Dead Run (25 page)

Wednesday, November 21
12:45 a.m.

T
he drive back to Key West from Miami seemed interminable. Rick spent much of the trip fiddling with the radio, scanning from one station to another, looking for the most recent weather updates. The depression that had developed in the western Caribbean had begun to move north through the Yucatán, intensifying to a tropical storm. Although late in the season, the conditions looked right for this storm to upgrade to hurricane force in the next couple of days.

News of the storm had helped fill the silence between him and Liz. They had decided to agree to disagree on the satanist issue, but still he felt it between them like a wall.

Her zeal had unnerved him. Her passionate insis
tence that she was right. Every step he took with her seemed to take him not a step forward but one sideways, farther into the realm of the unbelievable.

Satanists? Black masses and sacrificed babies?

As he'd admitted to Liz, during his time on the Miami-Dade force, he'd run into some of this crazy cult shit. Most of the guys had. Pentagrams and inverted crosses drawn on the walls and floors of abandoned buildings, burnt black candles that had obviously been used as part of some sort of dark mass or other pseudoreligious ceremony. Rarely had there been a crime associated with the sites and certainly never violent crime.

But it only took one individual to change those stats. One psychopath whose twisted mind told him that he had been put on earth to do the work of Satan.

“Here we are,” he murmured, turning onto Duval Street. “Looks like the party's still in full swing.”

“Do you need to go by the Hideaway?”

He heard the tremor in her voice. He drew to a stop at the traffic light and looked at her. “I'm not going to leave you alone, Liz.”

She tilted up her chin in a show of false bravado. “You don't have to baby-sit me. I'll be fine.”

The light changed and he eased forward, past a group of drunken young people. “I appreciate all that machismo, doll. But you're stuck with me.”

She reached out and curled her hand around his. “What's next?”

“After sleep?”

She laughed. “After
lots
of sleep,” she corrected. “Yes.”

“First thing, I need to confirm that Tim and Taft were actually enrolled at FSU at the same time.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Call the university.” He found a parking spot just down from her apartment and maneuvered his Jeep into it. “Pretend I'm an employer confirming résumé information. This kind of stuff isn't considered confidential. It shouldn't be a big deal.”

“Then what?”

He cut the engine. “I'm going to talk to Carla. Try to catch her before she goes in this morning. I think I might be able to get her to spill what they have on Mark and Stephen. Once I'm fully armed, I'll go to Val.”

They climbed out of the vehicle and made their way in silence to Liz's front door. Liz handed him her keys. He unlocked the door and they stepped inside.

Rick held a finger to his lips. She nodded and they stood quietly a moment, listening. “I'll go first,” he murmured.

They made their way upstairs. When they reached the top, he turned to her. “Wait here. I want to make sure there are no surprises waiting for us.”

He worked his way through each room, checking closets and under beds, looking for anything amiss. “No dead rats, bodies or burnt black candles,” he called from her bedroom, closing her closet door.

“Very funny.”

He turned and found her standing in the doorway watching him, her cheeks pale, eyes wide. He frowned. “What's wrong?”

She shook her head. “Needing a bodyguard is a whole new experience for me. One I could have lived without.”

“I'm hurt.” He started toward her. “Wounded, really.”

He reached her. She smiled up at him. “I can tell.”

“Beautiful and intuitive. I'm awed.”

She brought a hand to his chest. “I can feel your heart beating.”

“It's beating only for you.”

She laughed lightly. “Corny, Wells.”

He brought his arms around her. “Maybe I'm trying too hard?”

She stood on tiptoe and leaned against him. “Silly man, you don't have to try at all.”

Her meaning clear, Rick caught his breath. He found her mouth and kissed her. She kissed him back, just as deeply. Sweeping her into her arms, he carried her to the bed.

Their passion didn't build slowly. It burst forth, full-blown, white-hot.

And in those minutes, Rick's thoughts emptied of everything but Liz. The sweet perfume of her body, the way she clung to him, the sounds she made as she orgasmed.

His release followed hers; she caught his sounds with her mouth. Held him until both their hearts had slowed, their flesh cooled.

