Dead Run (17 page)

She opened her mouth to deny it was true, and he held up a hand to stop her. “Your sister's been missing what? Three months?”

“Four,” she corrected. “She was last seen July twelfth.”

“So, where's her body, Liz? Tara's killer made no attempt to conceal his handiwork. If you hadn't found her that night, someone else would have the next morning. Taft worked in the same manner.”

He had a point; she had wondered the same thing.

But she knew she was right.

“Maybe he wasn't ready to reveal himself?” she offered. “Maybe he panicked? There could be a hundred explanations for why Rachel's…”

She let the words trail off; his expression softened. “The KWPD is working in conjunction with the sheriff's department and the Florida Crime Bureau in an attempt to locate the killer. Perhaps Tara was a member of a group called the Horned Flower, but I hardly think a bunch of pampered teenagers is capable of butchering one of their friends. And trust me, Tara was butchered.”

“Please help me,” she whispered. “I have nowhere
else to turn. No one else to turn to. Mark said you'd know what to do.”

“I'm sorry. Go home, get some sleep. In the morning—”

“In the morning Mark might be dead. Are you sure you can live with that?”

Sunday, November 18
2:45 a.m.

“I
can take it from here, Margo,” Rick murmured, zipping then locking the deposit bag. “Why don't you call it a night?”

“Are you sure?” She ran a damp cloth over the seat of a chair, then set it upside down on the table. “I don't mind staying.”

Rick smiled at the newest member of his staff. He had been lucky to find her. Not only was she personable, reliable and attractive, she could flat-out hustle drinks. “What, no love connection tonight?”

“Nope. I've nothing better to do than sleep. How about you?”

“When you get to be my age, sleep's a good thing.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “You're what? Thirty?”

“Try thirty-six, Margo.”

“Only ten years older than I am. Not that much.”

Only a decade,
Rick thought, amused.

“I could pour myself a glass of wine and keep you company.”

He would have to be deaf and blind to miss the invitation in her question. He pretended to be both. The day after Mark disappeared, she'd walked in looking for a job. Considering Libby's reliability and Mark's sudden departure, he had all but fallen to his knees in thanksgiving. The last thing he was going to do was muck that up by getting involved with her. Besides, he believed some lines shouldn't be crossed. This was one of them.

“Help yourself to the wine, but don't stay on my account.” He lifted his gaze to hers and smiled, hoping to take the sting out of his next words. “I'm alone a lot, Margo. It suits me.”

Disappointment crossed her features and she quickly looked away. “That's cool.” She grabbed her purse from under the register and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “Considering I've got to open tomorrow, I think I'll pass on that drink.”

She crossed to the door, then stopped and glanced back at him. “So, who was that chick who stopped in to see you? Your girlfriend?”

“No such luck, Margo. Just a friend of a friend.” Where had
that
come from? he wondered as his employee left. The words had sprung so easily from his tongue, as if the meaning behind them had just been sitting there waiting impatiently to be uttered. Not in this lifetime. Even though he found Liz Ames attractive, he had no plans of becoming involved with her. Or anyone else for that matter.

With a small shake of his head, he returned his at
tention to closing out the bar. Or rather, he thought, a small percentage of his attention—just enough not to totally screw up the mindless jobs he had performed a million times before. The rest of his attention turned to the reason for Liz's visit tonight.

He had to go to Val. Mark had been Tara's boyfriend. Tara had been pregnant with his child. He'd been in the garden that night. The first to the scene, according to Liz. He had left that scene without reporting it and was now AWOL.

That made him a suspect. A prime suspect.

Rick frowned, thinking about the money Mark had lifted from his register and the IOU he'd left in return. Maybe Mark had needed the money to pay Tara off? Or to make her and their “problem” disappear? Maybe she had refused to abort the baby and he'd killed her? Could she have been blackmailing him? Threatening to make trouble for him?

But to whom? And blackmail him for what? Mark's wages barely kept a roof over his head. It wasn't like Mark was a married man or someone who would have a lot to lose should his predicament come out.

Typically a blackmailer used the thing a person valued most against him. Rick thought for a moment, working to pinpoint what that thing was. The Mark Morgan he knew valued his Christian faith above all. So how would Tara have been using that against him?

Rick flipped off all but the security lights, set the alarm, then stepped out into the sticky night, motorcycle helmet under his arm. He glanced up at the inky, star-studded sky. Perhaps Mark and Tara had fought. Perhaps he had discovered the baby wasn't his. He could have flown into a jealous rage and killed her.

