No Escape (17 page)

His expression neutral, he didn’t respond.

Suddenly, the words came to her. ‘You were curious about me when we first met all those years ago because I was different than the average gal hanging around the baseball field house. Now I suspect you are curious how the fourteen years have changed me.’

‘Nothing wrong with curiosity.’

She laughed. ‘No. It’s what makes you a great Ranger.’

He cocked his head. ‘But …’

‘Once you have your answers you lose interest altogether. You lost interest in me long before I miscarried. And I suspect once you figure me out this go-around, you’ll lose interest in our friendship.’

His frown deepened. ‘I’m not the same guy I was in college.’

‘I can see you’ve grown up. You’re not the boy who craves tons of recognition and false compliments. I do see that. But we are who we are. You solve puzzles. That makes you a great Ranger. But I suspect it makes you a lousy friend/lover/husband.’ A weak smile tugged at the edges of her lips. ‘Let’s be grateful for the civility we’ve managed and not worry about developing anything closer.’

The penitentiary nurse stared at Smith’s ashen face. She’d dealt with prisoners for more than twenty years. For the most part, she could handle herself fine and when she couldn’t she called a guard. But Smith was different than the other inmates. He’d been charming. Always complimented her. At first she kept her guard up and her cool reserve in place. But he kept on being nice. And after a time, she found herself looking forward to his visits. She’d been warned about revealing any personal information to prisoners. Knew they could use it against her. And she had been careful around Smith. What she’d never counted on was his keen ability to observe.

When he’d first seen her three years ago, she’d been nine months pregnant with her son. She’d seen him one time before she’d gone on maternity leave. When she’d returned, he’d congratulated her on the birth of her child. She thanked him but had made no other mention. But he’d seen the blue ribbon peeking out from a present she’d unwrapped from a coworker. He’d noticed when she’d stopped wearing her wedding band after her divorce. Noticed that she’d lost weight when she’d reentered the dating world.

He collected all those bits of information and pieced them together until he knew more about her than she’d ever dared imagined.

Last month, when she’d been giving him his injection, he’d told her he needed a favor done. She’d told him she didn’t do favors for prisoners. He’d not gotten angry or flustered, but he’d smiled and asked about her son, Ethan. Hearing him speak her boy’s name had rattled her.

‘I need a favor,’ he’d said.

‘I don’t do favors,’ she’d repeated.

‘You do. I saw when you took that bottle of morphine.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘I saw.’

How closely had he been watching her? She’d only taken a few little vials. She needed a little cash to tide her over to payday. ‘I never did.’

‘Who do you think the warden will believe? Five prisoners will back me up.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘I know you’re strapped for cash. Must be hard raising Ethan alone and his father not paying a dime for child support.’

Her frown confirmed his statement.

He smiled and laid his head back against the infirmary cot’s pillow. ‘I see and hear so much. I don’t sleep as much as people think these days.’

‘I won’t help you.’

‘When I ask you will.’ And then he’d told her what he wanted.

Now, her hands trembled as they did each time she was near him. She prayed daily that the cancer would kill him, but he had a death grip on life.

He sat back in his wheelchair, his eyes closed. ‘It’s time for that favor, Debra.’

She shook her head. ‘I won’t help you.’

‘We’ve discussed this before. What I’m asking is not that difficult.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Do this one favor for me, and I will leave you alone, Debra.’ His pale face looked ghoulish when he opened his eyes and grinned.

She stiffened, terrified that one of the other nurses had heard. But as always he was careful.

‘It’s a simple request.’

‘I’ve already covered for you with the warden – said you were too ill to talk when he asked.’

‘And I appreciate that. But that’s not the favor and you know it.’

‘I could go to jail if I do this.’

‘If you don’t help, I’ll see that you do go to jail. And how will you support Ethan?’

She paled and her hands trembled as she moved toward the medicine cabinet. ‘Don’t mention his name.’

‘Just a simple favor.’

Silence hung between them. A clock on the wall ticked. A nurse came and went in the other ward.

‘Yes or no, Debra?’

She swallowed. ‘Yes.’

The large envelope was waiting for Jo when she arrived home before nine o’clock. Balancing leftover cake and her heels in one hand and her purse in the other, she knelt and picked up the package. It had no return address or postmark. Her thoughts went first to her sister. Taxes were due soon and Ellie always had trouble with the math.

Tucking the envelope under her arm, she unlocked her front door and flipped on her lights. As she dumped her keys and purse on the table by the door, her cats sauntered out toward her, rubbing against her legs and meowing their hunger and general irritation that she’d left them for so long.

