Faceless (11 page)

“Can I get either of you a refreshment? I’ve got some wine coolers and beer.” He didn’t appear nervous at all. He was either feeling very confident or totally oblivious to what kind of trouble he just invited into his home.

“No, thanks, Mr. Knox,” I answered him, deliberately looking around

“Cameron—please,” he said, shooting me a smile. It was obvious someone had spent a lot of money on his dental work.

“Cameron, do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” I asked him, trying not to sound too invasive.

“Is this about that poor girl getting killed? Yeah, that’s so sad. One of your officers was already here, asking me questions. I told him I’m as clueless as the rest of you. They came banging at my door when they found her.”

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and smacked the pack against the edge of his palm of his hand twice. “Do you mind if I smoke?” He turned towards Marty and then to me, waiting for permission.

Marty glared at him and I could tell that he was about to tell him that he did mind, but I cut him off before he could answer.

“Not at all, go ahead, Mr. Knox.”

“Cameron,” he corrected me, flashing that smile again.

“Cameron, sorry,” I repeated. “From what I understand, what you told Officer Sullivan was not exactly the truth, was it? We have information to the contrary.”

I looked right into his eyes, deliberately not blinking. I wanted to see if he would drop his composure and give me a hint of nervousness.

He pulled out a disposable lighter and lit the end of his cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke deep into his lungs, before he exhaled, making a conscious effort to blow the smoke away from us. “Bad habit, I know. But you got to have some vices.” He looked at Marty and then turned his attention in my direction.

“I had nothing to do with that girl getting killed. I didn’t even know she was coming up. Hey, I invited my stepsister and her friends to come up and party and the next thing I know, we are searching the woods for some girl who ran off. Believe me, it wasn’t my plan, I just wanted to hang out it the hot tub and watch some movies.” His voice remained steady, yet as he spoke, a slight smirk slowly formed on his face.

“Did you buy them alcohol, Cameron? Did you give them dope?” I asked him. This time he turned to Marty to answer.

“I swear, Marty, I didn’t. They came with their own stash. My stepsister is quite resourceful when she wants to be. Katie and me weren’t even really looking for the kid; we were having our own little party. Katie thought the girl was looking for attention from her boyfriend… says she does it all the time. Katie said the girl is a real bitch and a drama queen, so we just kind of stayed out of it. Next thing we know, we hear that girl Tiffany screaming.” He took a long inhale of his cigarette and slowly let the smoke out.

“Why did you lie to Officer Sullivan, Cameron?” I questioned him, trying to avoid the carcinogens in the air while still keeping the conversation civil. Lord knows I wanted to smack the man.

He took another drag of his cigarette.

“Katie told me to. She just said to tell the cops I didn’t hear anything—tell them that I was sleeping. She said she would come up with something. Katie is quite resourceful.” He flicked the cigarette ashes onto the kitchen floor.

“So if Katie tells you to lie, you lie?” I wasn’t sure if he was acting stupid or he just really was stupid. Suddenly he looked about as sexy as a bowl of oatmeal.

He smiled as if remembering something pleasant. “Have you seen that girl? If she tells me to bend over, I’m going to bend over. You know, we aren’t related by blood, and she’s seventeen years old. She’s past the age of consent in this state. It’s perfectly legal.” Once again, he flashed a broad smile.

I shook my head in disgust. I thought Marty was probably right. This guy seemed too stupid to commit this type of heinous crime.

“What were Jamie and her boyfriend arguing about?” I asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I really don’t know. I do know that the guy was freaking out when they found her. Asshole came back to the house and started puking all over the place. It took me over an hour to get the floor cleaned up and the smell of puke out.”

“I would like you to come down to the station and fill out a statement, Mr. Knox.”

He started to correct me again; I beat him to it. “Cameron.”

“Sure, no problem. Do I need an attorney?” He stubbed out his cigarette.

“I don’t know, Cameron… do you?” I said, rising from my seat. Something got my attention. A few jars of caramel-colored substance sat on the windowsill above the sink. I walked over to it and lifted it up.

“Is this honey?” I asked him.

“Yes, I’ve got a few hives out back. I make my own. Would you like some? It’s really good.” He grabbed a jar and held it out to Marty offering it proudly.

