Dead Run (11 page)

Saturday, November 10
4:28 a.m.

T
hirty minutes later, Carla finished questioning Liz Ames and Pastor Tim—who had come out to see what the commotion was all about—and headed to where Rick waited, pacing like a caged animal.

Carla approached him with trepidation. She had no desire to tangle with him just now, no desire to be on the receiving end of his fury at Val.

She understood why he was angry. A girl had been brutally murdered. He had been second to the scene. His every instinct told him to get involved—and his best friend had told him in no uncertain terms that he could not.

What Rick had said earlier had been right: he
was
more qualified to handle this case than either she or Val. He had more experience with murder investigations.
And he had awesome instincts. She had seen him zero in on a suspect with nothing more to go on than a gut feeling.

Truth was, even though he no longer carried a badge, Rick Wells was still more a cop than she would ever be.

Carla shuddered suddenly, chilled. Tonight, she wished she was anything but a cop. If only she hadn't seen that girl in there. If only she could go back to this morning. Or block the image from her head.

But she couldn't and she feared she would never sleep again.

Rick whirled on her. “What the hell was that all about?”

Carla glanced quickly over her shoulder. She saw that Elizabeth Ames and Pastor Tim had left the scene. She faced her old partner. “Cut him some slack, Rick. He's a little tense. This is a serious situat—”

“No shit it's serious, Carla. Tell me something I don't know.”

She lowered her voice; it trembled. “This isn't Miami, Rick. We're not… Murder's not an everyday occurrence here.”

His expression softened. “How're you doing?”

“Hanging in there. Barely. I puked in the bushes.” She puckered up her face. “I don't even know what I'm doing here. I'm not qualified.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. That scene… Let's just say, I've seen some as bad as that but not worse.”

Carla wet her lips. “A murder in this town is… It's going to shake the rafters. And the murder of one of our own, too.”

“I figured. Who was she?”

“Tara Mancuso, a senior at the high school. Val knows the family. They're real conchs, just like he is.”

Carla could see Rick's anger slip away. “What's he thinking?”

“As far as I know, nothing yet.” She glanced over her shoulder, then back. “What're you thinking?”

He frowned. “That she knew her attacker. That she wasn't sexually assaulted.” He paused. “She never knew what hit her.”

“Thank God.”

He leaned toward her. She caught a whiff of the spicy soap he used, and for an instant she couldn't breathe. “Carla,” he murmured, “there's something about the killer's style…something that's—”

He bit the words back as Val strode over to them, his expression regretful. “Damn, man, I'm sorry. This thing…here…on my island.” He looked away quickly, but Rick thought he saw tears in his friend's eyes. “I know her folks. How am I going to tell them about this?”

Rick understood how the man felt. He also knew that nothing he could say would make it better. “I'm sorry, Val.”

His friend nodded, visibly pulling himself together. “Carla get your statement?”

“We were just getting to it,” she said. She took a spiral notepad and pen from her front shirt pocket. “Shoot.”

“There's not all that much to tell. I was closing up the Hideaway—”

“What time was that?” Val asked.

“Around three-thirty.”

“That's later than usual, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” He looked from Carla to Val. “It was a busy night. I was short-staffed.”

“Who was out?”

“Libby, my night bartender called in sick. Again. And Mark Morgan, my boy Friday, went home sick with the flu about 2:00 a.m.”

“So, you were alone at the bar from two on?”

“Two-thirty. That's when I kicked Pete out.”

Pete, Carla knew, was a local old-timer and good-natured drunk. He spent his days and nights sitting on bar stools trading gossip and stories of the old days, when the navy still played a pivotal role on Key West. His favorite story was one he told about the days leading up to the resolution of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

“Then what happened?”

“I was beat, so I put the cash from the register in the safe, figuring I'd officially close out in the morning. The plan was to go home and catch some z's. I was locking up when I heard her scream.”

“Her?”

“Ms. Ames. Didn't know her name then, but I do now.”

“So, you don't know her at all?” Carla asked.

“Never even seen her before she landed in my arms.”

Val continued. “What happened next?”

“I followed the sound of the screams here, to the garden door. As I reached it, she came flying out. She was hysterical. Once I got her calmed down, she told me about the girl—”

“What were her exact words?”

Rick frowned, trying to recall. “Something about a dead girl. In the garden. She said the girl had been murdered.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I thought she was mistaken. That maybe some kid had OD'd or something. I went to see for myself. And saw right away that the woman hadn't been mistaken.

“I hightailed it back to Ms. Ames, gave her my cell phone and told her to call you guys. The rest you know. I looked over the victim, checked out the scene and got kicked out by Val. Been cooling my heels ever since.”

