Red Silk Scarf (33 page)

           
Cassidy's fine porcelain hand
finding Vera's, patted gently a few moments before their fingers entwined for
emotional support.
 
“What makes you think
I would be?”

“I may look the
part, but I'm no fool.
 
Over the years,
I’ve absorbed my husband’s investigative abilities.
  
Patrick is in a whole lot of trouble that he
can't get out of alone.
 
I'd like to
believe with all my heart he's innocent,” eyes lowering, she swallowed
hard.
 
Fresh tears emerged.
 
“Since receiving this box, I'm not so sure
anymore.”

Releasing
Cassidy's hand, Vera scooped the articles on the table into a pile.
 
A single finger moved the items about, as if
placing them in order.
 
Cassidy's
attention was honed and ready for further enlightenment.
 
She only wished her heart had been.

Narrowed eyes
inspected several snapshots of a woman wearing revealing undergarments in lace
and silk.
 
A beautiful, provocative,
female never photographed alone.
 
Each of
her male partners was a different race, height and weight between the ages of
eighteen to some with pure white hair making it obvious she was a
prostitute.
 

All at once,
Vera’s hand stopped to claim another photo of particular interest.
 
Inspecting the snapshot from a reverse angle,
Cassidy was prepared to see a prostitute, but the moment Vera handed her the
picture her false bravado crumbled.
 
As
if tainted with poison, awkwardly holding the snapshot at the corner with her
fingertips Cassidy read the inscription, “Love Elaina.”
 
The backside of her hand brushed at the tears
leaping over eyelids.
 
If not for the
difference in age, she would believe the man to be Patrick.
  
Scrutinizing the likeness for some time,
scrambling for courage, at last her sympathetic gaze found Vera.
 
“May I,” Cassidy asked before turning the
photo over.
 
Receiving a nod, she flipped
it over and read the penned words, “Thank you, my love, for the lovely red silk
scarf.”
 

Where Vera found
the stamina, the bravery to reveal such monstrous secrets, Cassidy
wondered.
 
Examining the face before her
sculpted from tools of worry and stress, all she could muster were meager
words.
 
“There is nothing I can say that
could reach your pain.
 
I'm so terribly
sorry.”

If Cassidy didn’t
proceed now her guts would falter.
 
From
her pocket, withdrawing a folded piece of paper she carefully straightened the
wrinkles before handing it to Vera.
 
“PROSTITUTE'S
DEATH RULED A SUICIDE.”
 
Unable to bear
the life she was leading, Elaina Malcomb hung herself in her shower with a red
silk scarf.
 
A copy of an insignificant
article inked on page three of section “C” of the Chicago Tribune.

Giving into a rush
of emotions, Vera's shriveled face found little comfort in small arthritic
hands.
 
Quickly coming beside her,
Cassidy enfolded the slight shuttering form in her arms.
 
Watching her own tears find the paper,
Cassidy was set back by how the liquid seemed to magnify the date of the
article.
 
The day a drive by assailant
shot Shawn Patrick Sullivan just like Ben.

At once, the
motive was clear.
 
Black eyes flicked to
the scarf lying on the table as though all along it had been trying to conceal
the evidence beneath.
 
A scarf identical
to others that yesterday Cassidy traced to an exclusive lingerie shop in
Chicago.
 
No one would have suspected a
prostitute’s suicide in Chicago was linked with serial killings in L.A.
 
Cassidy's hand clutched her chest pressing
and releasing, pressing and releasing, as though giving CPR to a heart that was
shriveling and dying bit by bit.
 
Suicide, no, Elaina and Shawn Sullivan were murdered.

Unable to
reconcile with the monster attacking, Cassidy moved to the sink.
 
Believing she'd be sick, though hands full of
cold water helped to eliminate the urge it left her nervous system
untouched.
 
Fingers kneaded porcelain,
and nails desperately tried to penetrate the hardness as rumbling thoughts
whirled in her skull. Did Shawn Sr. kill Elaina?
 
If so, who killed Shawn, or God have mercy,
did Patrick kill them both?

The proprietor of
the lingerie shop Cassidy visited remembered the man who purchased the scarf
over three years ago.
 
A customer that
took a great deal of time to make the selection then when finished requested
unique gift-wrapping, shiny black tied with a red velvet bow.
 
Never knowing a man to be as particular,
convinced he was a playboy, he left an indelible impression.
 
Pure white hair added to his striking
appearance the shop owner continued as Cassidy wrote down the man’s
description, that of Shawn Sullivan Sr.
 
The owner went on to say, he was surprised upon receiving a call from a
customer that ordered several of the same scarf months ago requesting the
delivery be made at a post office box in L.A.
 

A heart pumping
overtime wanted to believe there was a possibility things were not what they
appeared.
 
After all, from the very
start, she’d been caught up in a whirlpool of deceit, but now she knew it was
only wishful thinking.
 

Drawing in a deep
breath, Cassidy stiffened, turned and faced the table.
 
