I'm Watching You (11 page)

The reporter shoved a microphone toward Lindsay's face.
"Lindsay, can you tell me why you were so upset earlier? Why did the police
return? Has someone else been killed?"

Zack waited until Lindsay was fully inside before he closed the car
door. "No statements now, Ms. Shaw."

Kendall looked annoyed. "I'm just trying to do my job,
detective. Lindsay, tell me what happened."

Warwick moved beside Kendall, using height and size to intimidate her.
"Talk to the department's public relations guy."

Kendall didn't look threatened, but annoyed. "When I'm
interested in the party line, I will. Right now I'm looking for real
answers."

Warwick frowned. Clearly he didn't like the woman. "No
comment." He slid in the front passenger seat.

Cameras rolled as Zack got behind the wheel and started the car. In
silence, they drove through the neighborhood to the main road.

Lindsay stared out the window. From the rearview mirror, Zack could see
her jaw was tight and her body tense. She needed a friend right now.

But Zack couldn't be that for her. Not if he was going to figure
out who killed Turner and who now harbored an obsession for her. He merged onto
the interstate.

"Tell me about that charity function and the Turners again,"
Zack said.

She fidgeted with the bracelets on her wrist. "Like I said, I
didn't kill Harold. And neither did Jordan."

Warwick stared out the side window as if he
were
a million miles away, but he wasn't missing a syllable.

Zack couldn't let her off the hook. "There's no need
to protect Jordan. She's got an attorney and an alibi for the time her
husband was killed."

Her lips flattened. "Like I said, I met them at a charity function
two weeks ago. Jordan was on Harold's arm, smiling radiantly. They looked
like the perfect couple." She hesitated. "I should have known then
that something was up."

"Why?"

"No such thing as a perfect couple." She sighed and recapped
the encounter with Jordan. "A half hour later, Harold approached me at
the party. He told me to stay away from Jordan. I told him to stop hitting his
wife. We got into a big fight. Then I left the party."

"Witnesses?"

"No doubt.
I noticed several people were staring, but I
couldn't tell you who."

Zack tightened his hands on the wheel. "That's it? You never
saw Harold again? You never communicated with him?"

Disgust darkened her face. "Not Harold. But I did call Jordan
several times. I hoped I could help her. And I did call her this morning after
I saw you."

"To tell her about Harold?"

She hesitated. "To try to figure out if she'd crossed the
line." She dug fingers through her hair. "The last time I talked to
Jordan, she told me not to worry about Harold. She said she could take care of
him."

"And you figured that meant murder."

"Not at the time. A lot of women believe they can handle their
abusive husbands. They think that if they always smile, that if the house is
immaculate and sex is always available, everything will be fine. But no matter
what they do, it's never enough. Sooner or later the guy snaps again and
hits her."

They'd only talked about her mother's death once. As a
husband he'd let his unanswered questions lie. As a cop he
couldn't. "Did your mother think she could handle your
father?"

Lindsay flinched, glancing to Warwick. He met her gaze in the rearview
mirror. It was one thing for Zack to know about her past; quite another for
Warwick. Humiliation washed over her.

"My mother has nothing to do with Harold Turner's
murder."

Zack didn't enjoy opening a painful wound. He'd always
avoided discussing the subject with her because he knew it bothered her.
"Your family life was beyond rough, Lindsay. That changes a
person."

Warwick glanced in the rearview mirror at her, as if trying to peer into
her mind.

Lindsay lifted her chin. "I went into social work and opened
Sanctuary because of Mom. I didn't become a murderer because of
her."

Zack shot her a glance in the rearview mirror. "The
Commonwealth's attorney could argue that because you couldn't have
it out with your old man, you picked the next best target--Harold."

"That's crap. Remember the killer sent
me
Harold's hand."

"You could have sent it to yourself," Warwick said.

She leaned forward, fingers gripping the seat. "And written myself
a creepy note?"

Warwick turned toward her. "You wouldn't be the first to try
something like that."

