Dead Run (18 page)

Sunday, November 18
3:20 p.m.

V
al was waiting for Rick when he arrived back at the Hideaway. He looked pissed. “We need to talk.”

“Well, hello to you, too,” Rick muttered. Instead of his bike, he'd taken his battered but reliable old Jeep to Marathon. Usually reliable, he amended. The air-conditioning had gone out just outside Big Pine Key. He was hot, tired and thirsty. The last thing he wanted to do at this moment was tangle with his old friend.

“Cut the shit, Rick. I know where you were today. And I consider it a personal betrayal of our friendship.”

The cat was out of the bag now. Dammit.
Rick laid his cell phone and keys on the bar. “Mind if I get a cold drink first?”

“Hell yes, I mind. But you always do whatever you want anyway. Don't you, Rick?”

Margo looked from one to the other of them and ducked her head, pretending to take inventory of the drink well.

The two men exchanged a long glance. Rick swore. “Margo, we'll be in my office.”

A moment later Rick closed the door behind them. They faced each other. “You crossed the line, my friend. You crossed it big-time.”

“How did you find out?”

“Daniel called. He's had second thoughts about sharing that sketch with you.”

Covering his ass. Smart man.
Rick lifted his shoulders. “What's the big deal? No harm done.”

“Bullshit. I want that sketch.”

Rick stalled. “It's only a copy.”

Val held a hand out. It shook slightly with the force of his rage. “The copy, please. Now.”

Rick dug it out of his pocket and handed it over. Val shoved it into his pocket. No doubt he had another copy in a file at the KWPD. “Jesus, man, that's evidence you're screwing with. My investigation you're screwing with. I'd ask what the hell you were thinking, but you know what? I don't care. It's over. Do you read me? You're out of this.”

He strode to the door, yanked it open and started through.

“Ever hear of a group called the Horned Flower?” Rick asked.

Val stopped but didn't turn around.

“It's a group of teenagers on Key West. They're a close-knit group, they call themselves a family. They're involved in drugs and sex for sure. And maybe murder.”

Val turned. “Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like I'm joking?”

Val studied him a moment, then shook his head. “A group of teenagers here on Key West, involved in murder? Tara's murder?”

“Yes.”

Val shook his head. “I don't have time for this…nonsense.”

“I think you're going to want to hear what I have to say.” Rick motioned to a chair. “Sit. Hear me out. If you think it's a crock of shit after you do, you won't hear from me again. Agreed?”

The other man stared at him for a long moment, then sat. “Make it fast.”

“The night Tara was murdered, remember I told you one of my employees had gone home early, claiming stomach flu?”

Val nodded. “That kid who works for you—Mark.”

“Mark Morgan. Worked for me. Past tense.”

Val's gaze sharpened slightly. “Go on.”

“I didn't close out my register until later the next day. Found an IOU for six hundred bucks.”

“The kid took the money.”

“Yup. It was an emergency, he said. He had to leave Key West. He promised to pay it back.”

“Yeah right, in your dreams.”

“I went to his place, looking for him. Car was gone, his rented room dark and silent as a tomb.” Rick frowned, wondering what he would have found if he had decided to go in. “I figured the money was history and chalked it up to bad judgment on my part.”

Val leaned forward slightly. “And the rest of the story?”

“A little less than a week ago Mark called Liz Ames. He arranged for them to meet that afternoon at Mallory
Square. They'd never met before but she agreed because he said he had information about Tara's death.”

Val straightened. Rick could tell by his old friend's expression that he had a mouthful of questions, but to his credit he held them.

“They met. Turns out, Mark was Tara's boyfriend. They had planned to run away together the night she was killed. That's what he needed the money for.”

“So he says. He knew she was pregnant?”

“Yes. But it gets worse. He was there that night, in the garden.”

Val launched to his feet. “Son of a bitch! We've been chasing our tails all over this island trying to find a suspect, and you—” He bit his words back and dragged a hand through his hair. “When did you learn all this?”

“Just last night.”

Angry color stained his cheeks. “You should have called me then and there. Shit, man! In an investigation like this every minute counts. You know that.”

“Believe me, Val, that was what I intended to do. After I closed I went to Liz's place to collect her. I planned to insist she come with me and relay exactly what transpired between her and Mark.”

“But instead you used an old friend to help you illegally obtain evidence and in the process interfere with a murder investigation. Smart, Rick. Really smart.”

