Don't Cry (16 page)

Surprised by his pleasant attitude, Audrey took a couple of seconds to respond to his question. “Oh, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” She went to the pantry, removed a sealed plastic container from the shelf, popped off the lid, and offered him his pick of the cookies layered inside the rectangular box.

He took a handful of cookies, popped a whole one in his mouth, and moaned. “Damn, that was good.” He looked straight at her. “You made these?”

“Yes, I made them,” she snapped her reply. “And I'll thank you not to act so surprised.”

“Lady, I can't figure you out. You obviously dislike me and yet you go out of your way not only to be kind to my daughter, but to offer me a meal in the middle of the night. You project a cool, superior, lady-of-the-manor attitude and yet I find out you bake homemade cookies and plan to give my daughter a cooking lesson.”

They stood there in Audrey's kitchen, she in her pajamas and robe and he with cookie crumbs stuck on the corner of his mouth, and stared at each other. He took a hesitant step toward her. Immobilized by the look in his dark eyes, she watched him approach as her pulse quickened. When he was close enough to touch her, he stopped.

“You—you have crumbs on your mouth,” she blurted out and then felt foolish for her outburst.

The tension between them snapped and they both laughed as J.D. reached up and wiped his mouth again. “Gone?” he asked.

“All gone,” she told him.

“Speaking of gone…I'd better leave. About tomorrow…Thanks for giving Zoe the opportunity to do some things with a woman, things a girl her age should be doing with her mother.”

“I lost my mother when I was quite young, so I understand.” Audrey cleared her throat. “I'll bring Zoe home tomorrow afternoon, probably with bright purple fingernails and toenails and hopefully with a batch of delicious sugar cookies to give you to soften the shock.”

J.D. groaned. “Bright purple, huh?”

“I hear it's one of the ‘in' colors for teenagers these days.”

Smiling, he nodded, and then moved around Audrey and headed out of the kitchen. She followed him to the front door where he paused before leaving.

“Her name is Whitney Poole,” J.D. said. “She's twenty-four, a waitress at Callie's Café, and the photo her boyfriend provided Garth and Tam pretty much cemented our fear that she's the Rocking Chair Killer's latest victim.”

“Long dark hair, brown eyes, young, slender, and attractive?”

“Yeah, and she bears a more than slight resemblance to Jill Scott and Debra Gregory. Not twin or even sister resemblance, but familial.”

“That poor girl.”

J.D. snorted with disgust. “The boyfriend is a jerk. All her boss is worried about is being one waitress short this weekend. And our eyewitness—what a joke! A nearsighted old woman who was walking her dog last night and saw a man she didn't recognize outside Whitney's apartment.”

“Did she give y'all a description?”

“Yeah. She said he was a medium-size man. But it was dark and he was in the shadows for the most part. She was certain he was a white male and young, but to her young is anyone under fifty.”

Audrey laid her hand on J.D.'s arm. “I'm sorry. I know how frustrated you must be. You and Uncle Garth and Tam and everyone involved with these abductions and murders.”

He nodded. “Thanks again. Tell Zoe I'll see her tomorrow.”

“Good night, J.D.”

“Good night, Audrey.”

As soon as he left, she closed and locked the door as quickly as possible, shutting out J.D. Cass, the look in his dark brooding eyes, and the husky timbre of his deep voice.

 

Whitney was half out of her mind. Her arms and legs ached. She reeked of the smell of perspiration and her own urine. Bound as she was to the chair, she had been unable to do anything more than struggle against the ropes that kept her securely confined. During her repeated efforts to loosen the ropes, she had rocked the chair so furiously as she bucked back and forth that she had toppled the chair. She lay on the floor, her bloody, bruised wrists still attached to the chair's arms. Her attempts to free herself had failed, leaving her wrists burning as if the flesh had been eaten away by acid.

She had screamed, begging for help, until she was hoarse. She had wept like a baby as the hopelessness of her situation became all too apparent. And oddly enough, she had slept, for how long she didn't know.

A terrifying pitch blackness surrounded her.

Tensing her fingers in and out to relieve the stiffness, she cried out when the rope binding the wrist on which she lay cut deeper into her already raw flesh.

How long had she been there? Hours? Days?

Where was he? Why had he brought her here and left her?

Was that what he'd done with the other two women, left them alone day after day after day until he finally returned and smothered them?

Oh, God! Why didn't he come back now and go ahead and kill her? She didn't think she could bear this endless waiting and wondering.

Whitney's stomach lurched and the queasiness she had been feeling since she came out of a groggy sleep suddenly worsened. Sour bile rose up her throat and the bitter taste coated her tongue. Try as she might to control the nausea, she could not prevent herself from retching again and again until she vomited violently.

