Dead Run (12 page)

Saturday, November 10
3:00 p.m.

L
iz awakened with a start. She sat up in bed, disoriented. She glanced at the bedside clock and then blinked in disbelief.

Three o'clock? In the afternoon?

The events of the night before came crashing back: going for a run, finding Tara, the police questioning her, returning to her apartment and being unable to close her eyes without the horror engulfing her.

In desperation, she had taken a sleeping pill. One of the ones her therapist had prescribed back when she had been in the throes of a breakdown.

Back when? Right, she was on such an even keel now. Steady as a rock.

More like delusional. Had she really told that police
officer that the church had called her? Had she really believed it?

Did she still?

Liz moaned and dragged the comforter to her chin. She felt as if she had spent the night wrestling the devil himself. Her body ached, as if she was bruised all over. She shifted her gaze to her window, her vision blurring with tears.

Poor Tara. She had been so young. She'd had so much to look forward to—love, marriage, children. Grandchildren.

The tears welled and spilled over. Liz found herself saying a silent prayer, something she hadn't done in a long time. A prayer that Tara hadn't suffered too much. That she was safe now, in the Lord's loving and protective custody. At peace.

A lump formed in her throat. The monsters who had done this to Tara were the same ones who had made Rachel “disappear.” She believed that, even without more proof than what the police would see as circumstantial. Her gut instincts told her she was right.

They weren't going to get away with it, she promised. She wasn't going to allow them to.

Liz threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, fired with steely determination. The room started to spin and she grabbed the bedpost to steady herself.

She breathed deeply through her nose, focusing on what she needed to do. She didn't have time for a nervous breakdown. She didn't have time to be weak-kneed or light-headed. She needed to pay her respects to Tara's parents today. She wanted to speak with Pastor Collins. Perhaps he could help her. She felt he knew more than he was saying—about Tara's problem and her sister's disappearance.

She released the bedpost and made her way cautiously to the closet. First, she would visit the police department. After the tragedy of the night before, Lieutenant Lopez would have to admit she was on to something. He couldn't deny the link between her sister's disappearance and Tara's murder.

 

Lieutenant Lopez didn't see it that way. He looked at her, expression both incredulous and annoyed. “Let me summarize,” he murmured. “You believe that whoever murdered Tara also did away with your sister. You believe this to be true because…”

“Because Tara was in my sister's counsel when Rachel disappeared. Tara was somehow involved in the illegal activities my sister spoke of. They killed my sister, then when Tara began seeing me, they killed her.”

The man tossed his pen on the desk. “I'm in the middle of a murder investigation, Ms. Ames. I don't have time for your imaginings.”

“Imaginings!” she repeated. “A girl is dead! My sister is—”

“Missing,” he supplied. “If your sister was murdered, where's the body? If she had discovered some huge, illegal operation on the island, why didn't she come to me with it? Or Detective Chapman?” he added, motioning toward the other detective, the woman who had questioned Liz the night before. He shook his head. “Or anyone else on the force, for that matter?”

Liz had to admit, their argument made sense. But she hadn't given them all of hers. She had to make them see it her way. “Tara knew who killed Rachel. She was frightened they were going to kill her, too.”

Both detectives straightened. “She told you that?”

Liz hesitated. “Not just like that.”

The lieutenant leaned back in his chair. He sent a glance to his detective. Liz interpreted its meaning:
nutcase.

“Then how?” he asked. “Did the church tell you?”

“Of course not!”

His eyebrows shot up. “But didn't you tell Detective Chapman that Paradise Christian called to you last night? That the
building
urged you to come to it.”

Heat flew to her cheeks. “I was overwrought. When I said the church called to me, I meant I felt a strong…pull to go there.”

“That's not what you said,” the woman detective murmured. “You said the building—”

“I know. I was upset. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

“But you are now?”

“Yes.”

Lieutenant Lopez stared directly at Liz. “Let me ask you something, Ms. Ames. Do you find it…odd that even though you've only been in town what, two weeks, you were first to the scene of the only murder this year
and
that you knew the victim?”