Rick sent his friend a level stare. “You want to hear the whole story? Or not?”

Val scowled. “What I want is to get out there and catch this killer.”

“Then I guess, like it or not, you need to hear it, don't you?” The other man grunted a response and Rick continued. “Tara was a part of that group I asked you about, the Horned Flower. Mark said they had threat
ened Tara. If she tried to exit their ‘family' they would hurt her. That's why they were running away. He went to the garden to meet her and found her there, dead. Mark told Liz that he believed they, members of the Horned Flower, had killed Tara. He also believed the Horned Flower was responsible for Rachel Howard's disappearance.”

“No wonder the woman bought this whole load of shit.”

“That's what I thought, too. Until I saw the drawings.” Rick paused, then went on. “Liz had a journal page of her sister's. There were drawings of a strange flower, a horned flower. I remembered that Tara had a tattoo on her thigh, a tattoo of a flower. I figured if the drawings matched, it would change everything.”

For a long moment, Val was silent. “And did they match?” he asked finally, softly.

“Yes, they did.”

His friend digested that, then murmured, “You should have brought your suspicions to me.”

“I should have.” Rick shifted his gaze. “No excuses, Val. Truth is, I wanted the answer and I knew I could get it.”

“And when exactly were you going to bring me on board? For the arrest?”

“Today.”

“Where is he, Rick? I want Mark Morgan now.”

“I don't know.”

“Bullshit. Where is he?”

“Missing. Which is why Liz Ames came to me for help. Mark intended to find Tara's killer. To do that, he planned to infiltrate the Horned Flower. That was two days ago. She hasn't heard from him since.”

Val laughed, the sound far from amused. “Is every
body on this island running their own private investigation?”

He began to pace. After a moment he stopped and looked at Rick. “What you're saying is, there's a secret cult operating on Key West, an island of three-by-four miles? An island where everybody knows everybody? A cult that murders its members for no obvious reason? Do they have a secret handshake? Or do they take a blood oath? Do you realize how silly this all sounds, Rick?”

“I thought the same thing, until I saw the drawings. I think there might be a connection here.”

“Question, Rick. Did it ever occur to you that the reason the two images matched is because Pastor Howard had seen Tara's tattoo? Perhaps Tara even got the tattoo during the time she was being counseled by Pastor Howard. Perhaps she discussed it with the pastor. Perhaps this Horned Flower group was a figment of the girl's imagination, one she carried to obsessive lengths.”

Rick thought he had considered every scenario, but he had to admit he had overlooked that one.

“Look at the facts,” Val continued. “Mark had a personal relationship with the victim. He had reason to want her dead. He was at the scene. Those are the facts.”

“Sometimes what looks like the truth is a lie. You know that.”

“Sometimes, but it's damn rare. The guy who looks guilty is usually the one who did it. The big surprise twist at the end is Hollywood, not real life.”

When Rick opened his mouth to speak, Val held up a hand stopping him. “Here are some facts you should also know. I did a little digging on your friend Liz Ames. You need to be careful who you align yourself with.”

“Don't be coy, Val. Just spit it out.”

“Last year was a big year for our Ms. Ames. Early in the year her mother died, a handful of months later her father. Her sister accepted this call and moved about the same time Liz walked in on her husband screwing a good friend of hers. Turns out the friend wasn't his first cheat. Her marriage fell apart. A teenager in her care attempted—and nearly succeeded—in committing suicide. Then her sister disappeared.

“Liz made her decision to come here, fresh on the heels of a total emotional and mental breakdown. A breakdown that required her to be hospitalized. Her therapist begged her not to come here, he feared she would relapse.”

“A little digging?” Rick asked, voice tight. “You called the St. Louis P.D. and had them check her out. On what grounds?”

“She was first to the scene. She knew the victim. What would you have done, Rick?”

The same thing, he acknowledged. Like it or not, Val had been doing his job.

“She has issues, my friend. Serious emotional issues. I thought you'd want to know.”

Rick struggled to digest what Val had told him, to place and make sense of it. Val's words explained Liz's tears, the desperation he had heard in her voice time and again. Her aura of vulnerability.

His first reaction was a sense of betrayal, of having been lied to. She hadn't been honest with him.

“What you're saying is she's a nutcase and I shouldn't believe a thing she says. Is that it?”