Setting her package aside, she padded into the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. She filled the cats’ food bowls, refilled their water bowls and put the kettle on the burner.

Anxious to be comfortable, she hurried to her bedroom to change into yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt. Carefully, she hung up the dress. ‘All that trouble and energy, and I’ll likely not wear it again.’ But she’d been there for Lara, and the dress had served its purpose.

The kettle in the kitchen whistled and she fixed herself a cup of tea before sitting on the couch and setting her package and cup on the side table. Her cats gathered on the couch beside her, Atticus nudging her hand until she scratched him between his ears.

‘Needing some attention, old guy?’ She smiled.

The cats purred and the day’s tension melted from her muscles. She leaned her head back against the couch. Steam rose from the cup. Her muscles ached with fatigue. She didn’t want to sift through Ellie’s receipts tonight or untangle her latest financial mess. And the tea, well, she’d get to it in a minute. She closed her eyes.

When Jo opened her eyes, she had no idea how long she’d been asleep. Atticus slept on her lap but the other two had abandoned her for their nighttime retreats.

Shoving out a breath, she sat straighter, groaning at the stiffness in her neck. Carefully she settled Atticus beside her and rose, stretching her arms overhead. The clock on the kitchen stove read 4:14
A.M.
She’d slept the entire night on the couch.

As the seconds passed she grew more and more alert and quickly realized she’d not be falling back to sleep. She picked up her cup of tea, now cold, and padded into the kitchen. She popped it in the microwave and hit two minutes. When the microwave dinged, she moved back to the couch. A glance to the end table reminded her that Ellie’s taxes waited.

As steam from her teacup rose, she removed the tab sealing the back flap and opened the envelope. Inside she found a collection of papers covered in a bold, dark handwriting. Not Ellie’s.

Her gaze settled on
‘Dear Dr. Granger.’

Quickly she flipped to the last page and saw the bold signature.
‘Yours sincerely, Harvey L. Smith.’

Her heart froze, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She traced her finger above his signature, not daring to touch it at first.

Smith had written her, solidifying her fears that there was a deeper connection between them.

Dear Dr. Granger,

You are an intelligent woman with a keen mind. Like me, you understand the nuances of so much in life. Having now read your dissertation, I realize that you see what the average person is too blind or too undeveloped to see.

 

For many years I’ve been keeping a mental journal of my exploits, but it has only been in the last months that I’ve thought to put pen to paper. The police would find this simple missive interesting, as it will no doubt fill in many pieces of the puzzle for them. But I wanted you, Dr. Granger, to have the first look at my work. I went to a great deal of trouble to make sure the events were as detailed as my memory could recall.

 

One day I hope to share this missive with you in person. I would like your thoughts when you have read through my work. I can’t say for certain when we will meet again but know that you are always in my thoughts.

 

Yours truly,
Harvey L. Smith

 

Jo’s hands shook as she stared at the letter and handwritten pages behind it. Smith was the master gamester and right now she was his latest victim.

Sunday, April 14, 8:00
A.M.

When Brody’s cell rang he was already at the office and making his second pot of coffee. He’d been here since six to review more videotape of Hanna and the men who bought her time.

Thanks to Hanna he had a lead to Robbie, her suspected killer. Red truck. Texas plates with the letter X and T. The search through the DMV records would take time but at least he was headed in the right direction.

Without taking his gaze from the screen, he picked up his phone without glancing at the number. ‘Brody Winchester.’

‘This is Jo Granger.’

He sat straighter, leaning back in his chair. ‘Jo. Is everything all right?’

‘I had a package waiting for me when I arrived home last night. I didn’t open it until this morning. It was from Harvey Smith.’

‘Smith.’ He tightened his grip on the phone. ‘Nothing should have gone out from that prison from him without Maddox knowing about it.’

‘Apparently, he has connections that helped him circumvent the system.’

‘Not for long.’ Brody would turn that place upside down to find out who was helping Smith.

‘The package contained his memoir. This is something you should read.’

‘I’ll come to you.’

‘That’s not necessary. I’m on the road. Are you at your apartment?’

‘The office.’

‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

To the second, she pulled into the Rangers’ parking lot. She parked her car right between the lines and took time to set the emergency brake though the lot was as flat as a pancake. Out of the car she locked the doors, tried the handle to double check before tucking her portfolio under her arm and moving toward him with a steady straight-backed posture. Like in college, she walked as if heading toward her grand purpose. Back in the day, he’d found her purpose-driven ways irritating. Now, he knew she’d been light-years ahead of him.

He opened the front door for her. ‘Come on up to my office.’