Lying there, surrounded by the sickening stench, she cried quietly, almost choking on her own gulping sobs.

And then she heard a noise.

Footsteps?

Had he finally come back? Would he hurt her? Torture her?

The newspapers and TV hadn't mentioned anything about the other two women being tortured, but that didn't mean anything. The police kept things like that under wraps, didn't they?

A dim, faraway light appeared. Whitney gasped, startled by the relief that spread through her. She could see above her head, her wrist tied to the chair and her arm hanging limply.

The footsteps came closer. And closer.

“What have you done to yourself?” a male voice asked.

“Please, let me go.” Whitney twisted and turned, trying to catch a glimpse of her captor.

“I didn't mean to leave you alone for so long, but I'm here now and everything will be all right.”

He sounded strangely kind, as if he genuinely cared about her.

Don't freak out, Whit. Don't piss him off.

“Help me, please….”

“You've made an awful mess,” he told her. “But nothing that a little soap and water won't fix.”

She felt him beside her, there in the semidarkness, but all she could see were his arm and shoulder as he lifted her, chair and all, into an upright position.

“There, that's better.” He caressed the back of her head, smoothing her tangled hair with his fingers.

She listened to his footsteps as he walked away and then she heard the sound of water pouring as if being transferred from one container into another.

He came up behind her. She held her breath.

A torrent of cold water splashed down over her head, spread out across her shoulders, and soaked her cotton blouse and jeans. She shivered, her body wet and cold. Her senses heightened by the unexpected, Whitney was momentarily distracted.

And then he said, “I can't bring Cody to you while you're like this. We will have to get you cleaned up and in dry clothes first.”

Who's Cody?
her mind asked, but she was too frightened to voice the question aloud.

Tam had left Marcus sleeping when she crept out of bed and went into the bathroom to shower and get ready for work. Saturday was supposed to be an off day, but there was no such thing when she and her partner were working a new case. She hadn't slept worth a damn last night despite being exhausted and getting to bed well past midnight. The image of Whitney Poole kept popping into her sleep-deprived brain. Like Jill Scott and Debra Gregory, Whitney was a young woman with her whole life ahead of her, but unless they could find her in time, she would become another of the Rocking Chair Killer's victims.

Tam halfway understood crimes of passion when someone murdered out of hurt and anger and misguided love. She certainly understood killing to protect yourself or a loved one. But senseless murder, without rhyme or reason except in the murderer's deranged mind, was terrifying on so many levels, because the victims were random, leaving a large segment of the population vulnerable. In the Rocking Chair cases, it seemed that any young, attractive brunette who fit a general profile was at risk.

Usually on Saturdays, she and Marcus slept late, woke, and made love. And afterward, he always prepared his delicious Southwestern omelets for their brunch. But this morning, Tam didn't even have time to put on coffee. She'd pick up some at a fast food drive-through on her way to headquarters.

After sliding her Smith & Wesson semiautomatic into the hip holster, she put on her black blazer and headed for the door.

“Why didn't you wake me?”

The unexpected sound of her husband's voice startled her so that she gasped for breath before turning around and smiling at him. He was still wearing only his low-cut gray briefs, his smooth, muscular chest bare and his morning arousal more than evident. She knew that if she had awakened him earlier, he would have wanted to make love, and as much as she usually enjoyed sex with him, there just wasn't time for that this morning.

“I didn't see any reason for you not to sleep late just because I have to work today,” she said.

“I'll forgive you for trying to sneak off if you'll give me a good-bye kiss.”

She studied his sly, provocative smile and slowly, seductively sauntered toward him, lifted her arms up and around his neck, and then kissed him. When he deepened the kiss, she sighed and opened her mouth completely, her tongue joining his in exploration.

His big hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her up and against his erection. Tam ended the kiss somewhat regretfully, grasped his wrists, and yanked his hands off her butt. “I have to go to work. Save this for tonight.”

Pursing his full lips into a mock pout, he frowned at her, but he let her go.

“I love you, Marcus Lovelady,” Tam told him.

He grinned. “I love you, too.”

Tam thought she caught a glimmer of sadness in Marcus's beautiful brown eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she wondered if she might have imagined it. Surely, he didn't doubt her love for him. Had she ever said or done anything that might make him doubt how much he meant to her?

“I'm sorry that I have to work today,” she said.

“It's all right.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “You have a job to do, Officer Lovelady, an important job.” He kissed her nose. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”

“Oh, Marcus…”

He shoved her away from him. “Go to work, woman.” When she turned to go, he swatted her on the behind.