Val nodded. “And I appreciate it, Rick. You'll be available, if we need to question you further?”

“Like I said, you know where to find me.”

“That I do.”

Carla watched as Rick started off, wishing she was going with him, longing for his strength and the comfort of his arms.

Tonight, for the comfort of anyone's arms.

Her head filled with the image of Tara's lifeless face, of the brutal, bloodied gash that had not only taken her life but nearly severed her head as well. She shuddered, stomach turning. She swallowed hard, fighting the queasiness.

“Learn anything interesting from Tim or Elizabeth Ames?” Val asked.

“Nothing that rang alarm bells.” Carla flipped through the notebook, stopping on Pastor Tim's interview. “The pastor had gone to bed around ten. Didn't hear anything out of the ordinary. Was awakened by our cherry lights.”

“He didn't hear Ms. Ames screaming?”

“I asked him that, too. He said no, he's a heavy sleeper.”

Val frowned. “Rick heard her from two doors down and Tim didn't hear her from the parsonage? Interesting.”

“That's what he said.”

“What about Ms. Ames?”

“She couldn't sleep, went for a run. Said she heard a sound coming from the garden and went to investigate.”

“Went for a run at what? At three a.m.?”

“No kidding. That one's a little off.”

Val's gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

“Said the church called her.” He cocked an eyebrow, and Carla nodded. “Her words. Said she ran past the church, then stopped up at the corner of Fleming Street. Said it was as if someone had called her name. Said she'd felt like the church had called her.”

“She actually heard a voice calling?”

“Not an actual voice. A voice in her head. A compulsion.” At her boss's expression she lifted a shoulder. “I'm only telling you what she told me. Anyway, she was pretty rattled. Kept saying she could have saved the kid if she had only come sooner.”

“Had she been drinking? Using?”

“She looked straight. Pupils responded to light. Her balance and speech seemed fine.”

He let out a frustrated-sounding breath. “Great. Our first to the scene hears voices. The press'll love that.”

“My feeling is she'll recant that bit about the church in the morning.”

“Don't be too certain of that,” Val muttered. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Ms. Ames knew the victim.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tara was a client of hers. Recommended by Pastor Collins. Is this one small town, or what?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Or what is right.”

“I don't follow.”

“Pastor Collins and Elizabeth Ames, two of the people at the scene tonight, had a relationship with the victim. Elizabeth Ames was first to the scene.”

“You think it might be something?”

“Don't know. At this point, I'm not eliminating any
thing.” Val glanced toward the garden entrance, then back at her. “Isn't that door locked at night?”

She nodded. “Ever since those kids vandalized the statuary.”

“So, how did the victim…and her killer get in?”

“I didn't think to ask that question.”

“Well, ask it.” He glanced toward the parking lot. “The evidence guys are here. Charlie's been called?”

“I think so,” she responded, rubbing her arms. “I'll double-check to be sure.”

“Good. And make sure Dr. Dan up in Marathon got word. I want the autopsy results ASAP.”

She nodded and glanced sideways at the evidence guys heading their way. “Anything else?”

“I want to know everything about this girl—who her friends were, who she was dating. I want you to talk to her teachers, neighbors, everybody.” He shifted his attention to the other officers. “Hello, boys. Body's in the garden.”

He watched them a moment, then turned back to her, expression grim. “I want to know how she spent her last twenty-four hours, who she talked with, where she went, what she ate. Everything. Got all that?”

She nodded and closed her notebook. “What about the press?”

“We'll hold them off as long as possible. I'd love to have a suspect before the story breaks. I talked to Chief Reid on my way over here, he agrees.”

“What about her next of kin?”

“I'll do it.” He glanced at his watch and she sensed him trying to gauge how long he could avoid making that visit. “I'm going to hang around, make sure everything's done to the letter. Then I'll…take care of it.”

Saturday, November 10
8:00 a.m.

R
ick tapped on Val's open door. His friend glanced up. From the other man's haggard appearance, he had gotten about as much sleep as Rick had: zero.

Instead of grabbing a couple hour's shut-eye the night before, Rick had paced, unable to rest. He had recognized the killer's style. The markings on Tara's torso and limbs. The positioning of her body. But he hadn't been able to place where he recognized them from.

Not at first, anyway.

“We've got a problem,” Rick said, striding into his friend's office.

Val passed a hand across his face, weary. “I'm not going to argue with you about that. I just got off back-to-back phone calls from the mayor, the head of the
tourist commission and three reporters, one with the
Miami Herald.
”

“Count on them continuing.” Rick dropped a sheaf of computer printouts on his friend's desk. “Take a look at this.”