That scenario fit the killing method. Killing with a
blade was more personal than killing with a gun. The attacker had to actually touch his victim, physically subdue them as they fought for their life, feel their body spasm in death, their blood stream across their hands or splatter against their face.

Rick swung onto the bike and started it. That took an emotional detachment few possessed. Professional killers. Trained military. The true psychopath. Or it took passion. Hatred. Love. Jealousy.

Rick eased away from the curb, heading south. Problem was, neither of those scenarios explained the Gavin Taft connection. Mark was too young to have been Taft's accomplice. Therefore, if Mark had killed Tara, he would have had to have studied Taft's murders before he did the crime. Actually, it would be an ingenious way to throw suspicion in another direction.

But it also placed the murder squarely in the premeditated category.

The light at Truman Avenue changed to red and Rick slowed to a stop, the powerful engine purring beneath him.
Premeditated murder? Mark?
That would mean Mark had planned Tara's killing beforehand. Goodbye, crime of passion. Hello, murder in the first degree. Which, if proven, afforded the maximum sentence the law allowed. Which, in the state of Florida, was the death penalty. A crime as heinous as this one had death penalty written all over it. The prosecutor would go for it, Rick didn't have a doubt about that.

The light turned green. Rick took a left onto Truman. Could Mark have committed this crime? And why involve Liz Ames? Why create this whole Horned Flower scenario?

As a backup alibi.

Rick sucked in a sharp breath. The pieces clicked
into place. Liz would be a perfect choice. Mark had no doubt learned from Tara that she was Pastor Howard's sister. At the same time, he'd learned that she didn't believe the official explanation for her sister's disappearance. And that her sister had claimed to Liz that she had uncovered some sort of evil conspiracy.

Perfect, Rick thought, checking over his left shoulder, then executing an illegal U-turn, heading back in the direction he had come. Mark would have realized that if he contacted Liz with the story, she would not only buy it, but proclaim it to any who would listen.

Mark had used Liz. He had attempted to use Rick.

Mistake, Rick thought grimly. Big mistake.

He made it to Duval Street, passed Paradise Christian and the Hideaway, drawing to a stop in front of Liz Ames's storefront. He removed his helmet, dragged a hand through his damp hair then lifted his gaze to her second-story apartment.

Despite the hour, her lights were on. He had known they would be.

He swung off the bike and glanced toward her lit windows once more. And found her standing there, gazing down at him. He lifted a hand in greeting, and pointed toward her door. She indicated she understood.

A moment later, she unlocked it. She wore a pair of running shorts and an undershirt. Her feet were bare.

“I've figured it out,” he said. “I know why Mark contacted you.”

Wordlessly, she motioned him inside. She bolted the door behind them, then led him upstairs.

Once in the living room, he faced her. “You might want to sit down.”

She did as he suggested. He laid out his theory for
her, leaving nothing out. When he finished, she simply gazed at him, expression stricken.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured.

“About what?” Her voice shook slightly. “Having an opinion?”

“Shattering your hopes. I know how desperately you want to believe this conspiracy theory. Because of your sister.”

She passed a hand across her eyes. “And how did Mark learn about Gavin Taft?”

“Any number of places. Most probably the Internet.”

“He was in love with her, Rick. If you had only heard him that day. It broke my heart.”

“Maybe the baby wasn't his?” Rick offered. “Maybe she had broken up with him, but had agreed to meet him this last time in the garden. There, he killed her.”

“It's not true, Rick.” She got to her feet and lifted her gaze to his. “They were running away together that night. That's why he took the money, why he—”

“If they were running away, where was her stuff?”

“What?”

“Her stuff. She would have packed some sort of bag, one that included cosmetics, changes of clothes, mementos. I didn't see anything like that at the scene, did you?”

She sank to her seat. “But, what he said…the way he sounded, I was so certain.”

Rick squatted in front of her and looked her directly in the eyes. “Were you certain because of what he said, or because you wanted to be? Because of your sister?”

Her eyes flooded with tears. “I…I don't know.”

He caught her hand; it was as cold as ice and he curled his fingers around it.

“He's just a kid, Rick. How could he have done…that?”

“I don't want to believe it, either. I liked Mark. I trusted him and called him friend. But I've heard too many people exclaim after the fact how they couldn't believe some killer capable of committing whatever vicious and unconscionable act they had committed.”

She released a shaky breath. “What do we do now?”

