Pretty Dead (28 page)

“Hey, darlin’.”

Not a voice she recognized. “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

“I’m hurt. This is your old high school buddy, Tyrell King. I’m still waiting on that date.”

“Tyrell, I’m a little busy right now.”

“Yeah, I’ve been watching the news. Some crazy shit goin’ down.”

Maybe he was calling for a reason. A
real
reason. “Do you have any information for me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Alert now, she said, “I want you to come in so we’ll be able to take your statement if it comes down to that.”

“I’m just gonna tell you over the phone.”

Better not to push him. “I’m listening,” she said, grabbing pen and paper.

Tyrell’s voice dropped and became serious. “I might have seen the guy you’re looking for.”

So far the only report released to the media stated merely that they were “following a strong lead.” Nobody knew anything about the arrest of Charles Almena.

“Shoulda called before, but I didn’t want to get involved,” Tyrell said. “I thought it would blow over.”

“Murders don’t blow over.”

“I know, but I thought you’d either catch him or he’d go somewhere else. Leave Savannah.”

“Give me a description.”

“A white guy. Aren’t they all white? These crazy fuckers?”

“Usually.”

“Have you ever known a brother to murder people just for the fun of it? ’Cause I ain’t never heard of one.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Early thirties. Medium brown hair. Tan skin. Really tan, like maybe he golfed or something. Polo shirt kinda guy. Clean and shiny.”

He could have been describing Charles Almena. “If we put a lineup together, would you be willing to come in?”

“Sugar, you know I can’t do that. Tyrell King can’t be seen hanging around the police station. I called you because I want to keep my name out of this. I don’t want anybody knowing I said anything.”

“Tyrell, this is important. I need your help.”

“I live under the radar.”

“You ride around in a limo with a driver. How’s that under the radar?”

He laughed. “You’re sassy.”

That was a first. Nobody had ever called her sassy. “Tell you what. You can come in a side door. I’ll be waiting to escort you to the interrogation room where we’ll conduct the lineup.”

“If I say yes, will you go out with me?”

“You’re charming, but no.”

“Got a man?”

“No, I don’t have a man.”

“Then a woman?”

“No. I’m a cop. You’re a”—she used his own description—“businessman.”

“That’s no excuse. I know you’re friends with Strata Luna.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Strata Luna and I have a history.”

“We go back even farther. To high school.”

She steered the conversation to the murders. “We have someone in custody, but right now we don’t have enough evidence to hold him much longer,” she said. “If he’s the killer, your ID would keep him locked up until we get evidence back from our analysts. Come on. Be a hero.” She didn’t add that his ID would be another step toward getting David out of jail.

“Okay, but I’m just doin’ this for you.”

“Don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. For the girls. For my daughter and your daughter, if you have one.”

“You’re a persuasive woman,” he said. “I like that.”

“It’s my job,” she reminded him.

They made arrangements for him to come in that evening, after dark, with the hope that few people would spot him and his reputation as a badass would remain intact.

As promised, Elise met Tyrell at the side door. He entered the building, wearing a baggy black jacket, dark sunglasses, and a ball cap pulled down low. A male officer did a quick body search, patting Tyrell down before pronouncing him clean.

The interrogation room located on the lower level of the historical brick building was cramped, and the viewing area with one-way glass seemed a luxury in the tight space. Agent Lamont was waiting for them.

“You didn’t tell me anybody else would be here,” Tyrell said, irritated.

Afraid he might back out, Elise tried to reassure him. “We need more than one witness, and Agent Lamont is working the case with me.”

Tyrell let out a snort.

Elise wasn’t sure if it was the presence of an FBI agent that bothered him, or the fact that it would be harder to flirt with her with someone else in the room.

Lamont spoke into his phone. “Bring ’em in.”

As they watched through the one-way glass, a door opened and several men filed into the brightly lit room, then turned, their hands clasped low in front of them, expressions blank.

All white men.