“Hardly. I'm checking out her claims. But I wanted to warn you. Be careful, Rick. She has an agenda, one based on emotions not logic. Desperate people do desperate things. They lie. They manufacture evidence.
Use whatever means necessary to achieve their goals. And they can be pretty goddamned convincing. That she's not playing with a full deck right now makes her a little scary.”

Rick had to agree. He felt as if his old friend had delivered a swift punch to his solar plexus, momentarily knocking the wind out of him. He wanted to champion her. He wanted to deny that what Val was telling him was true.

Despite his earlier intentions, he had lost all objectivity when it came to Liz Ames and this investigation.

Val's cell phone sounded. “Lopez here.”

He listened a moment, expression tightening. “Say that again, Carla.” He waited. “I'll be right there.”

He holstered his phone and stood. “What is it?” Rick asked. “What's happened?”

“Seems Naomi Pearson didn't run off,” he replied grimly. “She turned up on Dog Beach.”

“Dead, I'm guessing?”

Val hesitated, then nodded. “About as dead as you can get. Throat slit, torso carved up.” He met Rick's gaze. “Looks like we've got a serial on our hands.”

Sunday, November 18
6:10 p.m.

A
favorite with locals because of its “pets allowed” policy, Dog Beach was a sandy stretch between Waddell Avenue and the Atlantic Ocean, tucked up next to Louie's Backyard restaurant. Naomi Pearson had been discovered by a golden retriever chasing a Frisbee. The dog's owner had used his cell phone to call the police—after upchucking in a toy pail left behind by some kid.

Carla stood several feet from the deceased, a handkerchief doused in cologne pressed to her nose. The stench was, quite simply, unbearable.

Carla had known it would be and had come prepared. She'd been part of the team that had investigated a drowning last year. She'd gained firsthand experience that bodies decayed differently when submerged, reacting with the water to create a waxy, yellowish and
rancid-smelling substance called adipocere. Over time, adipocere replaced the muscles, viscera and fatty tissues of the body, giving the corpse a bloated, nightmare appearance. The warmer the water, the faster the decomposition.

As corpses went, Naomi Pearson's was pretty damn grotesque. Bloated beyond recognition, head half-severed, gaping wounds on her torso, the corpse looked at once human and creature brought up from the bowels of hell.

Carla glanced to the right, toward Louie's dining veranda. No way Naomi had been here long. Even a light breeze in that direction would have shut the place down. So, where had she been all this time? Dragged back and forth by the currents? Hung up on something under the water?

From behind her came the sound of a car door slamming. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Val had arrived, thank God. Being alone with this vic was making her itch. She felt as though she should be doing something, but she didn't know what. She was out of her depth here. Way out of her depth.

Carla signaled to Val, then waited as he crossed to where she stood. As he neared her, he brought a handkerchief to his nose. He, too, had come prepared.

“Who found her?” he asked when he came within earshot.

“Somebody's golden retriever. Owner's pretty shook up. Questioned him, then sent him on his way. Got his name and address, of course.”

“Scene's secure?”

“As well as a place like this can be. Got it cordoned off. I put Reese on the north side and McKinney on the
east.” She noticed a group forming on Louie's dining veranda. “Wind must have shifted.”

Val glanced toward the restaurant, then turned his attention fully to the victim. For long moments Val simply studied her, then he moved closer, circling slowly, expression intent.

Finally, he lifted his gaze to her. Carla saw that his eyes were watering. “You know for sure this is Naomi Pearson?”

She nodded. “Her handbag washed up with her.”

“Touch anything else?”

“Are you kidding? No way.”

“She disappeared how long ago?”

“Last seen Thursday, November 1st. Seventeen days ago.”

Val frowned. “It doesn't look like her killer tried to weight her with anything to keep her submerged. My guess is he tossed her and her belongings into the ocean. She must have gotten caught on something that kept her under. Her handbag, too. Tides changed, dislodged her and up she popped.”

“You think the same guy who killed Tara killed her?”

“Seems obvious to me. Doesn't it to you?”

Carla always concurred with Val. Without Rick as her partner, she thought of Val as both her superior officer and her mentor. She opened her mouth to agree, but said instead, “Tara was left where she was killed, Naomi was moved. Why'd he change his ritual?”

Val looked at her, obviously surprised. “Ritual, Chapman? Have you been doing a little reading at night?”