“Go to the police.”

“Tonight?”

“I think we should. My guess is, after meeting with you, Mark headed out of town. He's long gone by now, but the more time that passes, the farther away he gets.”

She nodded and stood. “I feel like such a fool. A gullible idiot.”

“You're not the first person to be taken in by a charming psychopath. Unfortunately, you won't be the last.”

Liz laughed, the sound brittle. “I was going to see the police tomorrow. I was going to bring them that.” She gestured toward a large manila envelope on the coffee table, her name printed across the front. “My sister left it for me. Pastor Tim found it in the parsonage. I thought it was proof that what Mark told me was true.”

“What's in it?”

“Family photographs and mementos, a page from my sister's journal.” She sighed. “Take a look, if you like. I'll go change.”

She left the room. Rick picked up the envelope and drew out the contents, thumbing through, stopping on the page of sketches.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Tara had had a tattoo on her inner thigh. A flower. He swallowed hard, throat tight. He struggled to remember
what it had looked like, but couldn't. It had been dark, his inspection cursory. The tattoo could have been of a daisy or rose, for heaven's sake.

But it hadn't been. He knew that for sure.

And there was only one person who could confirm that for him.

“What's wrong?”

He looked up. Liz stood in the doorway. She had changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked scared.

“Change of plans,” he murmured. “I need to make a call.”

 

Ten minutes later, Rick thanked his old friend and hung up the phone. The medical examiner had not been happy about Rick waking him in the middle of the night. He'd made it clear it had better not happen again.

But he had told Rick what he wanted to know.

“What did he say?” Liz asked, tone almost painfully anxious. “Did Tara have a flower tattooed on her thigh?”

“Yup. Inner left. Daniel couldn't recall exactly what it looked like.”

She clasped her hands together. “That's bad, isn't it?”

“Only inconvenient.”

“I don't understand.”

“Inconvenient because my old buddy made a sketch of it, but the only way I'm going to get a look at it is to drive to Marathon. I'll go first thing in the morning.”

“And if Tara's tattoo matches the drawing from my sister's journal, what are we going to do?”

“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Sunday, November 18
1:00 p.m.

L
iz paced. The night before, she had agreed that Rick would drive to Marathon and she would stay behind, just in case Mark called. She had agreed they would wait until after he had seen the medical examiner's sketch of Tara's tattoo to decide what their next step would be. They had agreed what they both needed was some sleep.

Now Liz wondered what she had been thinking. She hated this uncertainty. She hated waiting here—with nothing to do but worry—while Rick took action. She had never been one to sit back and wait for others to solve her problems.

As for sleep, that had been a joke. After Rick left, she had crawled into bed—and proceeded to stare at the ceiling for the next three hours, mind racing. She'd
agonized about Mark's whereabouts, about her sister's and Tara's fate, about the factual or real existence of the Horned Flower.

When she had exhausted topics, she had focused on Rick. What was his story? He was a smart guy, that was clear. He had a passion for police work, that, too, was clear. She wondered why he had left it. The pay? Had he been hurt in the line of duty or become disillusioned by the legal system? She wondered, too, about the photographs she had seen in his office, the one of the pretty blonde and the cute little boy.

Finally, as the sun tipped over the horizon, totally disgusted with herself, she had climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. That had been a half-dozen cups ago. Her stomach burned and her head ached. She felt each of the sleepless hours of the night before. Thirty-three was too old to pull an all-nighter, she decided.

Liz stopped pacing. Anxious, she crossed to the front windows and looked out at the clear, bright day. What was happening? she wondered. Rick had promised to call the minute he had seen the ME's sketch of Tara's tattoo. She glanced at her watch and made a sound of disgust. He might not even have arrived yet. Marathon was a good two-hour drive from Key West and she was uncertain what time he'd left.

The scream of a horn dragged her back to the moment. She looked at the street. Heather was darting across, a foil-covered plate in her hands. Liz threw up her window. “Hey, you! You have a death wish or something?”

“Hey to you, too!” She held up the plate. “I come bearing gifts. Key-lime cookies.”

“Be right down.”

A moment later Liz swung open the door. Heather held out the plate. “I made them myself.”

“You're beautiful, successful
and
you bake?” Liz said, taking the plate. “Excuse me while I turn pea green.”

“I couldn't sleep, so I hit the kitchen. Baking is one of those things I resort to when I'm upset about something.”

Liz drew her eyebrows together. “What's wrong?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure. I'll make coffee.”