She laughed, enjoying that one sweet moment of happiness, knowing it would be the last contented moment she would have all day today.

 

J.D. had slept like the dead—for four hours. He had set his alarm for six-thirty. When it woke him, he shut the damn thing off and lay in bed for a few minutes, his mind in chaos. His thoughts jumped from one thing to another, not concentrating fully on anything.

He needed to call George Bonner and run a few things past him, things like the existence of Corey Bennett, a man who claimed to be Regina Bennett's nephew.

Another young brunette was missing, presumed kidnapped by the Rocking Chair Killer. If they didn't find her within a week, her odds of coming out of this alive were probably nil.

Forcing himself to get out of bed, he headed straight for the bathroom. After taking a leak, he washed his hands and then drew warm water into the sink. As he lathered his face and shaved, J.D. planned his day. Call Bonner on his way to police headquarters to meet Tam and Garth. Call Zoe and tell her to have a good time with Audrey—with Dr. Sherrod—today. Call Holly and…And what? Make a fuck date for tonight? Why not?

Maybe you should spend some time with your daughter, even if it makes you both miserable.

The family-counseling session yesterday afternoon had barely gotten off the ground when he had received the call about Whitney Poole. Zoe had been pissed at him. And he'd gone down a couple of notches in Dr. Sherrod's opinion, although he suspected her opinion of him as a parent hadn't been all that high to begin with.

Audrey Sherrod had surprised him by taking such a motherly interest in Zoe. He'd never pegged her as the motherly type. She came across as cool, controlled, and unsympathetic to the weaknesses of mere mortals.

J.D. chuckled as he stepped under the hot shower. Why was it that he thought of Audrey as an elegant goddess made of cold marble? She was just a woman. Flesh and blood.
Mortal like the rest of us.
A woman with hopes and dreams and human needs. And emotional baggage.

I lost my mother when I was quite young, so I understand.
Was that why she seemed to honestly care about Zoe, why she was being so damn nice to his kid? If Audrey was any other woman, he'd question her motives. It wouldn't be the first time in the past year that some woman had pretended to be interested in Zoe when all she really was interested in was luring J.D. into a relationship. He'd give Holly that much—she hadn't even pretended to like Zoe, let alone show an interest in her.

And Audrey Sherrod isn't interested in you, buddy boy. The lady doesn't even like you.

But she does like Zoe.

 

Half an hour later, J.D. washed down a sausage biscuit with black coffee, both purchased at McDonald's on Taft Highway, before he hit US-27 and headed south. As he'd gulped down his fast-food breakfast, he had wondered what Zoe and Audrey were having for breakfast that morning. No doubt something homemade and a damn sight more appetizing than what he'd eaten. It wasn't as if his biscuit hadn't been good or that it wasn't his usual fare, so why had the thought of a gourmet breakfast crossed his mind?

No reason. Just a wild thought.

Using his Bluetooth headset, J.D. placed a call to George Bonner. Too bad if Mayor Bonner usually slept in on Saturday mornings. Halfway expecting to get the former FBI agent's voice mail, J.D. was surprised when Bonner answered.

“I thought you'd be calling this morning,” Bonner said.

“I take it that someone has already notified you about Whitney Poole.”

“Chief Mullins got in touch with me last night.”

“I'm on my way to meet up with Sergeant Hudson and Officer Lovelady. I'm tagging along while they follow up on a few leads.”

Bonner chuckled. “Tagging along, huh? Playing backup and trying your damnedest not to take charge. I know how it is.”

“I had planned to call you anyway,” J.D. said. “Before Whitney Poole was abducted. You know I'm primarily working on the old Baby Blue cases, on the off chance that they turn out to be connected to the more recent murders.”

“And you've found something you think we missed?”

“No, not that. But I have discovered something interesting.”

“I'm all ears,” Bonner said with a note of impatience in his voice.

“Did you know Regina Bennett had a nephew?”

“She didn't. Regina was an only child. She didn't have any siblings. And her aunt and uncle were childless. What makes you think she had a nephew?”

“Because he not only visited her every week the last few months of her life, but he paid for her funeral.”

“Well, I'll be damned.”

“The only problem is that, so far, I haven't been able to locate a Corey Bennett that is in any way connected to Regina.”

“A mystery man,” Bonner said. “Someone who doesn't exist. An alias, maybe?”

“Maybe,” J.D. agreed.

“Got a description of this Corey Bennett?”

“A vague description. Young, white male, average size, blondish brown hair. Mustache and glasses. That's about it.” J.D. paused to give Bonner a few minutes to assimilate the info. “Jeremy Arden visited Regina several times before she died. From his driver's license photo, he fits the same general description as the one of Corey Bennett, minus the glasses and mustache.”