Her cheeks heated. She had been. She didn't know why, but she had suddenly felt as though it was important for her to take a proactive approach to her career.
Maybe she was tired of feeling like the KWPD bimbo. “Yeah, a little.”

“Good job.” He turned his gaze back to the victim. “As for your question, I don't know the answer. Responding to his environment. Circumstances. But what I do know is, two killings on this island is two too many.”

From behind them came the sound of others arriving: the evidence-collection team, a couple of guys from the sheriff's department and a medical technician.

Val met her eyes. “I need you to do something for me. Check out a kid named Mark Morgan. Run a priors on him. He rents a room over on Packer. Apparently he's disappeared, but you can talk to his landlord. If you can get a legal look around, do it.”

She glanced at the approaching officers, then back at him. “What's this about?”

“If we're lucky, a murder suspect.” He looked at the remains of Naomi Pearson. “We sure as hell need one.”

 

Carla did as Val requested. Mark Morgan had no priors. No known aliases. He was twenty years old and grew up in Texas. His landlady, a Key Wester who claimed to have met Ernest Hemingway on one of his visits to Sloppy Joe's bar during the forties, had nothing but good things to say about the young man.

“Sweet as pie, that one,” the woman said, leading Carla down the hall to Mark Morgan's room. She stopped in front of a door and looked at Carla, squinting against the curl of smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from her bright coral lips. “Anytime I needed something, he was happy to help. Always ‘yes ma'am' and ‘no ma'am' from him. I was sorry to lose him.”

“He moved out for good?”

“Don't know for sure. He didn't pay his rent this
week, and I haven't seen him.” Her hands, knotted with arthritis, shook as she found her master key. “That's the way it is with these kids. They rent by the week then move on. He was here longer than most.”

Carla didn't hide her disappointment. “The room's been cleaned then?”

“Not yet. My girl who cleans for me, she's been under the weather.” She smiled; the cigarette wobbled, its inch-long ash dropped to the floor. “Besides, I kinda hoped he'd come back.”

“You ever see him with other kids? A girlfriend?”

“A girl sometimes. Dark hair. Pretty.”

Tara had dark hair.
“You think you could identify her from a picture?”

“Maybe.” She drew her eyebrows together as if a thought was suddenly occurring to her. “Is Mark in some sort of trouble?”

“Not necessarily, ma'am. Just following up on a couple leads.”

The landlady unlocked the door. Carla stepped inside. The unit consisted of a bedroom and kitchenette and smelled slightly stale, as if it had been closed up a while. She scanned the interior. The bed was neatly made. A Bible lay on the nightstand. She crossed to it and picked it up. The leather was soft and worn from use, the pages well thumbed. It was bookmarked in the Book of Revelation.

She returned it to the nightstand then crossed to the three-drawer chest. She opened the top drawer, found it empty, and opened the next two. They, too, were empty. She found the tiny closet the same way.

She turned to the landlady, hovering in the doorway, watching her. “What's through there?” She pointed at
the partially closed door across from the kitchenette.

“Bathroom?”

“Uh-huh.”

Carla crossed to it and pushed the door open. Several pieces of dirty clothes littered the floor. It looked as if the kid had stripped, stepped into the shower and left the garments where they lay. A towel had been used and thrown over the shower ring.

Carla pushed aside the curtain and peeked at the tub. The faucet dripped. A half-empty bottle of shampoo sat on the window ledge behind the shower. A scrap of soap sat in the dish. A whisper of warm, humid air slipped through the cracked window casing.

She replaced the curtain, frowning.
Mark Morgan had left without even taking the time to pack all his things.

She shifted her gaze to the clothes on the floor. They were heavily soiled, she saw. Bending, she carefully plucked a T-shirt from the pile. The light-blue fabric was marked with big, dark stains.

Blood, she realized, dropping the garment and straightening. Excitement bubbled up inside her. This nice “yes, ma'am, no, ma'am” kid had bloodstains all over his clothes.

“You find something?” the landlady asked from the doorway behind her.

Carla swung to face her, blocking the pile of clothing. “Would you excuse me a moment? I need to make a call.”

The woman backed away to allow Carla room to pass. She closed the bathroom door behind her and
dialed Val's cell. “Make one wish,” she murmured when the man answered. “And I bet I can make it come true.”

“Mark Morgan?”

“Bingo, boss. I think we've got our prime suspect.”