Liz glanced from the lieutenant to the detective, confused. “I don't follow.”

“It makes you an automatic suspect. Standard operating procedure, Ms. Ames.”

“That's…crazy. I was out for a run and—”

“At three in the morning,” the other woman murmured. “Alone. No witnesses. With no better explanation for being there than ‘the church called to you.' What do you think we should deduce from that?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but everything I told you is true. That's just the way it happened.” She looked from one to the other again. “Surely you believe me?”

For a long moment, neither officer spoke. Then Lieu
tenant Lopez cleared his throat. “Let's get back to Tara and your claim that she feared for her life. She didn't come right out and say that, correct?”

He had wanted to shake her confidence, she realized. He had wanted her rattled, a little frightened.
Well, it wasn't going to work.

Liz stiffened and met his gaze. “Correct,” she said clearly. “I deduced it through her body language and expressions. The things she didn't say.”

The lieutenant looked at his detective again. “Quick, Carla, we just learned a new interrogation technique, write down everything suspects don't say.”

The woman smirked and Liz stood. “I'm a trained professional. It's my job to interpret—”

“My job,” he interrupted, following her to her feet, “is to unearth the truth. Not to guess, infer or deduce. I deal in facts. Not feelings. Period.”

“But—”

He cut her off. “You are overwrought, Ms. Ames. Understandably so. Go home, let us do our job.”

Liz took another stab. “Take a look at this. Someone slipped it under my door while I was in my last session with Tara.” She retrieved the note from her purse and held it out.

He took it from her, read it and handed it back. “So?”

“It's a threat.”

“Or a joke.”

“It's not a joke!” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I received this while in session with Tara. Less than twelve hours later the girl was murdered. Why don't you get it?”

The man's expression softened with compassion. “I'm really sorry, Ms. Ames. You've been through…something awful. First your sister's disappearance, now
this.” He glanced at the other detective. “I tell you what, I'll keep an open mind about this. I'll have Carla check out your story, see if we can discover who left you that note. Will that help?”

“Yes,” she murmured, relief flowing over her. “Yes, that will help.”

Saturday, November 10
4:30 p.m.

T
he medical examiner for the keys was an old friend of Rick's. They had played ball together for the Key West High School Fighting Conchs. Rick had been the second-string quarterback, Daniel Carson a second-string receiver. Their sophomore year, the Conchs had won the state championship. Consequently, they had spent a lot of time on the bench together while the first string strutted their stuff. Later, when their paths had crossed professionally, they'd discovered they got along as well as men as they had as boys.

Rick knew Daniel would be much less discreet than Val. It helped that Val and Daniel had never particularly liked each other—Daniel would be inclined to share the information just for the opportunity to piss Val off.

“Daniel, Rick Wells.”

“Rick.” The other man laughed, his deep voice sand-papery from years of smoking. He had given up the habit the day his father died from lung cancer, but he hadn't lost the smoker's gravel. “How the hell are you?”

“Can't complain,” Rick murmured. “How're Vicki and the kids?”

“Doing great. Danny's playing junior-high ball. Made first string, right off.”

The pride in the other man's voice made Rick ache. Sam would have been nine this year. A fourth-grader. Playing ball. Beginning to think girls weren't the enemy.

For a split second, Rick couldn't think, let alone respond. In that moment he missed his child with a ferocity that made him want to weep.

“Shit, man. I'm sorry. I didn't think, I—”

“It's okay,” Rick managed to say, finding his voice, fighting his way back from despair. “He a receiver like his old man?”

“You bet. He's got better hands, though. He's faster.”

“Smarter, too, I hope,” Rick teased, working to chase away the ghosts of the past.

“Without a doubt. Hold on a second.” Rick heard the sound of someone in the background and Dan's reply. A moment later, he returned to Rick. “So, buddy, you call to shoot the breeze?”

“No. I need a favor.”

“Thought so.” Daniel's tone held no condemnation. “Does this favor have anything to do with the Mancuso murder?”

“You do an autopsy yet?”