All between the ages of thirty and fifty.

One of them was David.

They’d cleaned him up, made him shave, given him fresh clothes so he’d look the way he might have looked on the night Layla Jean Devro died.

Angry, Elise turned to Lamont. “We did not discuss this.” Not to mention that it went against protocol to have more than one suspect in a lineup.

“Seemed like a good idea to include him.”

Not the time to argue; she’d deal with Lamont later. “Any of these men look familiar?” Elise asked Tyrell. “Do any of them look like the man you saw on the night of Layla Jean Devro’s murder? Do any of them look like the man who picked her up just hours before her death?”

Tyrell nodded. “Number two.”

“You sure?” Lamont asked. “It would have been dark.”

“I’m sure. I got a good look at his face under the streetlamp. That’s him. That’s the guy I saw.”

Charles Almena.

And more important, not David.

CHAPTER 45

T
he morning after the lineup, David’s belongings were handed to him in a Ziploc bag. Billfold, keys, some change. In the lobby of the Chatham County jail, Elise stood up when she spotted him.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” she said.

“No.” He could see she was worried. She wanted to make amends, probably apologize for not believing him, believing
in
him, but it was too soon. He couldn’t talk to her. “I’ll take a cab.”

She pressed her lips together and gave him a small nod.

He didn’t watch her go.

Before leaving the building, David used the pay phone to call his mother.

“Oh my God, David. I was just looking into purchasing plane tickets to Savannah.”

“Everything’s fine,” he assured her. “I’ve been released, and I’m ready to head home.”

They talked awhile, and when the conversation ended, he called his sister. More reassurance and relief. “Gotta go,” he said, spotting a cab through the glass entry doors. “Love you.”

At home, he took a shower to wash off the antiseptic stench of jail. Then he sat down on the sofa, Isobel jumping on his lap. A half hour later his landline rang.

Elise.

He considered not answering, but at the same time he figured she’d just show up at his door if he continued to avoid her.

“I want you to come back to work,” she said once he picked up.

Not what he’d expected. “I don’t know how I feel about that.” The cases weren’t completely wrapped up, and there was, as yet, no explanation for the newspaper found in David’s car, even though most everyone agreed it had been planted there.

“Lamont will be leaving now that we have Almena in custody.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought.” Isobel rubbed her head against his chest and purred louder than he’d ever heard her purr. “Is that all?” he asked.

“No. David, I’m sorry.”

He was pretty sure those were the words she would have spoken earlier if he’d allowed her to give him a ride home. Her apology didn’t change anything.

“You did what you had to do,” he said. But her betrayal hurt. At the same time, he’d almost believed his own guilt. “I thought I might have killed Coretta,” he admitted. “But even so, I would have expected you to know better, to convince me I hadn’t done it.” With a distracted hand, he continued to pet the cat. “I’ve always had your back, Elise.”

She didn’t reply, and he tried to picture her in his mind. Was she at work? In her car? At home?

Through the receiver came the sound of a sob that she managed to cut off, but not before he heard it. “I know,” she whispered.

But David wasn’t about payback or twisting the knife deeper. “You should come over tonight,” he told her. Truth was, Elise was the most important person in his life, and he’d always believe in her more than she would believe in him. Just the way it was. “We can watch a movie.”

Another long pause, then, “I’ll be there.”

He smiled at the relief in her voice. Seconds later he came to a decision. “I heard Lamont was using my desk. Do me a favor and smudge some sage before I return tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 46

J
effrey Nightingale considered it maintenance. The evenings spent watching sappy movies on his laptop while exactly mimicking actors’ gestures and expressions could never be considered a waste of time. It was the only way he could emulate the people out there in the world who weren’t like him
. Emulate.
Because he didn’t want to actually be like them. Hell no.

He’d spent years honing his craft, and like some of the greatest actors, he rarely broke character, even in his own head. He
became
the person he was playing. He lived it, night and day, until he took on a new skin.

