Eyes (21 page)

Mark was on his back, and his eyes were closed. Connie's knife was out as she approached the bed; her hand was steady. She had a mission. She was here to take away the gift of life that Alan had given him. She'd right the wrong the doctors had done when they'd given Alan's kidney to Mark.

He seemed to sense her presence, and he opened his eyes.

He didn't recognize her in her disguise. A puzzled look appeared on his face. “Hey, babe. Did she send you up to untie me?”

Connie shook her head, and then she leaned closer so that he could look directly into her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, but I'd like to.” Mark's grin came out slightly lopsided. “What's your name, babe?”

“I'm your angel.”

“Angel, huh? That's a nice name. Why don't you take off your clothes and climb on.”

Connie shook her head. “Not this time. Why don't you ask what kind of angel I am.”

“Okay.” Mark grinned again. “What kind of angel are you, babe?”

“I'm your angel of death.” Connie pulled off her wig and removed her glasses. “I'm sure you recognize me now.”

Mark blinked, then looked bewildered. “Hey, babe . . . What are you talking about? And why did you wear that wig?”

Connie didn't say anything. She just held up the knife and watched the puzzled look on his face turn to fear.

“Hey, babe. What the hell—”

He didn't have time to say any more. Connie's knife slashed down and took his words away. The rest of his question turned into a gurgle. Then he was silent.

“Good-bye, Mark.” Connie's voice was cold and emotionless as she slashed him again and again. “You never deserved to have a part of Alan. He was a good man.”

When she was through, she looked at him for a long moment. His gift of life was gone. She'd taken Alan's revenge. She unfolded the blanket from the foot of the bed and tossed it up to cover his body. Then she went into the connecting bathroom to take off her bloody clothes.

It didn't take long to shower and then dress in the extra slacks and sweater she'd brought. Connie checked the mirror to make sure she'd washed off all the blood before she stepped out into the bedroom again. The body under the blanket wasn't moving. Mark Turner was stone dead.

The lock on the door was the push-button type. Connie released it and left the room, closing the door and automatically locking it behind her. They wouldn't find him until morning. The blonde might came back, but she'd assume he was with someone else and go on to her next encounter. No one would guess there was a body behind the locked door until the party was over and they got ready to leave.

The couple on the landing had moved, so no one saw Connie go down the stairs. She peeked into the dining room and smiled when she saw the blonde at the table, her head bent low over the line of coke she was snorting. There was no one in the kitchen when Connie slipped out the back door.

Thirty minutes later, she was unlocking the door to her own apartment. Tomorrow was garbage day and she'd thrown the bag containing the bloody clothes and the wig in a nearby Dumpster. It would be emptied in the morning and its contents on the way to the dump before Mark's body was discovered. Since no one at the apartment building had known she was sleeping with Mark Turner, there was nothing to tie her to his murder.

But Alan's picture was frowning again. Connie picked it up and held it close to her ear. “What's wrong? Did I forget something you told me to do?”

She listened and then she nodded. Alan was right. The police would be sure to search Mark's apartment and they'd find her fingerprints. There was also the possibility she'd left some personal item there that would link her with him.

“What should I do, Alan?” Panic rushed over Connie in waves. No one had seen her at the party, but the police might still suspect her. If they put her under surveillance, they would interfere with her plans to contact the next candidate on the transplant list.

But Alan had the solution. He was so wise. Connie pressed her lips to the glass that covered his picture and thanked God he was still with her. “You're absolutely right, Alan. I'll go through his apartment and wipe everything clean. Wait right here. I'll be back just as soon as I can.”

It was past midnight, and no one was in the halls. Connie took the stairs. Several moments later, she was unlocking the door to Mark's apartment. It was strange to step inside without Mark there to greet her. She'd never gone to his place when he wasn't there. But knowing she'd never have to endure his strange and painful sexual practices again made Connie smile with relief.

She didn't bother going to the kitchen. She'd never been in there. But she did wipe off all the doorknobs and every flat surface in the bedroom. The dresser was safe. She hadn't pulled out any drawers. But the bathroom was another matter.

Connie wiped the knobs on the shower and the handles on the glass doors. She even wiped down the medicine cabinet because she'd once looked inside for an aspirin. She was about to leave the apartment when she remembered wearing one of Mark's robes. The police probably wouldn't check it for hair or fibers, but it would be smart to find it and take it back to her own apartment.

She opened the closet and flicked on the light. The robe she'd worn was hanging in the back. She shoved some of Mark's clothes out of the way so that she could reach it. That was when she noticed a video camera on a shelf attached to the inside wall of the closet. The shelf was high, almost to the ceiling of the closet. Connie began to frown. There was a similar shelf in her own closet, much too high for her to use. Mark must have built it when he'd lived there, but why did he store his video camera in such a strange place?