‘Right.’

He followed, admiring the subtle sway of her jean-clad hips. In his office she took a seat and unzipped her portfolio. ‘Can I offer you coffee?’

‘No. Thanks.’

He hitched his hip on the side of his desk. ‘What do you have?’

‘A long missive from Smith. As I said on the phone it arrived at my house last night.’

‘It was there, waiting for you?’ He pulled rubber gloves from his pocket and yanked them on before accepting the package. He studied the envelope. It had no address or postmark, but had been at her home. ‘You’re the only one who has handled this since yesterday?’

She frowned. ‘I didn’t think about fingerprints until I opened it, and then I couldn’t stop myself from reading it.’

‘Chances are, whoever smuggled this out for him is in the prison system, and they’d be savvy enough to wipe it clean. But it’s worth a shot.’ He pulled out the papers and instantly recognized Smith’s handwriting. ‘During the investigation three years ago I read through thousands of papers like this one written by Smith.’

‘When they were released after the trial, I was able to read some of his writing. The older papers could be rambling at times, and I had the sense he was tossing in extra details to manipulate the police, as if he were creating a maze of facts. This letter is specific and detailed. His thought processes are different.’

He studied her a beat before dropping his gaze to the papers. ‘Can you give me the digest version?’

‘It’s an accounting of all his victims, why he chose them, how long he held them and where he buried them. There is one woman that never came up in the police investigations. Her name was Delores.’

Brody would read each and every word more times than he could count but right now he wanted Jo’s take. ‘Any other impressions?’

‘I know prisoners have ways of smuggling goods in and out of prison. But wouldn’t someone have noticed him writing these papers?’

‘Depends. He might have someone on the inside looking the other way while he wrote. He’s also spent lots of time in the infirmary.’

She frowned. ‘I called the prison. Smith is on heavy-duty pain meds. He’s comatose.’

Brody’s lips flattened. ‘He commented once that he couldn’t read as well when he took pain meds. And he’s been on the meds steadily for six months.’

‘And yet he wrote in clear, legible handwriting.’

‘He wrote these earlier?’

She arched a brow. ‘I don’t think he wrote them at all. Something about them bothered me as I was reading. The handwriting looks so much like his. In fact, there is little variation in the entire missive.’

Brody frowned as he stared at the words. ‘As if someone were working hard to make it look like Smith wrote this.’

‘Exactly. I don’t think Smith wrote this manuscript.’

‘His apprentice?’

‘The student learned all he could from the master, going so far as to mimic his handwriting.’

Brody tipped his head back. ‘How does he know where you live, Jo?’

She frowned as if that notion was finally taking root. ‘I don’t know.’

The apprentice or one of Smith’s flunkies had stood outside Jo’s front door. ‘You have good locks?’

‘The best. And I use them without fail.’

‘Security system?’

‘ No.’

‘Get one.’

She considered the order. ‘I will.’

Disliking the worry in her gaze, he struggled to keep his voice steady. ‘What other impressions do you have from the writing?’

Jo shifted back to the facts, a place he knew gave her comfort. ‘Smith, or whoever wrote this, mentions Robbie several times. What I can’t tell is if Robbie was present at the killings.’ She leaned forward, her soft perfume floating. ‘He discusses meeting Robbie, who apparently was twelve when the two met. The boy’s mother, according to this, had abandoned the boy. She’d been a prostitute. But there is no telling what is true about the boy and what isn’t. He speaks fondly of the boy, as a father would talk about a child. He details examples of the boy’s intellect and remarks how quickly he learned.’

‘Is Robbie writing as he remembered or as he’d like to remember?’

‘Assuming Robbie is the author, I would say a bit of both. We all have a way of rewriting history and casting ourselves as the hero/victim.’

‘Why would Robbie want to confirm all of Smith’s kills?’

‘Affection for a teacher. A father. He wants us to know exactly what Smith accomplished.’

He watched her fold her hands in her lap. A prim and proper move or hiding how fear made her hands tremble? ‘When we arrested Smith we found nothing that would link him to Robbie. There were no pictures, no letters or e-mails. His mention of an apprentice was the first I ever heard of the guy.’

‘All the interviews you did and no one mentioned seeing a child or a young man?’

‘None. Smith was known for taking out-of-town trips often. He always drove, took plenty of supplies and gassed up in Austin before he left.’

‘No properties listed under his name?’

‘Nothing.’

Brody set the letter down. ‘He was keeping the kid tucked away somewhere. There’s a lot of land in Texas to hide a small house or a trailer.’