He rolled onto his back. “Wow,” he said, lacing their fingers, bringing her hand to his mouth.

Liz blushed and he laughed. “It's a little late for that, lady.”

“I suppose it is.”

They fell silent. Moments passed. Totally relaxed, he trailed a hand over her hip, enjoying the texture of her skin against his. “Tell me about your marriage,” he murmured, realizing suddenly how little he knew about
her. Realizing that he wanted to know all her secrets, not just those of her body. “I don't even know his name.”

“Jared.”

“I knew a Jared. He was a total weasel.”

“Sounds like we're talking about the same guy.”

“How long were you married?”

“Three years.” She rested her forehead against his shoulder for a moment before tipping her face up to his. “Actually, I was married for three years but Jared was married for about three months. That's when he had his first affair. I didn't know, of course. The ignorant little wife. I walked in on him and one of my best friends.”

“Some friend.”

“Some husband.” She paused, then sighed. “It was his birthday. I wanted to surprise him with all his favorites—prime rib, crème brûlé for dessert, chilled Tattinger's. I'd been planning it for weeks. I canceled my afternoon appointments to go home and prepare everything.”

She pulled in a shaky breath. “The house…felt wrong, you know. Like something wasn't as it should be. I heard sounds coming from the bedroom. It was almost surreal, as if I was outside myself watching as I crossed to the bedroom door, reached for the knob and eased the door open. And there they were, on our bed. For one moment, I didn't believe what I was seeing. I thought there was some mistake…that I was in the wrong house, that I was dreaming. Then I thought I was going to die.”

He hurt for her. “I'm so sorry, Liz. You didn't deserve that.”

“Afterward, he threw his women up in my face. There'd been a lot of them.”

Rick wondered what made a man like that. To have a smart, beautiful woman like Liz love you was a gift. One to be cherished.

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

“Me, too.” She met his gaze. “He always made me feel like I wasn't good enough. That I fell short in every way. I didn't realize how bad I'd gotten until after it was over.”

“You don't fall short,” he murmured. “Not in any way.”

“Thank you.” She rolled onto her side so she fully faced him. “You had a good marriage?”

“Yes.” His chest tightened but he pushed past the sensation, the emotion behind it. “We were high-school sweethearts.”

“What was she like?”

“She loved to laugh. She was a good person, kind. Sweet-natured.” He smiled, remembering. “She wasn't much for school. Graduated by the skin of her teeth. She was happy to make a home for me and Sam.”

Liz let out a long breath. “Well, I asked.”

“What?”

“Sounds like you had the…perfect marriage. The perfect relationship. That's tough to compete with.”

He trailed his thumb over the curve of her jaw. He liked her honesty. He liked the way she faced her feelings head-on.

And he liked that he mattered enough to her that she wanted to compete.

“You can't compete,” he said softly. “But I don't want you to. You're not Jill.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She moved to roll away; he stopped her. “You misunderstand. You're not Jill,
but she wasn't you. Elizabeth Ames is a very special, very exciting woman. She's the woman I want to be with now.”

Wordlessly, she moved into his arms. They made love again, slowly, with a kind of intensity that had been missing before. Each thrust brought them closer. In the final moments, they laced fingers and held tightly to one another.

Afterward, Rick held her. She snuggled against him and yawned. “Go to sleep,” he murmured, exhaustion pulling at him. “It's really late.”

“Mmm.”

She had drifted off already, he realized, gazing at her face, soft and vulnerable in sleep. He breathed deeply through his nose, the urge to protect her rising up in him. To keep her safe and warm and close.

As he drifted off, he thought of Jill. He imagined her smiling.

 

Rick awakened to the smell of coffee. He opened his eyes to find Liz standing beside the bed, two steaming mugs in her hands. “I hope you take it black,” she murmured. “There're lumps in the milk.”

He sat up. “Black's good, thanks.”

She handed him a mug, but kept her distance. He eyed her warily. “What's up? Did I sprout horns or is it my breath?”

Her lips lifted. “Just being careful. Are you a morning person? Or the other kind?”

“The other kind?”