"I can't believe we are having this conversation." Her
voice sounded loud, angry.

Warwick kept his tone even, calm, but the menace was unmistakable.
"Whoever killed Harold did it in anger. He
cut off
Harold's left hand. If that isn't a statement about shattered vows,
I don't know what is."

"I didn't kill him."

"You don't have an alibi," Zack said.

"I can't help that. It's not my fault the damn power
went out." Arms folded, she dropped back in the seat and turned toward
the window. She swiped away a tear.

The only time Zack had seen her cry had been that day in the
attorney's office. Tension twisted his gut.

Five minutes later, they reached her town house development.
Well-manicured lawns jutted out from near identical row houses that looked as
if they'd been stamped from cookie cutters. This kind of development was
very un-Lindsay. She'd always leaned more toward the older, quirky homes
that needed more attention than a full-time job. Why had she chosen such a
place? Zack kept his question to himself as he parked in the numbered spot she
directed him to. A sprinkler system whooshed in the background and a dog
barked.

"Thanks," she said ironically, opening her car door. She
walked to the planter, tipped it back, and retrieved the front door key.

Following, Zack didn't bother to hide the frustration in his
voice. "From now on, don't hide the key there."

Lindsay shoved the key in the lock. "I can take care of
myself."

He flashed a smile that looked more like a snarl. "Humor
me."

A flicker of movement caught his eye. A man dressed in a green
maintenance uniform moved toward them. Blond, pudgy, and short, he was smiling
as he held hedge clippers in his hand.

Zack moved his right hand to his belt closer to the .22 holstered on his
hip.

Warwick got out of the car and leaned against it. His demeanor stated he
was ready to intervene if necessary.

"Lindsay," the maintenance man said. "What are you
doing home in the middle of the day?"

Zack and Warwick watched the man very closely.

Lindsay seemed to relax around him.
"Hey, Steve.
How's it going?"

Steve glanced at Zack and Warwick. His eyes narrowed.
"You
friends of Lindsay's?"

Ole Steve seemed a little territorial when it came to Lindsay.
"Detective Zack Kier," Zack said as he flipped open his wallet and
showed his police badge. "This is my partner, Detective Warwick."

"Steve Hess. I manage this property.
Everything all
right?"

Zack watched Lindsay smile at Steve. She had resented his interference
about the key but seemed to appreciate Steve's protective tone.

"
It's
fine, thanks," she
said. "Did you want to tell me something?"

Steve was distracted by Zack and Warwick's presence. "Oh, I
was just headed into your place to check the AC unit. You said it wasn't
working well."

"Did I?"

"You put in a maintenance request about three weeks ago."

She smiled.
"Right.
Thanks. Do you mind
if we do this another time?"

"No problem. Oh, and the cable guy came by to check on your
television. Your reception is all cleared up."

"Thanks," she said.

Steve's gaze flickered between the cops. "Why the police
escort home?"

Lindsay unlocked her front door. "There was a little trouble at
work today. It's nothing to be worried about. Detective Kier is just
being extra careful."

Steve's smile turned brittle. He didn't seem to like cops.
"Tax dollars at work."

"Something
like
that," Zack said.
"Can you tell me anything about the power outage this morning?"

Steve rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "It was a real
mess. The whole east side of the development was out from about midnight last
night to eight this morning."

At least Lindsay hadn't been lying about that. "What
happened?"

"Transformer blew late. It took Virginia Power until this morning
to get it up and running."

"Does that happen often?"

"Been fifteen years since the last transformer blew and that was
in an electrical storm," Steve said. "Must have been some freak
power surge."

An outage caused Lindsay to be late to work. Across town Harold was
murdered. The two incidents weren't necessarily related, but that
didn't mean they weren't.

Zack glanced back at Warwick, still positioned by the car.
"I'll be back in a minute."

Warwick pushed away from the car. "No rush. I have a few more
questions for Steve."