Liz led her friend upstairs and to the kitchen. “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to the table and chairs. “This will only take a minute.” She quickly measured coffee into a filter and water into the carafe, then switched on the pot. That done, she turned to her friend. “What's going on?”

“Someone's been following me.”

Liz's heart stopped. “What?”

Heather clasped her hands together. “Last night and…before. It's probably nothing, but after Tara, I guess I'm just…well, I'm a little spooked.”

An understatement, Liz realized. She looked terrified. Coffee forgotten, Liz took the chair across from the other woman. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

She nodded. “For the last few days I had this feeling that I was being followed. You know how that is? It's like you're aware that someone is there, behind you. Or you catch a movement from the corner of your eyes but when you look there's nothing suspicious.”

“Yes,” Liz agreed. “I know what you mean. Do you sense it's a man or a woman?”

“Man. I've no doubt.” She drew in a deep breath, then continued. “Last night…I awakened suddenly. I
didn't know why, because I had been deeply asleep and dreaming.

“I was confused and sat up. My window was open. About two inches.”

“It wasn't open when you went to bed.”

“No.”

“You're certain?”

“Absolutely. The night air can give me a sinus headache, so I've learned not to sleep with the windows open.”

“Did you call the police?”

She shook her head. “I was afraid… I mean, all this could just be my imagination.”

“But the window—”

“What if I was mistaken? I'd look like an idiot.”

“Better an idiot than—”

Liz bit back the word but it hung in the air between them.

Dead. Better than being dead.

Heather made a sound of distress. “I'm sorry,” Liz murmured quickly. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“No, really, I… Did Tara ever say anything about being followed?”

“No. But I only met with her twice and she never really opened up.”

Silence fell between them. Liz fidgeted, uncomfortable, uncertain what to do. Should she ask the other woman about the Horned Flower? Perhaps she had heard of the group. After all, because of Bikinis & Things, she saw a lot of teenagers. She would overhear conversations. Rumors.

And if she shared her suspicions about that, should she come clean about it all, most importantly her relationship to Rachel?

The phone rang and Liz jumped to her feet, nearly toppling her chair in the process. “Excuse me a minute, Heather. I've been waiting for a call.”

She crossed to the phone and picked it up, turning her back to the other woman. “Hello.”

“Liz? It's Rick.” By their crackling connection it was obvious he was calling from his cell phone. “The images are the same.”

“My God, Rick. That means he was telling the truth.”

“Not necessarily. Everything we have right now is circumstantial. Or worse, speculative.”

Liz lowered her voice. “So, what do we do next?”

“Val needs to be brought up to speed. I've got to relieve Margo at the Hideaway. I'll come by your place as soon as I can get away.”

“Wait! Are you sure that's a good idea? Mark said—”

“It's Mark I'm thinking of. We need to locate him fast. To do that, we need the police department's manpower.”

“All right. You know your way around this kind of situation better than I do.”

“Liz? You're breaking up. Look…to yourself…after we—”

His cell phone dropped the call, and she hung up, frustrated. She was pretty sure he had been asking her not to tell anyone what was going on until they had talked to Val. Which answered her question about whether she should involve Heather.

Liz glanced at her friend. Heather stared toward the window, her lovely face puckered with worry. Liz caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She didn't know why, but she felt a strong compulsion to disregard Rick's advice and tell the other woman what was
going on. She felt that by not telling her she might be exposing her to danger.

Liz shook off the sensation.

Heather turned her gaze to Liz. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” She forced a smile.

The other woman's eyebrows shot up. “You seem kind of jumpy.”

Liz laughed. The sound rang false even to her own ears. “Too much caffeine, that's all.”

Heather saw through her lie and looked hurt. She stood. “I'd better go.”

“Wait—” Liz held out a hand. “A friend's gotten himself in some trouble. I'm trying to help, that's all.”

She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Okay. If you need to talk, you know where I am.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Liz accompanied her friend downstairs to the front door. There, she met the woman's gaze once more. “What about you? What are you going to do? I'm worried. I think you should go to the police.”

“Forget what I said about being followed. I'm probably overreacting. I mean, why would anyone be following me?”

“Heather, don't take any chances. Please. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

“I'm pretty tough.” The woman grinned. “Anybody tries to mess with me, they'll regret it.”

Liz watched her go, appreciating her pluck but unable to suppress a feeling of dread. No matter how tough she thought she was, Heather Ferguson would be no match for the monster who had murdered Tara.