There was a three-step kitchen stool in the corner of the closet, and Connie unfolded it and climbed up to look at the camera. When she leaned close and looked through the viewfinder, what she saw made her gasp. Mark had drilled a hole through the wall, and the video camera was aimed directly at his bed!

The implication was so clear Connie shuddered as she climbed down. Her hands were trembling, and she felt ill; but she managed to wipe off the step stool and put it back where it had been. Mark had videotaped someone in his bed, and that someone could very well be her.

Connie searched the bedroom, but the tapes were nowhere to be found. Where would he keep them? She remembered seeing a collection of videotapes at his entertainment center in the living room, and she rushed out to look.

The tapes were all commercially labeled. There were quite a few action-adventure movies, but some of the other titles didn't make sense. They weren't the kinds of movies Mark would have watched. One title in particular caught Connie's eye, Disney's
Cinderella.
Why would Mark buy a Disney film when he didn't have any children?

Connie took down the tape and pulled it out of its sleeve. The tape wasn't a Disney movie. It had a hand-printed label. On it were a date, a time, and two initials—A.J.

There was a frown on Connie's face as she examined several other tapes. Some were real movies, but there was another A.J. label inside the jacket for
Laura
, and she found a T.M. label in the sleeve that should have contained
Anne of Green Gables
.

Mark had been clever, hiding his tapes in plain sight, but Connie now knew his filing system.
Cinderella, Laura,
and
Anne of Green Gables
were all women's names. She pulled out all the other movies with women's names, and every one had a hand-printed label inside. E.V. was in the sleeve for
Tess
, L.R. was hidden in
Sabrina
, and
Anastasia
contained a D.P. label. Connie's initials, which had remained the same even though she'd used the name Cheryl, were inside three jackets. One was
Scarlett,
the second was
Forever Amber,
and the third was
Catherine the Great.

Just to make sure she was right, Connie checked every tape. Seeing that there were no more hand-printed labels, she gave a sigh of relief. She knew what to do with the tapes of her. She'd take them back to her own apartment and destroy them. But how about the tapes Mark had made of other women?

Put them back on the shelf.
The faint, beloved voice spoke directly into her ear.
No one saw you with Mark and you're safe. Keep the police busy, questioning all those other women. It'll take so much time, they won't even look for other suspects.

“You're right, Alan.” Connie smiled as she wiped off the tapes and replaced them. It was the first time Alan had ever spoken to her outside the privacy of their apartment, and she was delighted. Then Alan's voice came to her again.

“But why?” Connie frowned slightly. She was embarrassed about showing the tapes to Alan. “You shouldn't watch them, honey. They're so . . . so awful!”

“That's true.” Connie nodded. “But why do you want to watch them?”

CHAPTER 24

Jill was in her office, sipping her first cup of decaffeinated coffee of the day. She'd bought the morning paper with her since she hadn't had time to read it at home, and she'd just learned about the gruesome murder that had occurred last night.

There was a knock on her door, and she looked up to see Doug standing there. “Hey, there. What are you doing here?”

“You beeped me, didn't you?”

Jill nodded. “Yes, but I expected you to call, not come to my office.”

“It's okay. I was talking to the chief, right across the street. What's up?”

“I just read about last night's homicide.” Jill handed him the paper. “This article doesn't say much, but I figured you might have the inside scoop.”

Doug nodded and sat down on the chair in front of Jill's desk. “It's not my case. They called me in, unofficially, and I was at the scene for a couple of hours. It was bad.”

“How bad?” She was concerned. “This isn't just idle curiosity, Doug. Norma Jenkins, one of Neil's colleagues, just made an offer on a house right around the corner from the crime scene. I think I should warn her if the neighborhood's going downhill.”

Doug nodded. “That's a good idea. Call her. I checked the stats, and we've had trouble in that neighborhood before.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Loud parties, a couple of drug busts, and three muggings. Two cars were stolen in the past six months, and there were five B. and E.s.”

“That doesn't sound good.” Jill began to frown.

“It's predictable. Most of the houses are rentals, and groups of singles move in. They're usually young. They pool their resources because they can't afford to rent apartments on their own.”

Jill sighed. “The real-estate agent told Norma it was a family neighborhood.”

“They'll say anything to get their commission. Last night was the first homicide on record, but I'd tell your friend the area's definitely borderline.”

“Thanks, Doug.” Jill picked up the phone. “I'll leave a message for Norma asking her to call me.”

Doug waited while Jill placed her call. When she'd finished, he gave her an approving smile. “You're a good friend.”

“Thanks.” She smiled back. “Now tell me about the victim. Who was he?”