“Finished an hour or so ago.” He paused a moment. “I'd never seen anything like it before. Gang killings, suicides, overdoses. But this…” His voice thickened.
“Made me want to give this job up, open up a nice family practice. Live with a few of my illusions intact.”

“It's too late for that now,” Rick said grimly. “What did you find?”

“You know that's confidential information. You're not on the force anymore, Rick.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Why so interested?”

“I've got a feeling about this one, Dan. Val's shut me out.”

“You recognized the killing style.”

“Yes.”

The other man hesitated, then sighed. “You on a land line or a cell?”

“Land.”

“Hold on a moment.” His friend laid down the phone. Rick heard footsteps, then a door shutting. A moment later he was back. He confirmed what Rick had suspected: she had been attacked from behind, the injury to her neck had killed her, she had not been sexually assaulted and the carvings on her body had, indeed, been done postmortem.

Then he said something that took Rick by surprise.

“She was pregnant. No more than three months along.”

“Oh, man.”

“It gets worse, my friend. The killer cut open her womb and took the fetus.”

Saturday, November 10
5:00 p.m.

L
iz climbed the steps to Paradise Christian's closed doors. She kept her gaze focused on them, afraid to look left, toward the garden. She had promised herself she wouldn't. Seeing the crime-scene tape stretched across the garden door would bring the events of the night before rushing back.

The call of that vivid slash of yellow proved too powerful, and she glanced to her left. And as she feared, the image of Tara filled her head: her face screwed into a death howl, of the blood…everywhere, of her wide, lifeless eyes. Staring up at her in accusation.

She should have been able to prevent this. Should have done something to stop it.

Liz whimpered and jerked her gaze away. She hurried up the remaining steps and crossed to the doors.
And found them locked. Confused, she tried a second door with the same results.

Of course the doors were locked. A girl had been murdered here not even twenty-four hours ago. Her killer still roamed free.

Liz searched for the bell, found it and rang. Several minutes later she saw Pastor Tim's face at the window. A moment later the door opened.

He looked as if he had aged five years since the last time she'd seen him. That she had expected—the accusation in his eyes she hadn't. She took a step back, wondering what she had done wrong. “Pastor Tim?” she murmured. “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Today has been difficult,” he responded stiffly. “How can I help you?”

Difficult. An understatement, she was certain.
“I wanted to check on Tara's parents. Have you spoken with them?”

“Of course I have. What kind of spiritual leader would I be if I hadn't?”

“I'm sorry,” she murmured, taken aback, “I didn't mean to offend you. Sometimes people in pain turn away from those who can help most.”

“The Mancusos are people of great faith, Ms. Ames. Their belief in their Lord and Savior will carry them through even this.”

Liz recalled the fanatical light in Tara's eyes when she spoke of God, heaven and hell. “Do the Mancusos have any strange beliefs?”

“Excuse me?”

“That came out wrong,” she said, cheeks burning. I didn't mean that. It's just that Tara said some things about her Christian religion I found strange. I thought maybe she—”

“The child is dead now, Ms. Ames. Let her rest in peace.”

“You don't understand.”

“You might be surprised how much I do understand.” He took a step back from the door. “I have to go now.”

“Wait!” She shot her hand out, stopping him from closing the door, stunned by Pastor Collins's anger at her, his confrontational tone and accusatory comments. Previously, he had been warm toward her, kind and eager to help. Last night he had been conciliatory of her feelings, concerned for her safety. He had refused to leave her side until the officer that Lieutenant Lopez had assigned to walk her home had her in tow, for heaven's sake.

What had caused his attitude to change so dramatically since then?

“Please, Pastor Tim, I wanted to offer my condolences… I thought there might be something I could do for the Mancusos.”

“There isn't,” he said coldly. “Good day.”

“It might help them to speak with me. I'm a professional counselor and—”

“They don't want to speak with you.”

“How can you be so certain? They may—”

“They told me so, Ms. Ames. They asked me to keep you away from them.”

She took a step backward, shocked. “They said that? I don't understand. I can't imagine why—”

“I can't help you.” He sucked in a sharp breath, flushing. “A girl is dead, her parents grieving. Don't you think you've helped enough?”

