Illusions of Death (2 page)

Chapter 2

Logan Warner reached out to silence his phone’s alarm before it went off. He couldn’t remember the last time it buzzed to awaken him.

He didn’t sleep much. Not since Carson Miller turned his life upside down. Whether he was bored, sad, lonely, or depressed, he just put in more hours at work.

Cops usually did.

He tossed the covers back and headed to the shower, letting the hot water clear the headache pounding behind his right eye. At least they’d closed the string of B&E’s late yesterday. Two teenagers with too much time on their hands and plenty of creativity.

He shaved and scrounged around for clean underwear, finding he was down to his last pair. His mom had pestered him for more than a week to come for dinner. Maybe he would tonight and take his laundry. How pathetic. In his mid-thirties and still bringing home dirty clothes for his mama to wash.

Logan decided he’d buy a new package of Hanes before he would play frat boy and cart home smelly laundry. Now dinner, he could get up for. His mom would be glad to see him. She’d pile up tons of leftovers for him to take home—even if home was a three-room flat above the local diner.

He picked up his cell and dialed his parents’ number.

“Good morning, son. Off to work?”

Mitchell Warner’s warm voice reached out to him. Always calm and mellow, the doctor who soothed all around him.

“Hey, Dad. I wondered if you and Mom will be home tonight.”

“On a Thursday? Let me see.”

Logan waited while his father checked the calendar. The sun wouldn’t dare shine unless Resa Warner marked it on her calendar.

“You’re in luck. No bridge. No choir practice.”

“Can I stop by for dinner?”

“Don’t see why not. That means I’ll actually get a home-cooked meal. About time.”

“What, Mom’s starving you?”

“With her sewing circle and Bible study and bunko nights, I’m lucky she feeds me at all. Now with you as a guest, we’ll get something decent, like lasagna or beef stew. You coming after your shift?”

“I’ll be there no later than six. Unless someone gets himself killed.”

“Hah! Last time that happened in the Springs was three years ago. Jim Marshall got drunk after his wife left him and ran smack into that old oak.”

Logan thought about the violent deaths he’d seen in Atlanta every day, especially once he joined homicide. “Let Mom know I’m coming.”

“I’ll have her dust off her apron and cook up a feast. I’ve got to get going. Bridget Marley thinks her kid has the chicken pox. I’m heading over there now.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Logan hung up, feeling better hearing his down-to-earth dad’s voice.

He grabbed his gun and holstered it, tucked wallet and keys into his pockets, and headed down to the diner. He plopped on his favorite stool, and coffee appeared before him.

“Thanks, Mandy.”

“What can I get you, Logan?” The brunette server leaned on the counter to give him a better shot of her ample cleavage.

“Two eggs and strips, hash browns, toast, and a tall OJ. That’ll do it.”

“You got it.”

Mandy sashayed away as Logan doctored his coffee.

“Morning, Logan.” Mayor Joe Vick perched his heavy frame on the stool next to him.

“Good morning, Mayor. You’re out early.”

“Coffee to go, Mandy,” Vick barked at the server. She grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled it to the brim, placing it and a top in front of him.

“Thanks, hon.” Vick waited for her to leave before he turned to Logan.

“You hear anything about Bobby retiring?”

Logan shrugged. He and Chief Risedale discussed it two days ago, but Logan didn’t know if that conversation had gone beyond them.

“He’s mentioned it a few times. I don’t know if he’s serious. Louise probably wouldn’t put up with him being underfoot day in and day out.”

Vick leaned in. “Bobby wants you to run as chief in the next election.”

So Risedale had let the cat out of the bag, after all. He’d approached Logan with the idea. Logan told his boss he would think about it. Now that Joe Vick knew, everyone else in town would by noon. Sooner if he’d already been down to the gas station and talked to Casey Attaway, the best gossip around. All news in the Springs filtered through the mayor or Casey. Twitter had nothing on their social network.

“I’ll have to think about it, Mr. Mayor.”