“Mark Raymond Turner. He was a bartender at the Odyssey. Twenty-eight years old, athletic, lots of girlfriends, a good-looking guy.”

“Do you have any leads?” Jill picked up her pen and began to jot down notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Not yet, but I've got a theory. There were multiple stab wounds.”

“And they were the cause of death?” She began to frown.

“No. The victim's throat was slit, severing his carotid arteries. The other wounds were inflicted after death.”

“Was the victim . . . uh . . . gutted?” Jill swallowed hard when Doug nodded. “Then you think there's a connection to the Rossini case?”

He nodded again. “It's the same MO with one exception. But don't mention that to anyone else. It's just my theory, and we don't want any publicity about a serial killer.”

“Of course I'll keep it quiet,” Jill reassured him. “You said there was an exception. What is it?”

“There were no defense wounds.”

Jill was surprised. “The victim didn't try to defend himself?”

“He didn't have the opportunity. His hands and legs were tied to the bed.”

“But why did he let someone . . . ?” Jill stopped in mid-sentence as the obvious answer occurred to her. “It was some kind of sexual thing?”

Doug nodded. “Sex, booze, and drugs. The victim was attending a party. There's a group—about a dozen people—that gets together every month. We questioned the woman who admitted she tied him up. She's got a couple of priors for prostitution, but she came clean with us. She left him in the room and went downstairs. When she came back, the door was locked. That's a signal they have when they want privacy, but she was curious and peeked through the keyhole.”

“That must have been a shock.” Jill's stomach lurched. Hearing about the murder made her feel queasy, but she wanted to know exactly what had happened. “Were they good friends?”

“No. She met him that night. It was the first time she'd gone to one of those parties.”

“And it'll probably be the last.” Jill shivered. “Did you find any evidence?”

“Hair and fiber. The hair's acrylic.”

“From a wig?” Jill raised her eyebrows when Doug nodded. “Was it long, or short?”

“Long.”

“Then it was probably a woman.” Jill jotted down that bit of information. “Did you find anything else?”

“No. We tossed the house, but we didn't come up with a thing except a couple of interesting footprints on the walkway. Female, size six.”

Jill nodded. “And no female at the party wore a size six?”

“You got it. So what does all this sound like to you?”

Jill looked down at the notes she'd taken. “A female killer who knew the victim. She followed him to the party, slipped in through the back door and murdered him.”

“That's good, so far.” Doug gave her an encouraging grin. “Did she know about the party in advance?”

Jill glanced down at her notes and nodded. “I think so. She wore a wig, and she didn't come in through the front door. She wouldn't have taken the trouble to disguise herself and sneak in the back way if she hadn't planned to kill him.”

“Maybe, maybe not. She might have worn the wig so he wouldn't recognize her when she followed him.”

Jill looked disappointed. “I didn't think of that. But no one saw her, right?”

“That's right.”

“Then she couldn't have been at the party for very long. What time did the victim arrive?”

“Eight o'clock.” Doug began to smile. Jill was putting the pieces together exactly as he had done.

“And what was his approximate time of death?”

“The coroner says midnight with an hour window, either way. The liver hadn't cooled very much.”

Jill was so excited she clapped her hands together. “I knew it! She
did
plan to kill him!”

“What makes you think that?”

“It's simple.” She grinned at him. “It was ten degrees below zero last night. If she followed him to the party, she would have arrived at the crime scene at approximately eight o'clock. No way would she sit out in her car for three or four hours and take the chance of being spotted.”

“That's true, but she could have gone somewhere else, come back later.”

Jill nodded. “That's possible, but why did she come back if it wasn't to kill him? You didn't find the murder weapon, did you?”

“No. And it wasn't one of the knives from the house. According to the woman who rented the place, she kept all her knives in a knife block. She checked it, and none were missing.”

“Then she brought the murder weapon with her. That's premeditation, Doug. They can get her for murder one!”

“If we catch her.” Doug looked grim. “They're tossing the victim's apartment right now. If we're lucky, we'll pick up a lead.”

As if on cue, Doug's beeper went off. Jill handed him her phone with a grin. “Go ahead. Maybe they found something.”

The phone call didn't take long. Jill listened to the one-sided conversation, but she didn't learn anything new. When Doug hung up and turned to her, she leaned forward eagerly.

“They found a bunch of videotapes with initials on the inside labels. His camera was hidden in a closet with a hole drilled through the wall. It was focused directly on his bed.”

“Blackmail?” Jill was really interested now.

“It looks like it. They're hoping the people at the party can identify the women in the tapes.”

“How about his coworkers?” Jill glanced down at her legal pad. “Someone at the Odyssey might have seen him with one of the women.”