“The ones who growl, grouse and generally curse the sun for having risen.”

“You're safe.” He made room for her beside him. “What time is it?”

“Late. After nine.”

He groaned. There'd be no catching Carla before she went in to work.

“Hungry?”

“Starved. We could go out?”

“I have Frosted Flakes.”

“But the milk has lumps.”

“I forgot.” She sipped her coffee. “How about toast?”

“Any strawberry jam?”

“Of course.”

“Bring it on.”

Thirty minutes later, they were dressed, fed and lingering over coffee. Rick brought up the day's schedule first. “I think I should go see Carla alone. Are you going to be okay?”

“Absolutely. I want to pay a visit on Father Paul.”

He frowned. “Father Paul? That old priest you told me about?”

“Yes.” Her expression dared him to challenge her decision. “I'm going to show him the sketch of the flower, see if he recognizes it.”

“You're not going to let this satanist thing go, are you?”

“No.” She looked down at her coffee, then back up at him. “I understand why it's so hard for you to accept.”

“Liz—”

She laid a finger against his lips. “Let's just see how this plays out, okay? I promise I won't say the S word to anyone.”

He hesitated, then stood. He bent and kissed her. “Be careful today. Really careful.”

“You, too.”

He searched her gaze. “I'm not kidding, Ms. Ames.”

“Neither am I, Mr. Wells.”

“I'll be at the Hideaway later. Meet me there.”

This time, she kissed him. “It's a date.”

Wednesday, November 21
10:30 a.m.

R
ick checked in at the Hideaway, found that Margo had left everything in good order, then made his call to Florida State University. The call took less than three minutes; he confirmed that Tim Collins had graduated the spring of 1987.

He dialed Carla's cell phone. She answered on the second ring. “Carla, it's Rick. Where are you?”

“Headquarters. Been here since six.”

“What's going on?”

“Stephen's gone. He unhooked himself and walked out of the hospital.”

“On his own?” Rick whistled. “Val must be pissed.”

“He's way beyond pissed. Heads are rolling. I'm just thankful I wasn't anywhere near the hospital when it happened.”

“No joke.” Rick glanced at his watch. “Is he there?”

“No. He's with the chief. Why?”

“I need to talk with you. Can you meet me somewhere?”

“Not anytime soon. I've got orders to stay put. Hold on.” She called out a coffee order to someone, then returned to their conversation. “Between Stephen disappearing and this damn tropical storm, it's a little intense around here.”

“I could be there in ten minutes, would that work?”

“I suppose. Rick—”

He heard the question in her voice and cut her off. “See you soon, Carla. And thanks.”

 

He found Carla in her office at the KWPD. She suggested they talk out on the smoking porch, a small balcony area off the south side of the second floor of the building.

Neither of them sat. Carla looked at him, gaze direct. “You're usually opening the Hideaway about now. This must be pretty important.”

“It is.” He looked at her just as directly. “I need to know what evidence you have on Mark Morgan.”

“You know I can't tell you that.”

“Cut the shit, Carla. You know how screwed up this investigation is. None of it is adding up.”

“We're just missing something, that's all. Some link.”

“Ever heard of a group called the Horned Flower?”

She shook her head.

“Tara was a member. We think they might have had something to do with her death.”

“We?”

“Liz Ames and I.”

She flinched. “I've got to get back to work.”

She made a move to pass by him and he caught her arm. “This group's into some intense stuff. Heavy-duty drugs. Sex, some of it weird, ritualistic. They threatened Tara Mancuso. Warned her that they would hurt her if she attempted to leave the group.”

“Surely you don't expect me to—”

“I have reason to believe Pastor Tim murdered Tara Mancuso and Naomi Pearson.” He saw that he had her attention and pressed his advantage. “I share with you, you share with me. Agreed?”

“No way.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. “Tell me what you know, and I'll think about it.”

Carla had changed, Rick acknowledged, proud of her. She was turning into the cop he had always believed she could be.

“Good enough,” Rick said, then began, telling her about Liz's suspicions, their trip to Miami and what his friend told him. “Turns out Taft and Collins were both students at Florida State University the spring of 1987.”