I placed the jar I was holding back on the shelf.

“Cameron, did your guests know that you raise bees? I mean, have they been here before and know about your hobby?”

“Yeah, sure. I think they were cutting school one day when I was jarring some honey up. They seemed real interested in it,” he replied. He held the small jar in his hands and he was admiring it, practically fondling it.

“How about Jamie?” Marty asked him. “Was she interested?”

“The girl that got killed? No, she wouldn’t come near them. Said she was allergic. Wouldn’t have nothing to do with it.”

“Well, Cameron, we appreciate your candidness. I expect you to come down tomorrow and fill out a written statement,” I informed him.

“Sure. Are you sure I don’t need an attorney?” he asked, in almost childlike innocence.

“Not if you didn’t do anything wrong, Cameron,” I said, as we walked out the door. Do you mind if we take a quick look at your hives before we go?”

“No, help yourself. It’s not much, but it keeps me bee-zy. Get it? Keeps me bee-zy.” He was still laughing at his own joke as we pulled away and started back to town.

“You’re right,” I told Marty. “The guy is as dumb as a box of rocks. What a waste of good looks.”

“You think he’s good-looking?” Marty cajoled.

“Only until he opens his mouth to talk. Well I guess that answers the question about whether they were all aware of her allergy to bees.”

I glanced down at my cell to see if I had gotten any messages. Nothing.

“Let’s get back to the station. Maybe they will have picked up this Dylan kid and we can have a nice long talk with him.”

I guess Marty heard something reflected in my voice, because he took his eyes off the road to look at me. He held the glance for an unusually long time.

“What?” I answered, sounding like my own teenage daughter. He was waiting to hear more.

“My daughter knows him,” I elaborated. “She tutors him in science.”

“And you’re obviously concerned that she may be spending time with a murder suspect. It’s not unreasonable, Jean. The kid is on my short list.”

I sat back in the seat and started to explain my anxiety.

“It’s just that she has been through so much these past few years. First Connie, then Annie, then Joe acting like a baboon. I never used to worry about her. She was my baby, my easy child. Cliff was the adventurer, the daredevil. I never had to worry about Bethany getting hurt or doing something stupid, like I did for years with her brother. I can’t tell you how many times we ended up in the ER, needing stitches or X-rays with Cliff. Bethany is open and honest and naïve and was always so cautious. She would think things through before she did anything. My daughter hates to make mistakes, but she accepts them graciously.”

“And now?” He looked at me sympathetically.

“I’m scared, Marty. It’s very subtle, but it’s there. My daughter is going through a personality change.” I hesitated and then added. “And I don’t think I like it.”

“Why don’t you give Hope a call? You know she thinks the world of you and Bethany. Better yet, how about you all come over one night for dinner?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. There is so much going on right now. Let’s see what happens with this Dylan person first. Why don’t you drop me off at the station so I can pick up my ride? Let’s hope they have him in custody and we can interview him. If not, I’ll get some info on this kid so we know what we are dealing with. I’m just grateful tomorrow is Saturday, because that will give me a whole weekend to deal with the fallout of telling my daughter that I don’t want her anywhere near this boy.”

He pulled into the station’s parking lot.

“She’ll be fine, Jean. She’s a smart kid. She’s tough—like her mom.”

I turned to look at him. “That’s the problem, Marty, her mom isn’t tough. Her mom is a fake. Her mom is feeling really vulnerable right now.”

He gave my hand a squeeze. It was the one thing I really appreciated about Marty. He knew when to talk and when he didn’t have to.

I shut the car door behind me, gave him a silent thank you and walked into the squad room. Dylan was not there, and he was nowhere to be found.

I spent a few minutes on my computer, trying to hunt up a few pieces of information on the boy. I got what I needed and headed for home.

Chapter Eight

Marty

Friday evening

Stepping through Hope’s front door, Marty felt an immediate burst of energy. The last forty-eight hours he and Jean had been running all over town, conducting interviews and running down leads. He had been fighting fatigue all day long because of the lack of sleep and poor meal choices. The prospect of spending the evening with Hope had given him a fresh shot of adrenaline.