Zack left the nervous maintenance man with Warwick and followed Lindsay
inside her town house. She flipped the lights on. The ticktock of clocks jived
with the hum of the AC unit.

He saw far enough into the town house to see a floral couch. The pillows
on the couch were straight and neatly fluffed. If the outside was cookie cutter
the inside was vintage Lindsay. The clocks, the restored secondhand furniture,
and the stacks of books were all her. The place smelled of linseed oil, which,
he remembered, she used to dust her furniture.

Standing this close, he caught the soft scent of her soap. He'd
forgotten how good she smelled.

Lindsay lifted her gaze and for a moment a connection sparked between
them. She sensed it as much as he did. He leaned forward, testing. She drew
back.

"Mind if I have a look around?" he said.

She blocked his path. "As a matter of fact I do."

"Why?"

"I don't want you here."

His gaze narrowed. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

He took a step back. "You're hiding something. And
I'll figure out what it is."

Monday, July 7, 5:45
P.M
.

Lindsay was fighting a headache when she
arrived at the church just before six. Without car keys, she'd had to
borrow a car from her neighbor. The gal had been a little reluctant at first,
but Lindsay had promised to drive carefully and have the car back by nine.

She'd considered canceling this speaking engagement to the
church's group. Despite the extra sleep last night, she felt wrung out
and exhausted after the day she'd had. But Nicole was at work and the
idea of staying home alone didn't sit well.

Besides, this church's pastor was one of the shelter's best
supporters. He had called her after the
Inside Richmond
article and offered his congregation's support. For several months since
then, there'd been a stream of clothes, some money, and food donations.

She didn't want to let him down tonight. So, she made a double espresso
and pushed through the fatigue.

The Methodist church was located on Shady Grove Road in an affluent
tree-lined section of the city. The church had been constructed less than five
years ago. It had a tall A-line roof and tall windows that let the sun shine
in. The church also had an education building that was joined to the church by
an arched breezeway. This building had a more streamlined look and was suited
strictly for function, not worship.

The day's heat hadn't cooled much and the sun was still
bright. The large gravel parking lot was nearly deserted. There were only a
half dozen cars, including the one that filled the
pastor
's
slot. It looked as if it was going
to be a low turnout tonight. Not surprising. Low turnouts weren't
uncommon. Few wanted to give up their evening to hear about grim domestic
violence stats.

Lindsay grabbed her laptop with her PowerPoint presentation and made her
way to the education building. She opened the side door and started down the
long red-carpeted hallway to the minister's office.

Halfway down the hall, a man came out of a side parlor. He was tall and
thin with dark thinning hair. He looked to be about fifty and was dressed in a
golf shirt and khaki pants. He had a "father knows best" way about
him that made you glad he was in charge.

He noticed her immediately and smiled warmly. "Ms.
O'Neil?"

Lindsay nodded. "Pastor Richards."

"How are you doing?"

The evening news hadn't hit yet so he didn't know about the
murder. "Great," she said. She didn't want to discuss the
murders. After the evening news, she'd be answering a lot of
uncomfortable questions.

Pastor Richards moved toward her and shook her hand. He had an extension
cord in the other hand. "Thank you for coming out this evening."

"Happy to.
Thank you for having me."

He nodded toward the parlor. "I've got you set up in the
green room. In fact, I was just going to see if I could find a longer extension
cord. You said you needed power for your computer."

"Yes. I've a PowerPoint presentation."

"Go on in and get yourself set up. I'll see if I can't
find a longer cord."

"Sure." She moved into the room. It was elegantly decorated
with silk swag curtains on the tall windows; a Chippendale sofa and chairs;
and, in the corner, a baby grand piano. Pastor Richards had set up a podium and
table for her, a white projection screen, and a dozen chairs. In the back of
the room was a small round table set up with coffee, lemonade, and cookies.

She removed her computer from the case and set it up just as the pastor
returned.

"I can't find the longer cord," he said, scratching
the side of his head. "Our church secretary is on vacation and, honestly,
she is the brains behind this operation. When she's away, the church and
I just stumble along until she returns."