Vick held up a hand. “Think fast, boy. May’s around the corner. You’re a hometown football hero. Won the athletic scholarship to University of Georgia. You have big city experience on the mean streets of Atlanta. Now you’re home. You’ve put in time on the force. People trust you.”

He stood and slapped Logan on the back. “Keep me posted on your decision.” Vick slipped the top onto his to go cup, threw a dollar on the countertop, and waltzed out.

Mandy set Logan’s breakfast in front of him. He sensed her assessing him as he buttered his toast. He bit into the toast and looked up innocently.

“If you hadn’t thought about it before, you should,” Mandy said. “Seth Berger will run if you don’t. No one wants that pissy little weasel as police chief in the Springs.”

“Seth?” That surprised him. Berger was in his late forties, thin as a rail, and didn’t seem the ambitious type. Logan worked his way through breakfast and thought about how little he’d like to answer to Seth Berger if he became police chief in Walton Springs.

“Hey, buddy. Hey, Mandy. Can I get a coffee to go, sweetie? Little cream and a whole lotta sugar.”

Logan’s partner, Brad Patterson, sat next to him. “Stool’s still warm. Who’re you keeping company with? I saw Mayor Vick leaving as I came in.”

Brad rocked back and forth. “Yep, the whole surface is warm. Had to be Joe Vick’s ass here. You know, Vick’s about the size William Howard Taft was. Taft weighed over three hundred pounds. They installed a new bathtub in the White House so he’d fit.” He sighed. “Definitely Joe Vick’s ass. Probably bigger than Taft’s.”

“Brilliant deduction, Patterson,” Logan said between bites. “Maybe they should make you a detective.”

His partner flashed Mandy a smile as she returned with his coffee. “I believe they already did, Warner. Thanks, babe.” Brad slipped her a five and slid off the stool.

Logan stood and placed a couple of bills on the counter. His room rent included any meal he wanted from the diner, but he always made sure he left a tip. Felicity waited tables when they were in college, and he remembered how important each gratuity had been to a newly-married couple living on a shoestring.

He nodded to Mandy and stopped at the register. Nelda Van Wormer smiled at him and laid her pen down.

“Heard you and Brad cleared those B&E’s yesterday.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I knew that Jones boy was up to no good. Glad you busted him before it got any worse. Say, I’m planning the menus for the next couple of nights. Anything special you want?”

“I’m eating with the folks tonight, so fix anything but meat loaf. You know that’s my favorite. And don’t ever tell Mom—but you make it better than she does.”

Nelda laughed. “Considering I’ve told your mother everything I know since first grade, secret or not, she’s probably figured that out. But I’ll be sure meat loaf won’t appear until tomorrow night at the earliest.” She made a note of it.

Logan kissed her cheek. “You’re one in a million, Nelda.”

“Now if only a man twenty years older than you would tell me that, I’d be sold on him. I’d take him bald, potbellied, bow-legged—you name it.”

Brad appeared at his elbow. “Now you know I’d take you, Mrs. Van Wormer.”

“Oh, pish-posh, Brad Patterson. You might be good-looking for a man approaching forty, but you’re lazy as the day is long. I don’t know how Logan puts up with you and all that charm you ooze.”

“I’m the brains of the team, ma’am. Logan’s just the brawn. He scares most of the bad guys away, while I outthink them.”

Nelda’s eyebrows raised a good two inches. “Is that so?”

Logan nudged Brad. “We better get going. I’ll tell Mom you said hi, Nelda.”

He walked outside, following his partner to the police-issued sedan parked on the square. Brad tossed him the keys, and Logan climbed into the driver’s seat.

“You’re up early this morning.”

Brad sipped his coffee. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d catch up with you at the diner. Thought we could ride in together.”

Logan turned west on Elm. He waved to a woman pushing a stroller with twins. She’d been a few years behind him in school. A lump formed in his throat. He missed his own twins with a fierce longing that actually brought a physical pain. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, pushing away the memory of Ashley and Alex.