“You think they could be one and the same?” Bonner snorted. “Doesn't make sense. Why would Jeremy visit Regina as himself and as her nephew? And why would one of her victims pay for her funeral?”

“I have no idea. It was just a thought.”

“No, it was more than a thought. You've got a theory. Let's hear it.”

J.D. hesitated. “Not so much a theory as a hypothesis, and a completely unsubstantiated one at that.”

“You're talking about a gut feeling, right?”

“Yeah, pretty much. What if while he was with Regina Bennett back when he was a toddler, Jeremy Arden formed an attachment to the woman, maybe even saw her as a mother figure. From what I've been able to learn about Arden, he's been pretty messed up emotionally most of his life.”

“Hmm…go on. You're making a weird kind of sense.”

“Let's say that he felt compelled to visit her, to see her, talk to her, so he came back to Chattanooga and reconnected emotionally with her before she died. Her death could have triggered something inside Arden, something that compelled him to reunite Regina with all the toddlers she put to sleep.”

“This hypothesis of yours works only if it turns out that those skeletons belong to a couple of the Baby Blue toddlers,” Bonner reminded him.

“And if they do, then we'll have a jump start on figuring out a connection. At this point, unless we can find Corey Bennett, nephew of Regina Bennett, then Jeremy Arden is our best bet. He's the only kidnapped toddler who lived to tell the tale, so to speak.”

“Was he?”

“What?”

“Jeremy was the one kidnapped toddler we rescued, but the bodies of the other five were never found. And even if the skeletons left with Jill Scott and Debra Gregory turn out to be two of the Baby Blue toddlers, that doesn't mean Regina killed the other three. She confessed to only one murder—her son's.”

“I subpoenaed Regina's medical records and I've gone through enough of them to tell that she contradicted herself quite often and baffled her doctors a great deal of the time. She seemed unaware that she had killed more than one child. The doctors assume that each time she killed one of the Baby Blue toddlers, she believed he was Cody.”

“That was their opinion, and you know what they say about opinions.”

“Yeah, yeah, everybody's got one.”

“Why don't you concentrate on Whitney Poole for the time being,” Bonner suggested. “Once the DNA results come back on the skeletons, then that will be time enough to continue trying to connect the Baby Blue cases to the Rocking Chair Killer cases.”

 

Zoe had surprised Audrey by choosing a very pretty pink nail polish when given the choice from among more than fifty colors. On their way to the salon/spa, they had dropped by the house Zoe shared with her father so that Zoe could change clothes. Then they had spent hours indulging themselves in hot stone pedicures and deluxe manicures. Lunch at Chili's, followed by a quick dash into Publix for cookie ingredients, rounded out their morning and early afternoon. They had chatted about a variety of subjects, everything from makeup and clothes to their favorite foods, music, TV programs, movies, and movie stars, and the classes Zoe liked and disliked at school.

But now that the last batch of cookies—two batches of sugar cookies and one of Zoe's dad's favorites, chocolate chip—were done, Audrey and Zoe settled down on the sofa in the living room, each with a bottle of Diet Dr Pepper. When Audrey kicked off her leather loafers, Zoe removed her Skechers and wiggled her sock-covered toes.

“Thanks for last night and today.” Zoe brought her legs up, bending them at the knees and wrapping her arms around her upper calves. “Today was fun. I've never done anything like this.” She shrugged. “You know, girl stuff. Getting a manicure and pedicure and baking cookies.”

“Didn't you and your mother ever do girl stuff together?”

When Zoe frowned, Audrey wondered if perhaps she shouldn't have mentioned Zoe's mother.

“No. Mom and I didn't…You'd have to have known my mother to understand. It wasn't that she was a bad person. She wasn't. She was a good person, but she wasn't cut out to be a mother. She liked to have fun. You know, grown-up fun.”

“If you'd rather not talk about her—”

“It's okay. I really appreciate your not playing counselor last night or today. I didn't feel like you were studying me and trying to figure out what makes me tick.”

“If the question about your mother made you feel that way, then I apologize.”

“It doesn't. Actually, I've kind of been wanting to talk to you about my mother and J.D. and me and what a mess my life is, but…” Zoe brought her arms up her legs, lifted them until her elbows rested on her knees, and then lowered her chin down on top of her clasped hands. “I sure drew the short straw when it came to parents. I mean, why is it that two people who shouldn't have ever had a kid, who never wanted to be parents, wound up as my mother and father?”

Audrey felt a sharp, sympathetic stab of pain and paused for a moment to consider how to answer Zoe's question.