Lindsay smiled. "It's fine. I should have enough battery
power to get through the presentation. And if not, I'll do what I do
best--talk."

Chuckling, he checked his watch. "Most of the folks should be here
any second. They're just wrapping up their Monday night supper down the
hall. It's a summer Bible study program and they decided to turn it into
a pot luck. They're four weeks into a six-week program."

"Great."

"Help yourself to coffee."

"Thanks."

She moved to the back table and filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee.
"So tell me a little more about the group I'm speaking to
tonight."

"It's a ladies circle group and their husbands.
They're studying references to marriage in the Bible and I thought it
would be interesting to discuss a modern take on marriage. Domestic abuse is
just one of the topics we're looking at this summer."

"Right."
She sipped her coffee. Compared to
the espresso, it tasted like water. "I want to thank you again for all
the help the church has given Sanctuary. We've really appreciated
it."

Pastor Richards's smile was warm and there was a kindness about
him. "Oh, we're just happy to help." He shoved his hands into
his pockets and looked a tad embarrassed.

"A friend of mine works for the police department," he said.
"He told me a body was found behind your shelter."

"Yes. It was Harold Turner." She didn't want to talk
about the murder but knew it had to be addressed. "I don't know why
he was murdered in our backyard."

The pastor nodded. "I've met his wife. Our church works with
hers on several children's charities.
Lovely
woman."

She remembered her conversation with Jordan this morning. "I hope
she has good support around her now."

"Oh, I'm sure she does. I want you to know this
doesn't change First Methodist's commitment to the shelter. We
believe in what you're doing."

Relief washed through her. "Thanks. That does mean a lot to
me."

Within minutes the group of couples gathered in the room. They all
looked to be in their fifties and sixties. Each wore a wedding band. The
minister made introductions and soon Lindsay stood before the group.

Lindsay had spoken to groups like this many times before. In fact, she
had never turned down an opportunity to speak, believing that if she did, she
might somehow miss the one person who needed her help.

"I'm not going to give you a bunch of statistics or talk to
you about the problem of domestic violence," Lindsay began. She smiled
and tried to look relaxed and comfortable. "I'm here to tell you a
story."

She didn't like to stand behind podiums. She liked to feel a
connection with her audience, no matter how small it was. She clicked on the
first slide. A picture of a young, smiling, dark-haired woman appeared on the
white projection screen.

"This is Pam when she was a senior in high school in Henderson,
North Carolina. Pam was a smart girl. She made all
As
in high school and she married her high school sweetheart. His name was Matt.
Pam got a good job as the executive secretary to an insurance president, and he
would later say that Pam was hardworking and diligent and that everyone at the
insurance company liked her. Five years ago, Pam and Matt moved to Richmond.
She didn't get another job, because Matt wanted her to stay home. They
were trying to have a baby. Pam was thirty-five.

"In December of last year, Pam showed up at work wearing dark
glasses. And underneath the lenses was bruising. The company president asked
Pam about her eyes and she explained that she'd been in a car accident.
Two days later, police were called to her residence. The neighbor had heard
shouting. But when police arrived Pam assured the officers that she was
fine."

Telling the story always made her sad. "Two days later she ended
up in the emergency room. I met with her then and was able to convince her to spend
a few nights at Sanctuary. I took her to the magistrate's office and
walked her through the protective order process. She seemed relieved."

Pastor Richards frowned. "Did I read about this case in the
paper?"

Lindsay nodded grimly. "You did. About nine months ago. And, in
fact, the husband was just sentenced about a month ago." She sipped her
coffee as she searched her notes for the spot where she'd left off.

"We'll say a prayer for them at the end of the
meeting," the pastor said.

Lindsay smiled, not sure what to say to that. Maybe wherever Pam was
now, the prayers would help. "We can offer board in our shelter for only
thirty days. As the thirty days ticked away, Pam began to worry that she
wouldn't have a place to live. Her parents were gone, she'd made no
friends, and she wasn't close to her brothers, who had never liked her
husband. Matt had seen to it that she'd stayed isolated. Anyway, Pam
called Matt. And he came to the shelter and picked her up." She paused.
"We found her body the next morning. She'd been beaten to
death."