“They're taking the tapes to the lab to make stills of the women's faces. They'll show them around at the Odyssey and they'll interview his neighbors. It's possible they'll come up with a lead.”

Something about Doug's expression made Jill doubt that. “But you don't think they will, do you?”

“No.”

She nodded. “I agree with you. If he was blackmailing her, killing him wouldn't get her the tape.”

“Exactly!” Doug gave her the high sign. “This was a well-planned murder. She's smart, Jill. She must have known we'd search his apartment and find her tape.”

“But you wouldn't find it if she got to it first. And she would have had plenty of time to do that. How about fingerprints?”

“Very good, Jill.” Doug grinned at her. “There weren't any except his. And all the doorknobs were wiped clean.”

“That proves she was there! He wouldn't wipe off his own doorknob when he left for the party. They're wasting their time with the tapes, Doug. I don't think they had anything to do with the murder.”

Doug raised his eyebrows. “Why's that?”

“If she was after a tape, she didn't have to murder him. All she had to do was make sure he was at the party, go into his apartment, and get it. The killing just doesn't make sense with blackmail as a motive.”

“Very good.” Doug looked proud. “So why do you think she killed him?”

“I don't know. For some reason she hated him. You don't stab someone that many times if you don't hate them . . . especially after they're already dead. I think he did something else to her, something horrible. That's why she killed him.”

“My thoughts, exactly.” Doug stood up and headed for the door. “Thanks, Jill. You've helped a lot. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

She was surprised. “But I didn't do anything.”

“Yes, you did. It really helps to run things past you. It's like a reality check.”

“It is?” Jill was pleased, but she wasn't exactly sure what he meant.

“Look, Jill,” Doug said. “If you agree with me, I know I'm on the right track. See you later, okay?”

“Anytime.” Jill smiled, and the smile stayed on her face long after Doug had left. He needed her. He'd practically said as much. And that made her feel very, very good.

* * *

“Okay, Alan. I'm calling Harold Woodard.” Connie's hands were shaking as she dialed the number. This man just had to be alive! Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear the pleasant-voiced woman who answered the phone.

“Hello.” Connie tried to sound just as pleasant. “Is this the Harold Woodard residence?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Mrs. Woodard?” Connie crossed her fingers for luck. If Harold Woodard was married, it would make matters much simpler for her. At least she wouldn't be dealing with a swinging bachelor like Mark Turner.

“Yes, this is Mrs. Woodard.”

Mrs. Woodard sounded a little suspicious. She obviously thought this was a sales call. Connie went into her prepared speech to set her at ease. “I do volunteer work for the hospital, and we're updating our records on transplant recipients. I hope your husband is doing well?”

“Yes, he is.” Mrs. Woodard sounded friendly again. “He's completely recovered, and he's back at work.”

“That's wonderful news! I'd like to ask him some questions if it's not too much trouble.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Woodard sounded apologetic. “I'm sure he'd be glad to help you, but he's next door, in his office.”

“Will he be home soon?”

“I'm afraid not.” Mrs. Woodard gave a little laugh. “Harold keeps long hours. I won't see him until dinner at six. The phone's not working in his office, but if it's important, I can run over to get him.”

Connie thought fast. If Harold Woodard had an office next door, that would be a perfect meeting place. “You don't have to do that, Mrs. Woodard. As a matter of fact, you could probably answer the questions for him. I just need to confirm his age, his marital status, and his blood type.”

“Harold's forty-one.” Mrs. Woodard seemed glad to answer. “We've been married for fifteen years, and his blood type is A positive.”

Connie paused just long enough to give Mrs. Woodard the impression that she was writing down the information. “I'm glad he's married, Mrs. Woodard. We've found that married recipients recover much faster from their transplants. This is just my opinion, but perhaps it's because they have loving support at home. Do you and your husband have children?”

“We have four, two sons and two daughters. Does that make a difference, too?”

“It seems to.” Connie began to grin. Harold Woodard had already fathered four children. That boded well for her. “Would you say your husband is happy in his work?”

“Oh my, yes! Harold has a true calling. Even when he was a little boy, he always knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. He enjoys helping people achieve their full potential. Everyone says he's a marvelous counselor.”

“I'm sure he is.” Connie did her best to sound sincere. “Thank you, Mrs. Woodard. You've been very helpful. And please give your husband my regards.”

When Connie hung up the phone, she rushed straight to Alan's picture. “It won't be long now,” she said. “Harold Woodard sounds perfect!”

As she dressed in a demure suit that was tight enough to hug her excellent figure, Connie was smiling. Since Harold Woodard was a counselor, she had the perfect way to meet him. She'd go to his office with a phony problem and ask him to help her. She knew all the tricks, and she'd make sure he was attracted to her. Then all she'd have to do was let nature take its course.