“FSU's a big school, Rick. Student population probably exceeds—”

“That's just coincidence number one. You may not know this, but Tim Collins played pro football for two years, then left to go into the seminary. He played for the Miami Dolphins.”

“And?”

“And one of Taft's victims was a Dolphins' cheerleader.”

Carla sat. For a long moment she said nothing, then she met Rick's gaze. “Collins was the one who called me about Stephen.”

“I know.”

“Stephen… Maybe the knife wasn't even his. Maybe
Collins engineered it all to look—” She bit the words back and brought a hand to her temple. “I shot him, Rick. I nearly killed a man who may only have been trying to defend himself.”

Rick glanced at his watch, aware of time passing. “What do you have on Mark Morgan?”

“What I say goes no farther. Agreed?” He nodded. “Bloody clothes found in his rented room. Blood type matches Tara's. DNA's not back yet, but we expect it to confirm our suspicions.”

“He never denied being at the scene,” Rick said. “You stumble upon your girlfriend who's been hacked up, you tend to get a little bloody.”

“But he ran, Rick. If he wasn't guilty, why didn't he call us?”

“How about he's young, scared and knew he would look guilty as hell?” She let out a sharp-sounding breath; he ignored it and went on. “Why try to link Stephen and Mark?”

“A witness thought he saw them together.”

“Who, Carla?”

She looked toward the closed balcony door, then back at him. “You want to guess?”

“Pastor Tim.”

“Bingo. He—”

The door burst open and Val stepped through, face white with rage. Carla turned, paling. “Val! Rick and I were just—”

“Don't make it worse, Detective Chapman. I'll speak with you about this in a moment.”

“Val, I—”

“Excuse us, please.” His tone made it clear that she was in big trouble and that she had better follow orders.

Rick stepped forward. “Don't take this out on her, Val. It's my fault.”

“How noble.” His tone dripped sarcasm. “But Carla knows what her responsibilities are, who her loyalties belong to. Or rather, she should.” He turned his furious gaze on her. “Don't you, Detective?”

She nodded, expression devastated. “I'll be in my office.”

“Good idea.” When the door snapped shut behind her, Val swung to face Rick. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you respect me so little? Do you have so little concern for your former partner that you'd risk her career to further your ill-conceived agenda?”

“I don't have an agenda, Val. I'm trying to help.”

“You arrogant prick. I don't need your help.”

“I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

“Bullshit. You just want to prove you're a better cop than me.”

Rick made a sound of shock at his friend's words, at the venom behind them. “That's not true.”

“Then why are you sneaking around, trying to pry information out of a partner you gave up on years ago.”

“I didn't give up on Carla. And I didn't give up on you or this department. I did what I had to, for me.”

“I don't call hiding from life doing anything, Rick. You gave up and took the coward's way.”

Rick saw red. He counted to ten before he spoke. “You were never married, Val. You never had a kid. Don't you dare call me a coward when you don't have a clue the kind of pain I suffered.”

“I want you out of here, Rick. Don't test our friendship again.”

“I'm afraid Pastor Tim's dirty, Val. I've uncovered some information—”

“This is my investigation. You're not a cop anymore. Stay the fuck away from my detectives.”

Rick took a step toward him, realization dawning. “It's you, isn't it, Val?” He pointed at his friend. “You're the one. I can't believe I didn't see it before now.”

Val knocked his hand away. “What the hell are you talking about? I'm the one what?”

“Who's so desperate to be right. To be the one to crack this case, find the killer and be the big hero.”

“For God's sake—”

“You're so desperate to prove
you're
the better cop that you're even willing to overlook the truth.”

They had played out this scenario time and again over the years. The stakes had changed but not the underlying motivation that drove them. Why, Rick wondered, hadn't he seen the competitive nature of their relationship before? They had competed over everything, even girls.
The
girl, actually. Jill.

“Tim's a friend, Rick. A local hero, for God's sake. A man of faith.”

“Does that exclude him from suspicion?”

“Of course not. But at this point, the evidence doesn't support—”

“He and Taft attended Florida State together. One of Taft's victims was a Dolphins' cheerleader.”

