughed, taking another sip from his mug. Knowing him, it was laced with
Kahlua. “Too bad. She was hot.”

“You
think so?” Ben wasn’t surprised, exactly. JT thought most women were hot, and
Summer certainly fit that description, but his friend’s tastes had always run
more toward young, empty-headed, and easy.

“Not
like Olivia,” he amended. “Kind of scary hot. Like she might throw you down and
slap you around first.” He shuddered a little, as if he had water in his ears.
Then he gave Ben a sharp glance. “You didn’t get cold feet, did you?”