On that, he shut the door in her face.

Shaken, Liz turned away from the door. And found a man standing not three feet behind her, blocking her
path. His face was a nightmare: a vicious scar ran diagonally across it, from his forehead to chin. It appeared that whatever had cut him had mutilated his left eye in the process.

He stared at her with his one good eye, mouth slightly agape. She took a step toward him. “Excuse me,” she said, mustering an authoritative tone.

He blinked but didn't move. Liz glanced over her shoulder at the closed church doors, then back at the man. “Excuse me,” she said again. “I need to pass.”

Before she realized what was happening, his hand shot out and he closed his fingers tightly around her wrist.

With a cry, she took a step backward, tugging against his grasp. He tightened his hold on her, mouth working, guttural sounds spilling from his lips.

“Take your hand off her, you monster!” Heather Ferguson strode up the path behind him. “Right now!”

The man's expression grew alarmed. He dropped Liz's wrist, whirled, then scurried off, head down.

Liz watched him go, heart pounding. He ducked through a row of flowering hedges at the end of the walkway, and disappeared.

“Are you all right?”

Liz dragged her gaze to the other woman. “I…think so.” She rubbed her wrist. “He scared me, that's all.”

“That character gives me the creeps. He's always lurking about. Spying.”

“Who is he?”

“Stephen. I don't know his last name, if he even has one.” Heather frowned. “He's the church caretaker. As far as I know he's lived at Paradise Christian all his life.”

Liz swallowed hard, working to shake off the effects
of her encounter with the man. “What happened to his face?”

“I'm not from Key West, so I may be wrong, but I heard his father did that to him. Apparently, the same attack that disfigured his face damaged his brain. The church takes care of him.”

Liz felt ill. That such sickness and cruelty existed in the world, that it was so often directed against children, broke her heart. “He's harmless then?”

“They say so.”

Liz frowned. “You don't agree?”

“The former pastor here, Rachel Howard, caught him peeking in her windows. I told her she ought to send him packing. But she had too big a heart.” Heather looked away, eyes sparkling with tears. “And now she's gone.”

Liz's heart stopped, then started again, beating almost painfully against the wall of her chest. For a moment, she could hardly breathe. “You knew the previous pastor of Paradise Christian?”

“Sure, everyone around here did. I suppose you could have even called us friends.”

Liz's cheeks warmed.
If Rachel and Heather had been friends, wouldn't Rachel have mentioned her sister?

She realized the other woman was looking at her oddly and Liz forced a smile. “You suppose?”

Heather lifted a shoulder. “She was extremely busy, so was I. We were never actually able to do more than have a quick chat when we ran into each other. But I liked her. A lot.”

“Have you closed up shop for the day?'

“Yes, I'm happy to say. Why, are you in sudden need of a bikini?”

“Hardly.” Liz smiled again. “You've come to my rescue twice now and I'd love to express my thanks by treating you to a drink or dinner.”

Heather waved the offer off. “That's absolutely not necessary.”

“I'd like to anyway. If you have the time?”

Heather glanced at her watch then paused, as if considering the things she had to do and how much time it would all take. She returned her gaze to Liz's and smiled. “After the day I had, a drink would be great. I know just the place.”

Five minutes later they were sitting at a small outdoor table at the Iguana Café. Liz took Heather's suggestion and ordered a rum runner, a Key West specialty made with blackberry and banana brandy, light and dark rum, cherry juice and sweet-and-sour mix. Heather ordered the same, warning Liz that the refreshing drink packed a deceptive punch.

“This place is a favorite with the locals,” Heather murmured as their drinks arrived. “Great café con leche and Cuban sandwiches. The best, in my opinion.”

“I'll remember that,” Liz murmured. She took a sip of the frozen concoction. Tall, fruity and delicious, Liz could see why they had become a favorite with Key Westers and tourists alike.

“I heard about last night,” Heather whispered, leaning toward her. “I heard you found…that girl.” She shuddered. “How are you?”