A woman with short gray hair folded her arms over her chest. She glanced
at her husband, a short, stocky man with a ruddy face. "I can tell you I
wouldn't tolerate that kind of behavior from my husband."

Lindsay shrugged. "None of us knows what we'd do."

The woman grinned as if she had all the answers. "I know what
I'd do if my husband ever hit me--I'd shoot him."

Nervous giggles rippled through the room.

Lindsay smiled. "Do you know how to boil a frog alive?"

Everyone sobered. "You put it in cold water and then you very
slowly start to turn the heat up under the pot. When the frog realizes
it's too late and is about to be boiled alive, the heat overcomes the
frog and kills it."

Few in the room took the analogy that seriously. But when she raised her
gaze, she realized Pastor Richards was staring at her with a renewed intensity
that made her uncomfortable.

Zack and Warwick returned to the shelter. It was past six. Ruby had gone
home and Sara was still processing the crime scene in Lindsay's office.

The two detectives questioned neighbors but learned little other than
Lindsay kept a nice yard. Few knew the house was a shelter, though none worried
about the number of cars that came and went during any given day. No one
noticed anything unusual around five that morning.

After several hours, Zack and Warwick called it quits with the promise
to meet again at headquarters by seven the next morning.

By the time Zack pulled into his driveway, he was bone tired. He turned
off the car and just sat. His last encounter with Lindsay played in his head as
he stared at the salt-box house he'd just bought. He took in the broken
windows, peeling paint, overgrown shrubs and, for the hundredth time, wondered
why he'd purchased the damn place. He knew the answer.

Because Lindsay had loved it.

He'd passed the house a dozen times in the last month, each time
pausing to see if the
FOR SALE
sign had been
pulled up. It hadn't. In this waning real estate market, the house
required more work and attention than most were willing to give. Yet, he still
kept coming back, staring past the decay and rot to the possibilities Lindsay
had once envisioned.

Zack got out of the car and slung his coat over his shoulder. After
climbing the front steps, he unlocked the door. He prayed his beeper
wouldn't go off before the morning briefing. He needed downtime and
sleep.

Inside the house, plaster walls had trapped the day's heat,
leaving the foyer stuffy and humid. The supplies from the hardware superstore
had been delivered a couple of days ago, but the job had kept him on the run
and he'd barely had enough time to stack the supplies into the empty
living room.

Late-afternoon sun streamed through the transom above the front door.
His footsteps echoed as he moved over scarred hardwood floors toward the
kitchen. The place felt unwelcoming.

He dropped his keys on the gray kitchen counter and laid his coat on a
stack of boxes by the back door. From the kitchen window above the sink, he
stared at the backyard. It reminded him of the surface of the moon: barren,
lifeless.

Zack went to the new, starkly white refrigerator. When he and Lindsay
had been together their refrigerator had been covered with pictures of them,
schedules, and drawings from the kids at the shelter.

He opened it. The bright bulb illuminated two boxes of Chinese food, a
half-full carton of orange juice, and a couple of cans of soda. He craved a
beer right now but tried not to think about it as he snatched a soda and headed
back out to the front porch. He sat on the front step, loosened his tie, and
popped the soda's tab. Maybe he'd go for a run and then order a
pizza.

Zack downed the last of the soda and crushed the can just as a black SUV
pulled up in front of the house. The car belonged to his brother, Malcolm.

This wasn't Malcolm's part of town. He must be doing recon
for their mother.

Malcolm wore a loose, white T-shirt, faded jeans, and flip-flops. He
strolled around the side of his truck, a brown paper bag tucked in close at his
side, sunlight bouncing off his chrome aviator glasses. Malcolm was a year
younger than Zack and, at six one, a couple of inches shorter.