Now, with his back against the headboard of the bed, he sat in the dark room and stared at the screen, waiting for scenes where he could really pour it on. The compassion, the empathy, the pain and sorrow, then the tears. He didn’t know how the tears happened for him, but they didn’t come from sorrow. He was sure of that. All it took was concentration, and there they were, rolling down his cheeks.

He’d enjoyed his days in Savannah, and he’d particularly enjoyed outsmarting David Gould once again. And now David was back to work at the Savannah PD, which meant their paths might cross at some point in the future. Nightingale hoped so.

He might have been hooked on death, but he also got off on fooling people, on setting false traps for them and seeing them squirm—while he remained in complete control.

It had been fun, but now it was time to move on. He’d gotten a little carried away, and he’d killed too many people. Like the mayor’s daughter. Like the chief of police. The murder of Hoffman had been stupid and careless, but he’d thought it entertaining and thought it would have been amusing if Gould had been found guilty.

Using the salesman had been genius, and leaving important evidence behind—so easy. Writing on his own body—not so easy. Yes, he’d had to fuck the guy. Truth was, it hadn’t been unpleasant. But the planting of the newspaper in Gould’s car and the puzzle in Hoffman’s mouth—quite possibly his best play to date.

When the movie ended, he opened another window on his laptop, rechecking his latest puzzle a final time. He laughed out loud when he read the answers.

His good-bye to Gould.

Would the detectives get it? Probably not. They hadn’t picked up on anything yet, even though he’d left so many clues. There had been a few times when he’d thought they were getting close, only to have them move in another direction, away from him.

The puzzle pattern itself was genius—visually appealing, the answers creating a design that echoed the placement of the bodies.

He never sent the puzzles directly from his laptop. Instead, he used an online drop site that alerted the syndication service of an uploaded file. It wouldn’t be impossible to trace the source, but it would be difficult.

His finger hovered over the keyboard. He smiled to himself, then hit “Send.”

The next day he packed. After a late checkout, he tossed his suitcase in the backseat and drove away from the motel he’d called home since his arrival in Savannah. Not a great place, but quiet, and nobody bothered him or tried to strike up a conversation.

In his car, he noted that he was low on gas, and he decided to fill up on the way out of town. For now he headed toward the Historic District, intent on taking one last drive around the squares. Savannah
was
a beautiful city. Even though the sight of the live oaks with their Spanish moss did nothing for him, he understood why people went on about the place. If anything could evoke some kind of emotional response, it would be Savannah.

But for Nightingale, the only thing that awoke the emotional wasteland of his soul was killing. The only time he felt alive was when he was taking a life. How funny was that? He’d pondered it long and hard, but it was a puzzle he’d never solve.

That was okay.

He pulled up to the curb, got out, and stuck a few coins in the meter.

This wouldn’t take long.

He walked down the brick sidewalk. Beyond the wrought-iron fence was Colonial Park Cemetery. Beyond that, the Savannah Police Department.

The girl at the front desk smiled at him. He nodded and smiled back.

He took the stairs. Up three flights and down the hall to the closed door.

He rapped lightly against the milky glass, then reached for the knob and stepped inside. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Sitting at their desks, Detectives Gould and Sandburg swiveled to look at him.

“Hey, Jay Thomas,” Gould said.

CHAPTER 47

I
came to say good-bye.”

“You’re taking off?” Elise asked.

“Yeah.” He patted his messenger bag. “I have enough for a good story. I’ll let you know if it ever runs.”

Elise got to her feet and approached him. She held out her hand, and he shook it.

There had been a few times when he’d come close to liking her. Maybe it was her background, the root-doctor legacy, and the cemetery; she’d been a little more interesting than a lot of the idiots he ran into. And then there was Gould, reinstated, who was at that moment leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up a couple of turns. A fine specimen.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Gould said.

Very few things made Nightingale laugh, really laugh, but that line cracked him up.