‘I’d like to see Smith again. We are running out of time. If he’s as sick as I hear, he’s not going to last long. I’m driving up to West Livingston today.’

‘Unannounced?’

‘I was hoping the warden would grant me entrance because we’ve met. You can’t stop me this time.’

Brody rose, pulled an evidence bag from his desk drawer and dropped the letters into it. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘That’s not necessary.’

‘I don’t like the idea of you on the open road alone knowing Robbie or some other nutcase could be out there.’

He grabbed his gun from his desk drawer and slid it into his holster. ‘I’m assuming you’re free for the day.’

‘I am.’

‘Then let’s go. The weather’s good, so we’ll fly.’

Stick to the plan.

Dr. Dayton had repeated the mantra as he sat in his house alone, his tumbler of Scotch empty. Too early for a proper man to drink, but he’d stopped worrying about proper a long time ago. He refilled his glass and lifted his gaze to the wedding portrait of his wife, Sheila. Taken fifteen years ago, she wore a simple, white silk dress with a scooped neckline and a long lace drape that highlighted her smooth, brown skin, dark brown eyes and ice blond hair. She’d been so stunning when he’d first met her that he’d not been able to speak. He’d followed her around for days on their college campus, standing back and watching her. Finally, he’d gotten the nerve to approach her after a biology class. He could be charming when he wanted to be, and it took little to charm her. They’d become an item immediately, and by their senior year they were engaged.

After graduation he’d convinced her to work while he attended dental school. The plan was that she’d get her graduate degree when he landed his first job. But during that time, the dynamic between them shifted. She lost her zest for fun and became worried about finances. She’d talked of buying a house. Of children. All things he’d not wanted. He didn’t want more responsibility than they had, and he resented her constant nagging.

Somewhere along the way she’d transformed from a princess to a hag – the proverbial ball and chain.

And now she was gone.

Stick to the plan.

He’d been telling the police for months that Sheila had run away. She’d been as unhappy with their marriage as he and had met another man. He tried to convince the cops that she was alive and well and simply hiding out, likely laughing at all the heat he was getting from the cops.

The problem was the cops didn’t believe him. They believed that he’d hurt Sheila. Based on bullshit comments from her sister about Sheila’s fear of Dayton, the cops had gotten a warrant and searched their house from top to bottom. Shit, they’d swabbed the inside of the drains, searching for blood traces.

But in the end, they’d found nothing.

His dumbass attorney had brought him to Dr. Jo Granger to interview him so that they could use her testimony on his behalf. He’d agreed because he thought he could fool her. Several times, she’d nearly tricked him and made him reveal his secrets, but he’d caught himself. Just barely. But she’d been clever and had somehow peered behind the layers, as if he were made of translucent paper, and seen his true intent.

Dr. Jo Granger. She gave the impression that she was a cold woman. Ice. But she was smart enough to know that any red-blooded male liked a challenge. Liked the idea of melting that ice and seeing how hot she could get.

He’d had his share of fantasies of her since he’d seen her last Tuesday. It hadn’t been wise to follow her to the mall, but he’d been unable to resist. The delightful look of shock on her face had fueled his sense of power and desire.

Stick to the plan.

Jo Granger was not part of the plan. She was a diversion he did not need.

And yet, sometimes a man owed himself a treat.

Brody and Jo arrived at the West Livingston prison before noon. He’d offered to take her to lunch, but she’d refused, her stomach too knotted to eat. She’d done her best to keep her emotions tightly wrapped and her thoughts clinical, but she was a little freaked out about the package on her porch.

The more she’d read this morning, the more rattled she’d become. She’d checked all the windows and doors to make sure they were locked, and she’d carried her cell phone everywhere until she’d reached Brody.

Smith, his apprentice or someone else knew where she lived.

Brody secured his gun, and the two were escorted to the warden’s office where they were asked to wait.

‘This can’t be good,’ Jo said.

‘Why do you say that?’ Brody stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘Just a feeling.’

He turned and smiled. ‘I thought you were all about logic and facts.’

Her heels clicked crisply against the tiled floor. ‘Never underestimate the power of intuition.’

Seconds later the warden arrived. He shook hands with Brody and nodded to Jo. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Harvey Smith died two hours ago. Passed away in the infirmary.’

Brody’s face hardened. ‘He wasn’t expected to die so soon, was he?’

‘No. His heart stopped,’ the warden said, shaking his head. ‘All the women he killed and the families he ruined, and he not only cheated execution but the cancer.’

Brody cursed, shoving his hands in his pockets and rattling the change.

Jo snapped a loose thread on her jacket cuff. ‘The last link to Robbie. Gone.’