Liz set her glass down hard. “Truthfully? Not so great. Shook up.”

“How did you… I mean, what were you doing out so late?”

Liz told her about not being able to sleep and going for a run. “I heard a noise and went to investigate.” She
looked down at her drink, then back up at Heather. “I wish I hadn't.”

“No kidding.” Heather picked up her drink as if to take a sip, then set it back down, expression distressed. “I knew that girl.”

Liz straightened. “You did?”

“Mmm, kind of. She came into the shop sometimes. Most of the local kids do.” Her lips lifted. “A by-product of the kind of merchandise I sell.”

“Did Tara shoplift?”

“Her name was Tara?” Liz nodded and Heather continued. “No. Not that I know of, anyway. She seemed like a nice kid.”

“She was troubled,” Liz murmured before she could stop herself.

“What do you mean? Was she in your care?”

Liz brought a hand to her mouth, distressed at the slip. “Please, forget I said that. I shouldn't have.” She changed the topic by asking the other woman about herself.

“Me?” Heather murmured with a small shake to her head, “I'm afraid there's nothing too exciting to tell. I grew up in Miami, gave college a try but dropped out to do some modeling.” She laughed, then made a face. “It wasn't for me. Or rather I wasn't for it.”

“What happened?” Liz asked, honestly curious. The other woman was so beautiful, she would have thought her a natural. She told her so.

Heather laughed again. “That's a common misconception about models. Many of them aren't exceptionally pretty in real life—it's the camera that makes them so. The camera loves them. It didn't love me.”

“I don't understand.”

“I blame my mother,” she smiled. “I inherited her
bone structure, which the camera flattens. Actually, I think she was more disappointed I didn't make it as a model than I was.”

“Are you two close?”

“Not really. I rarely see her even though she lives just up the Keys in Islamorada.” Heather took a long sip of her cocktail. “I drifted into retailing, then down here. I opened up my shop a few years back.”

Liz wanted desperately to ask her about Rachel, but didn't know where to begin. Should she tell her who she was? That Rachel was her sister and that was why she was here on Key West? Her instincts told her Heather was an ally, but what if she was wrong? What if she told Heather the truth and alienated her?

The other woman solved the problem by bringing Rachel up herself. “I probably shouldn't have said that about that poor man, that Stephen.” She sighed. “It's just that, after what Rachel said about catching him peeking in her windows…”

“I heard she disappeared. The former pastor of Paradise Christian, that is.”

Heather's expression became guarded. “What about it?”

Liz fiddled with her straw, trying not to look too anxious. “It sounded a little weird to me, that's all. A pastor just up and running off like that. Is that what you believe happened to her?”

Heather sighed again. “I don't know what to believe. The Rachel I knew would never have done something like that.”

“Really?” Liz leaned forward. “Why not?”

“She loved Paradise Christian. Loved Key West.” Her voice thickened slightly. “She was devoted to the congregation.” A frown formed between her eyebrows.
“I was on a buying trip when she disappeared. I learned what happened when I returned. I feel really bad about that. Like maybe she needed me and I wasn't here for her.”

A lump formed in Liz's throat even as a surge of affection rose in her for this woman she hardly knew. Because she had known and cared for Rachel. And because she felt the same way Liz did, the same regret and guilt.

She had found a potential champion, Liz acknowledged. Someone who would back Liz up if she found any proof supporting her suspicions that Rachel had met with foul play.

“Did you talk to the police? Did you tell them the things you just told me?”

“I tried.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “But the thing is, something had been bothering Rachel. She had been upset about something and acting…strangely.”

“Upset about what?”

“I don't know. She wouldn't tell me.”

“Was it Stephen she was frightened of?” Liz pressed.

“Frightened,” Heather repeated, looking at Liz, eyebrows drawn together. “Did I say she was frightened?”

“No, I guess you…didn't. I just…I suppose I was just filling in the blanks.”

Heather's frown deepened. She brought a hand to her neck, to the jeweled monogram that hung on a fine gold chain. “You know, that's a good way to describe how she acted. But of who or what, I don't know.”