Although neither of them actually vocalized their position, it was mutually agreed upon that they considered their partnership exclusive. They had been together for two and a half years, and he still felt that every day with Hope was as exciting as the first few days of their relationship.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, he immediately recognized the impatience in the tone of her voice coming from the kitchen. The only person who could affect Hope that way, causing the familiar inflection in her speech, was her mother, Grace.

Hope
was sitting at the kitchen table, the phone cradled between her neck and shoulder. The monitor of her laptop was opened and she was playing solitaire. With her right hand, she was using the wireless mouse to move the ace of spades to the open space on the left side of the screen. Her other hand held an empty glass. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and it was swaying back and forth, as she made exaggerated movements with her head and neck. Her mouth was moving but no words were coming out. Whatever her mother was saying obviously annoyed Hope, so she was responding by mimicking the woman.

She looked up and smiled as he leaned in to give her a kiss. Her lips felt cool and tasted like wine. She handed him the glass and she used her eyes to ask him for a refill. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the chilled bottle of wine and a glass for himself. He heard the sound of water boiling and was just a second too late in turning off the burner. Pasta and water spilled out of the stainless steel five-quart pot onto the stove. It sizzled and splattered as he tried unsuccessfully to keep the hot water from hitting his hand.

Standing up, with the phone still cradled between her neck and shoulder, and still listening to her mother ramble on, she mouthed a ‘sorry’ to him. Smiling, he grabbed a towel, wiped up the spill and picked up each of the escaped noodles and tossed them back into the pot.

After making sure the flame was low enough where the pasta would be safe, he got her attention and mouthed his intention that he was going to take a shower. Hope nodded. He took a last sip of his wine and made his way upstairs.

He showered, shaved, and got into a fresh pair of jeans that he had left hanging in her closet. He transferred the small jewelry box into his right front pocket and made his way downstairs, just in time to hear her say goodbye and hang up the phone.

“I’m sorry, baby, she was on a roll.” She was scraping the pot. Macaroni lay burnt on the bottom.

He looked inside and just shook his head.

“How on earth do you manage to burn pasta?” He grabbed a piece of paper that a magnet held to the freezer section of the refrigerator. Reading the numbers off the paper, he punched them into the number pad on the wall phone.

As soon as the party answered on the other end, he gave his order.

“Large extra cheese, pepperoni, and sausage… ” He looked at her sideways, waiting for her request. Smiling, he didn’t have to hear her say it, he was able to read the expression on her face.

“And anchovies—on just half,” he added, grimacing.

Marty didn’t have to give the address, the caller ID identified the familiar customer for the pizza parlor employee.

“Sometimes I wonder, Hope, if you fake this not being able to cook. Nobody with your intelligence and talent can be so inefficient in the kitchen.” He opened the refrigerator and poured himself another glass of wine.

When she smiled, the corners of her eyes became crinkled and her nose wiggled. He pulled out a chair and sat down. He grabbed her arm and pulled her down so she was sitting on his lap. He nuzzled her throat, taking note of how good she smelled. He could tell by the strength of the vanilla scent that it hadn’t been that long since she’d had her favorite bubble bath.

She laid her head on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You sound tired.” Her fingers toyed with his hair.

“I am,” he replied.

“Did you make an arrest?” When they last spoke, he had told her they had suspects in the young girl’s death, but no one specific.

He shook his head. “No, but everyone we talk to seems suspect. I don’t know how you do it every day, Hope… deal with crazy.”

She gave him a look of disapproval. He knew that she didn’t like when he used that word, but he couldn’t help it.

“Mental illness is a disease, Marty, no one chooses it. You make it sound like people have a choice in the matter. They don’t.” Her hand dropped and she sat up abruptly.

“That’s where we disagree, Hope, and we probably always will. People have choices, and they choose to act in certain ways. Somebody chose to turn that girl’s face into ashes. There is mental illness, and then there is just plain evil. Whoever did this is just plain old evil.”

She chose to take the conversation in another direction.

“How are the girls that found her? Do you think they are dealing with it? None of them showed up for counseling at the school today. Do you know if their parents arranged for them to get help?”

He took a sip of his wine.