And what Carson Miller had done to them.

Up ahead, he spotted Broderick Campbell crossing the street. Something seemed off about his gait. Logan slowed and pulled over to the curb.

“Something’s up with Mr. Campbell,” he told Brad.

Logan got out and hurried to Campbell’s side. The man weaved in a crooked line. It was if he knew where he wanted to go, but his body wouldn’t take him there.

Campbell turned to look at him. Logan saw panic in the man’s green eyes.

“Hurts,” Campbell croaked before he collapsed in the street.

“Get a bus. Fast,” he hollered. Brad picked up the radio and called it in.

He took off his jacket, folding and slipping it under Campbell’s head. The older man twitched and spasmed suddenly, then went totally limp.

Logan took his hand. “You’re fine, Mr. Campbell. The ambulance is on its way. It’ll be here any minute.”

The most famous author in America looked up at him with sad eyes and a crooked mouth.

“Stroke,” he moaned. Logan saw the downward turn in Campbell’s face on the right side. His grandfather had been a stroke victim during Logan’s teens. He recognized the same slack expression appearing on Broderick Campbell’s face.

“Call . . . Karlyn.”

Logan nodded. He knew Campbell’s wife was named Martha. It hit him that Campbell must mean Karlyn Campbell, the best-selling suspense author. He had no idea the two writers were related.

“We will call Karlyn, sir,” he assured him. “And your wife.”

Logan continued talking in soothing tones until he heard the wail of the ambulance in the distance. Campbell must have, too. The man closed his eyes and sighed.

The attendants quickly loaded their patient into the emergency vehicle, with Logan describing what he’d seen and what Campbell had said. He figured maybe the writer had had a previous stroke when he self-diagnosed himself.

Logan promised to contact the wife as the paramedics pulled away. He got back in the car and told Brad, who radioed in their next destination since they were now officially on the clock.

The Campbell house sat three blocks away on Magnolia Lane. It was by far the nicest house on the street, a red-brick Colonial with a large, wide porch.

The two detectives walked up the front sidewalk and rang the doorbell. Moments later a petite blond answered. She was probably in her mid-fifties but could pass for a decade or younger, thanks to artfully applied make-up.

“Mrs. Campbell?”

“Yes? How may I help you?”

“I’m Detective Logan Warner. This is my partner, Brad Patterson.” He flashed his credentials and saw the concern cross her face.

“We spotted your husband having trouble walking and got out to assist him as he collapsed.”

“Oh, dear. Is Broderick all right?” She glanced around them to see if  he was sitting in their car.

“The ambulance came. He’s been taken to Our Lady of Mercy in Lexington. It looks like it might have been a stroke. May we take you to the hospital?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, of course. Let me get my purse.”

She returned and seemed to go all limp at once. Logan supported her as they walked to the car.

As they pulled away from the curb, he leaned over and said, “Your husband wanted us to call Karlyn. Is that your daughter, ma’am?”

Her eyes misted over. “Yes. Karlyn is our only child. Strange that Broderick said that.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Campbell?”

Martha Campbell shook her head. “Because they haven’t spoken to each other in almost four years.”

Chapter 3

Karlyn climbed out of the cab. The brisk March wind almost knocked her over. She headed for the revolving glass doors. Once inside, she proceeded straight for the ladies’ room.

As she glanced in the mirror, smoothing her wind-blown hair, her stomach twisted violently. She ran into a stall and leaned over, knowing she had nothing to lose. She’d never been a breakfast eater and hadn’t been able to get lunch down, either. Especially not on a day like this.

The day she would officially be known as a failure. A statistic. A party to the “one in two marriages fail” rule.

She fell on the failed side.

A few dry heaves later, Karlyn forced herself to stand. She exited the stall and rinsed her mouth with water before popping a breath mint. She touched up her lip-gloss. But the inevitable couldn’t be delayed any longer.

Arriving upstairs at Benton, Lawler, she found herself being led down a lengthy corridor of hardwood floors and dark paneling to a windowless conference room.