Val froze. “Where did you learn that?”

“I still have some friends in law enforcement, Val. Friends who don't see me as a threat. Or as a rival.”

Val let out a sharp breath. “Shit, man, I don't see you as either. You're my friend. But I've got a job to do. I've got responsibilities that have nothing to do with our friendship.”

“Answer me this, Val. How did Stephen, a man with the mind of a six-year-old, a man who's never been off
this island, learn Gavin Taft's killing style? The similarities are not a coincidence, we both know it.”

Val looked toward the closed door, as if making certain they were alone. He motioned to the chairs and table. “Sit down.”

“You first.”

Val pulled out one of the outdoor chairs and sat. Rick followed his lead, then waited.

“Children are easily influenced by those around them. They imitate what they see, especially when the behavior comes from someone they admire.”

“And your point is?”

“We don't think Stephen's the killer. We think he's a witness. Maybe an accomplice. We think what Carla and Tim walked in on was Stephen imitating what he'd seen done. Probably to Tara. Maybe Rachel Howard as well. Think about it, Rick. How many kids play with matches and get burned? How many kids play with their old man's hunting rifle or pistol and end up blowing a hole in their head?”

Rick stiffened slightly. The image was too close to home. “What about Rachel Howard's Bible?”

“He could have lifted it from the scene. Or the parsonage. Or she could have lent it to him before she was killed. Or she might not be dead at all.”

“Considering the climbing body count, I find that unlikely.”

“But possible. She hasn't turned up yet.”

“And you believe Mark Morgan's your man.”

“Morgan ran from the scene of a murder. We found blood-soaked clothes in his rented room. The blood type matched Tara Mancuso's… We should have DNA analysis soon.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, actually. She was holding a scrap of paper in her hand when she died. Want to guess what was written on that paper?” When Rick didn't reply, he went on. “The Hideaway's phone number. What do you think that might mean?”

Rick knew the conclusion Val had drawn. “I told you, Mark and Tara were running away together. Given that scenario, it makes sense that she would have his work num—”

“Do you know where Mark Morgan is?”

“No, I don't.”

Val snorted with disgust. “And I suppose you haven't talked with him either.”

“I haven't, not since the night Tara died.”

Val narrowed his eyes. “But Liz Ames has, hasn't she?”

“Yes.”

“Dammit!” Val brought his palm down hard on the table and jumped to his feet. “Aiding and abetting, Rick! Harboring a murder suspect! Jesus, what's wrong with you!”

“She didn't tell me until he'd gone. Yesterday, after your visit, he disappeared.”

“After my visit? Convenient.”

“She believes the Horned Flower has him.”

He made a sound of disbelief. “Liz Ames isn't firing on all cylinders, Rick. She has you so tied up in knots—”

“That's bullshit, Val. This isn't about her.”

“It's all about her. You're every action in the past few days has been motivated by a vulnerable woman who needs your protection.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what it means. She even looks a little like Jill.”

For one full minute Rick stared up at the other man, his world spinning. He couldn't catch his breath. Couldn't focus. It was true, he realized. Jill and Liz shared certain physical characteristics. Their coloring. Their high cheekbones and narrow, oval-shaped faces.

“Think about it, my friend. Think about why you were sucked so easily into her conspiracy theory? Because she needed you. Poor vulnerable Liz. You had to save her. The way you couldn't save Jill—”

“Shut up, Val.” He balled his hands into fists and launched to his feet. “Shut the hell up!”

“If Rachel Howard had uncovered a cult on the island, one that was endangering the teenagers in her flock, wouldn't she have come to the police for help? Wouldn't she have done it as soon as possible? And how did Liz hear of this supposed cult? From Mark Morgan, suspected murderer. Everything she's told you is unsubstantiated, Rick. Her word and no one else's. No witnesses.”

He lowered his voice. “You were a cop, Rick. A damn good one. Does any of this make any sense to you?”

Rick couldn't find his voice. Val made a sound of pity. “You haven't been right since Sam died. Get some help, buddy. Please, before you're in so deep you can't crawl out.”