“The girls have been lying. One of the girl’s boyfriends drove them up there to party with Paul Knox’s son, Cameron. They didn’t hitchhike up there, like they first said. At least one of them, if not all of them, are culpable. We just have to find out who.” He took another sip of the wine before he continued.

“Could we talk about something else? My head has been spinning with this crap and I could use a reprieve for a few hours. Let’s just concentrate on you and me. No talk of murder and cra… sorry, mental illness.”

She gently laid her lips on his forehead. “Sure.”

“What did your mom want?” he asked her.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about murder and crazy?” She broke out in a broad grin.

“That bad?” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, tasting her fingers. He looked at her ring finger, it still exhibited a faint mark from the wedding ring she once wore.

“She’s angry at her friend Bernice—who knows what for this time. The sun wouldn’t rise if she wasn’t griping about something.” She followed his eyes; he was looking at her hands and she couldn’t tell why.

“What?” she snapped.

She regretted it the minute it came out of her mouth. She knew she sounded curt and impatient. The few minutes spent on the phone with her mother had made her cranky. He let her rant on for about fifteen minutes about her mother’s most recent transgressions. She was about to apologize when she realized he had been talking.

“Hope, I was wondering if you have ever thought about making this…” he stopped when a car horn blasted outside.

They heard a car pull into the driveway. The pizza man honked his horn again, announcing his arrival.

She jumped off his lap. “It’s about time. I’m starving!” She grabbed her purse and pulled out her wallet. Marty grabbed the box and Hope gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

By the time the plates were put out and they began to devour the pizza, the conversation had turned once again to Hope’s mother and her antics. Once again, Marty decided that the time just wasn’t right for showing Hope the ring and asking her to marry him.

***

Jean

Friday Evenin
g

By the time I made it home, darkness had fallen. I was sure my husband and daughter had already eaten dinner without me. I was a bit surprised when I realized that there was no one there to welcome me. Usually I got at least a four-pawed greeting from Roxy, but even she seemed to be unaccounted for this evening.

I dropped my purse on the kitchen table, took off my jacket and threw it over the chair.

The quiet in the house was disconcerting. My husband’s car was in the garage, but he was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator and started up the stairs to see if Bethany was in her room.

Bethany
was lying belly-down on her bed, typing furiously on her laptop.

“Hey, baby, how you doing?” I walked over and found a seat on the corner of the bed.

She slammed the laptop shut.

Although I got a pang of uneasiness, I chose to ignore the obvious behavior. I always respected my children’s privacy, probably because I trusted them implicitly. Neither of my children had ever given me any reason to feel otherwise.

“Where’s Daddy?” I took a lock of her waist-long hair and let it glide through my fingers. It was the color of corn silk, a color I have been trying, and failing miserably, to replicate through bottles for years now. My hair color was a combination of mustard and sand, and remained so, no matter what the desired result portrayed on the front of the box.

She rolled over on her back, scrunching her pillow and placing it behind her head.

“He went for a run in the park. He took Roxy. Daddy thinks Roxy needs to go on a diet.”

“Maybe you and Dad need to stop giving Roxy so many treats.” I playfully slapped her on the thigh.

“How was school today, Honey?”

“Fine,” she offered, with some reluctance. Her head dipped down and strands of her hair fell forward in front of her eyes, covering her face. I gently took the portion of her hair that was obstructing her view and placed it behind her left ear.

The terse reply was unusual for my daughter, who normally would go into a long monologue about her day. Once again, my gut felt a pang of uneasiness, but I chose to ignore it.

“How are the kids dealing with Jamie’s death? I heard that Dr. Rubin was at the school for grief counseling. Did you get to see her?”

“What do you mean?” she asked me, in a tone that sounded defensive. “Are you asking if I went to see her for professional reasons? Isn’t that a little intrusive?”

I was startled at her reaction, but I didn’t want to make too much of it.

“Bethany, no, I—what’s wrong? Lately you act as if you’re angry with me. Is there something that I’ve done that has upset you?”

I was in brand new real estate here with my daughter, and I didn’t like the piece of property I was standing on.

She shook her head. “No, Mom, sorry, I’m just in a bad mood.”