She wasn’t the first to arrive.

Seated with his whippet-thin attorney was her soon-to-be ex, Mario Taylor. Both looked up as she entered. The lawyer offered a brief nod. Mario did not. He sat with a sullen expression, his hooded eyes like slits, studying her silently.

What had she seen in this man?

Other than physical beauty, that is. Mario was a dark angel, with thick black hair, brooding brown eyes, and a body that rocked her world in the beginning.

What he’d hidden—or what she’d refused to see during their whirlwind courtship—was his artist’s temperament coupled with alcohol abuse. Karlyn had suffered long nights of his anger, quick to erupt. The shouting. The insults. His immense jealousy of her success grew swiftly as his own star dimmed in the art world.

Finally, the constant betrayal of their marriage vows, the last time with a woman she’d considered a good friend. It ripped her life apart like a jagged lightning bolt in its speed and damage.

That affair had been the final straw that led her to file for divorce.

“Good afternoon, Karlyn.”

Her patrician attorney, Archibald Benton, swept into the room and led her to a seat at the conference table. He greeted the pair across from them and busied himself pulling out various papers from his briefcase, setting them in separate stacks before him.

“I believe we’re ready to reach a settlement in this matter, Barbara.”

Barbara McCarthy, cool and ash blonde, gave him her best
Go to hell
look. Karlyn had decided that Barbara would be a character in her next book. She hadn’t decided how to kill her yet. She would never write Mario into anything. Murdering his lawyer would be the next best literary revenge.

The attorney raised her pencil-thin brows. “I don’t see how we can agree to any of this rubbish.”

Benton raised his own shaggy white brows and glared back. Karlyn noted her lawyer’s look trumped McCarthy’s by a mile.

“I don’t see what the problem is, Barbara. Mr. Taylor may keep any profits from his paintings since the marriage began, as well as any future earnings on paintings already in progress. My client will adhere to the same, retaining her income from her novels. The condo and all furniture within will be sold, with the money divided between the two. There are no children and no pets to consider. What objection could Mr. Taylor have?”

Barbara splayed her hands flat on the table. “It’s grossly unfair. It will leave my client destitute until the sale of the property goes through. He is accustomed to living in a manner suited to—”

“Don’t go there,” Benton warned. “Your client has sponged off Miss Campbell for years. He earns a decent living from his art and can support himself. He will neither be homeless nor will he starve.”

“But he—”

“He can have the condo. And everything in it. I want this to be over.”

Karlyn’s interruption brought the argument to a halt.

“Karlyn, I would advise you—”

“I know, Archibald. We’ve had this discussion. Several times. And more than anything, I want to be free of this monster and his trail of tramps.”

Mario leapt to his feet. “You would call
me
a monster, you little whore? Writing crap that the public gobbles up like candy?”

“Sit down,” Barbara cautioned.

Mario spread his arms wide. “Why should I? This little slut spread lies about me to her friends. Our relationship and its problems have been fodder for every tabloid and TV news show. The gossip has ruined my career. I’ll be lucky if I ever have a showing again in New York.”

Mario sat, his eyes smoldering hate as he looked at Karlyn.

Benton flipped through a few papers and withdrew one. He turned it around and pushed it across the table.

“This is the private investigator’s report that details multiple incidents of extramarital conduct on Mr. Taylor’s part.” He reached for an envelope and dumped out dozens of pictures on the table. “And here are the photos to back up the report.

Barbara placed a warning hand on Mario’s forearm to ensure his silence.

“Yes, the tabloids have speculated about the marriage and my client’s filing for divorce. The
paparazzi
have sold numerous pictures of Mr. Taylor with other women, both during the marriage and the separation. But my client has never made any of this public.”

Benton shook his head. “None of this is news to you, Counselor. And now my client has generously offered all proceeds from the sale of an approximately million eight condo
and
its contents to go to Mr. Taylor. Or he may choose to continue to be a resident thereof. The choice is his, but the free ride on my client’s coattails is over.”