“What is it?”

“Some stuff I got off the Internet last night.” He rubbed his aching eyes, scratchy from no sleep and hours staring at his computer screen. “Remember a string of serial killings in Miami a dozen or more years back? The New Testament Murders?” Val shook his head. “How about the name Gavin Taft?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“Just before I started with the Miami-Dade force, young women began turning up murdered. Their throats had been slit, their limbs and torsos carved up. The media dubbed them the New Testament Murders because of the crucifixion-style positioning of the victims and because a religious scholar claimed the ‘writings' on the bodies represented Scripture passages from the New Testament.

“For years, the investigation yielded nothing. Until Taft, a twenty-four-year-old construction worker was stopped for a routine traffic violation and the officer recognized blood on Taft's arms and hands.”

Val nodded. “Okay, it's all coming back now. But wasn't Taft convicted?”

“Yup. At this very moment, he's sitting on death row, awaiting an appeal.”

“An appeal, of course.” Val scowled. “Same as the rest of the sick bastards on death row.”

“No, here's the sick part. On the Internet I discovered a Gavin Taft fan club and several chat rooms devoted to
a discussion of this monster's kills.” He motioned the printout. “It's all there.”

While his friend skimmed the documents, Rick paced, thoughts racing. Several of the chat-room police buffs believed that Taft hadn't worked alone, that he'd had an accomplice. Still others speculated that Taft was innocent and that the real New Testament Killer roamed free.

“Dear Jesus,” Val murmured, lifting his gaze to Rick's. “What do you think we've got here? A copycat?”

“Don't know, could be. The similarities between Tara's murder and Taft's killings are too great to ignore.”

“If not a copycat—”

“Could be Taft had an accomplice, just like some of those folks in the chat room speculate.”

Val looked skeptical. “So, what's this accomplice been doing the past four years?”

“Maybe operating in a different part of the country. Maybe serving time for unrelated crimes.”

“Next you're going to suggest that Taft's not even the guy. That the wrong man was charged, tried and convicted.”

“It happens.”

“Not this time. They had physical evidence, Rick. DNA matches directly linking him to several of the murders.”

“But not all. And no murder weapon, no trophies.”

Val returned his gaze to the printouts. He thumbed through them, stopped on one and read. A moment later he looked back up. “I hear what you're saying, but no way Taft's not the guy.”

Rick met his friend's gaze evenly. “Maybe an accomplice—”

Carla appeared at the door. She looked at Rick, then away. “You have a minute, Val?”

He waved her into the room. “Rick's made a rather startling find, come take a look.”

She crossed to the desk, movements hesitant. Val handed her the papers. He shifted his attention back to Rick. “I appreciate you bringing me this. I'll be in touch.”

Rick ignored his friend's obvious attempt to get rid of him and sat back in his chair. “What's next?”

“For you, going home and getting some sleep.”

“I can live with that.” Rick smiled. “What's next for you?”

“Butt out, my friend.”

“The ME's report in yet?”

“Goodbye, Rick.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I'm involved. I was there last night.”

“You want to wear a badge, Rick? I can arrange it. Until then, however, I can't discuss an ongoing investigation with you. And you know it.”

“Dammit, Val, I was there during the investigation. Just before they got him, I was assigned to the team.” He lowered his voice. “Then Jill got sick and everything fell apart.”

Val's expression softened. “I know, and I'm sorry. I wish I could work with you on this, Rick. You were a hell of a cop. But I can't. I need you to get uninvolved, ASAP.”

“Just for once, can't you do something that isn't by the book?” Rick coaxed, sending him what he hoped was his most convincing smile. “Always following the rules, even when we were kids. Always taking the high road.”

“And it cost me on more than one occasion,” Val murmured. “Because I played fair, I lost Jill.”

At the mention of his wife, Rick's amusement evaporated. He glanced at Carla, who had stopped reading to follow their exchange, then back to his old friend. “We both lost her, now, didn't we?”

Val paled, as if realizing just how far over the line he had crossed. “Shit, Rick, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

Rick stood. “Forget about it. We're both tired.”

Val followed Rick to his feet. “I appreciate you bringing us this. But I have to ask you to stand back and let us do our jobs. Can you do that for me?”

Rick studied his friend. If Val thought he was going to sit back and wait for him and Carla to muddle their way through this, he was out of his mind. He had missed the opportunity to work on the tail end of the Taft investigation because of Jill's illness, and he wasn't going to miss it again.

Besides, he had a feeling about this case, one deep in his gut.

Rick gave Val a small salute. “Whatever you say, old friend. Whatever you say.”