Mario said through gritted teeth, “You give me no choice. I cannot afford to live there.”

Benton sat back, crossing his hands in his lap. “Then sell the property, Mr. Taylor. It should net a healthy profit. You will have a tidy sum in your pocket, and you will be free to pursue your art—and love of women—to your heart’s desire.”

Mario pushed back his chair and stood. “I will sign,” he spat out. “Anything to be rid of . . . her.” He began pacing the room.

Benton reached for a different stack. “Here are the papers drawn up as you requested, Karlyn. Let me get my notary.” The attorney reached for the phone and pressed a few numbers. “Yes, now, please.”

Moments later, a young redhead entered with her registry and stamp. Karlyn noticed Mario’s eyes light up with interest as he assessed the woman. In less than five minutes, all the paperwork had been completed and would be filed. Karlyn watched her ex-husband walk out of the room and her life. For good.

Benton turned to her. “That was expensive, Karlyn. You were rash to give him so much.”

She shrugged. “He’ll squander it and then find some rich, older matron to keep him in Prada and Armani. He’s a fair artist with gigolo looks and a flamboyant personality. I don’t think any rumors about what went wrong in our marriage have hurt his career. It steamrolled downhill long before that.”

“Enough about Mario Taylor. What will you be doing now? I know writing is your salvation.”

She laughed. “After months of negotiation, I’m starting work on my first screenplay and trying to finish writing a new novel at the same time.” She paused. “I’ll need to find somewhere to live. I’ve been staying at Alicia’s apartment.”

Karlyn patted Archibald’s hand. “I know you think me foolish, but I need to cut the old ties and usher in my new life.”

“Well, let me know where to send my bill.” Benton chuckled. “And you promised me a signed copy of your next Matt Collins book.” The lawyer’s face lit up in pleasure thinking about it. “I think every man wants to be Matt Collins.”

“And every woman wants to sleep with him,” she quipped. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you for everything, Archibald.”

Karlyn left, her step lighter with the burden of her marriage over. She turned the corner and spotted a Starbucks and decided to grab a coffee.

She walked in and ordered a grande mocha with a light whip and moved to the side to await her drink.

Suddenly, someone invaded her personal space.

Mario.

She forced herself to stay calm as she looked into his eyes.

“You are a bitch, Karlyn Campbell,” he ground out. “You write commercial shit. You are not an artist as I am. You crank out worthless drivel. I think so. Your father thinks so. You know we are right. You have no talent.”

She remained silent. She wouldn’t give into tears. She wouldn’t let Mario get to her. Ever again.

Nor her father.

“Grande mocha, light whip,” called out the barista.

Karlyn stepped around Mario and picked up her drink. Without a backward glance she left the coffeehouse, gripping the cup tightly.

She flagged a cab and climbed in. “Drive. Anywhere. I need to think.”

Fortunately, the cabby remained silent as the buildings went by. Tears gathered in her eyes. She kept them at bay as she sipped the hot brew, hoping it would dispel the chill running through her.

So what if her novels were popular with the public? What was wrong with that? Both Broderick Campbell and Mario Taylor seemed to think it was a crime to make money through her writing. Both denigrated her with cutting words and looks.

She didn’t care. She loved getting lost in her world of characters. Stories poured from her, and she published two to three novels a year. She didn’t care that she hadn’t won a Pulitzer or National Book Review Award, as her father had on multiple occasions. She didn’t strive to compete with his career. She was a respected author in her own right. She took pride in the work she’d done and the stories and characters she’d created.

Her cell rang. She pulled it out reluctantly and stared at the Caller ID as it continued to ring.

Why would her mother be calling her?

“Hello?”

“Oh, Karlyn. I’m so glad I reached you.”

“Mother? You sound odd.”

“Oh, honey. I don’t know where to begin. But your father wanted me to call you.”

Karlyn froze in disbelief. “Is he there? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

“He’s asked for you, dear. He’s had a stroke. You need to get here as soon as you can.”