Placing each picture one by one in front of
her, she inspected them searching for something, anything.
 
All the photographs taken in what she assumed
the bedroom of Elaina's apartment, for all the furnishings, carpeting and
drapery matched.
 
With fresh tears
blurring her vision for no apparent reason she brought one picture in
particular closer.
 
Sudden insight made
her blink frantically to clear the fog.
 
Pupils became wide as an Eagle; she’d found the definitive evidence.

Several attempts
at obtaining Vera's attention failed.
 
The elderly woman's mind had traveled into oblivion.
 
Cassidy tried shaking her, yelling, “Vera!
 
Vera!
 
Pamela!
 
Where are pictures of Pamela?
 
Please, Vera, snap out of it.
 
You have to help me.
 
Pamela's pictures, where are they?”
 

Following the
direction of Vera's pointed finger, Cassidy hastily located the drawer in the
buffet.
 
Jerking it open, she withdrew a
cumbersome storage container.
 
Dumping
the contents onto the couch, she frantically rummaged through the pile of
unimaginable belongings.
 

A photo jerked
her upright, plucking it she barged into the kitchen screaming, “Pamela!
 
Where is she?”
 
Cassidy’s apparent hysteria turned Vera's
face white as she tried to come to terms with her apparent frenzy.
 
“Dear God, Vera, how long has Pamela been
gone.
 
Where did she go?
 
Tell me!”

Even if Vera
could have spoken, Cassidy knew the information wouldn't be accurate.
 
There was no chance in hell of finding
Pamela.

Unbelievably, a
peculiar calmness settled over her.
 
The
killer knew she'd solve the mystery, knew what she’d do next, the plan all
along.
 
Resolve cleansing Cassidy's
features, snapped back slouching shoulders.
 
Completing the killers' cycle of revenge, meant killing Cassidy Ilene
Brady.
 
Well, bring it on, she
thought.
 
Now she was armed and ready.

Claiming her cell
phone, she punched in a memorized number.
 
The person she needed to speak with would be there, she was positive.
 

Calmly, quietly
hanging up, she moved to Vera.
 
Clutching
her shoulders, looking her directly in the eyes, “Your life could be in
danger.
 
When I leave, lock the door.
  
Don't allow anyone in, including Patrick and
Pamela.
 
Don't answer the phone.
 
Do you understand?
 
Promise me.”

           
Horror struck, Vera shook her
head.
 
Squeezing Cassidy's hand she
pleaded, “Please, please, don't kill him.”

Drawing in a deep
breath to calm her rattling cage Cassidy quickly glanced away.
 
She could promise Vera, almost did, but there
was no way of knowing the capabilities of self-preservation.
 

CHAPTER 26

           
Feeling oppressively alone, Cassidy
likened herself to a human on Mars.
 
Veiled in darkness heavy and dense she was floating in space suspended
out there, somewhere, weightless with no lifeline.
 
Was this the end?
 
Was this what everyone experienced before
dying?
 
There was no time, for good-byes,
for telling those, she cared about how much she loved them.
 
Chances for mending the past hung on a thread
that could unravel in a split second.
 

           
Charging reflections of Ben took
precedence over those of Sullivan.
 
Right
now, she'd give anything for the strength of his arms, for the love she'd
denied.
 
A chance, to tell him she loved
him in her own way, to say goodbye.
 
Maybe there was a heaven after all and he’d be waiting for her, maybe.

There
had to be for hell was right here, right now.
 
Why her, she questioned, a ridiculous thought when the answers were
obvious.
 
So determined was she to uphold
a vow to protect the innocent, she was willing to sacrifice her life.
 
Now all she could hope was that good came
from her demise and that her loved ones would understand.
    

What happened to
positive thinking?
 
Skill and will power
got her into this mess and sure as hell could get her out.
 
She was an equal opponent for what lay ahead
providing she remained focused.
  

           
Feeling positive that she was under
surveillance honed Cassidy’s senses.
 
Cunning the killer was, using surprise as a weapon.
 
Contemplating her options, she slowly walked
death’s row until arriving at her apartment building.
 
The time it took reinforcing the portions of
her mind and body substantially weakened previously, enough time to concentrate
and become composed.
 

Entering the
elevator wasn’t an option, becoming trapped within its confines, meant
emotional catastrophe.
 
Therefore, warily
she climbed the stairs not knowing what might be stalking at the next landing,
the next turn. Now standing in a long hallway stretching endlessly before her
she scrutinized crevices that magically appeared while, the walls took on life
as though they were breathing, the wallpaper turned darker, and the lighting
became dimmer.
 
Just a few steps further
there was a right turn that caused a peculiar dampness to engulf her, a hiding
place where the killer might be lurking.
 

Behind her a door
opened, and closed, the sound resembling that of a gun blast.
 
Muffling a scream, certain her body had
completely left her shoes, Cassidy jerked around to face a fragile woman who
paused, and smiled briefly before continuing her journey.
 
Meanwhile Cassidy held her breath hoping the
innocent bystander would be out of the range of danger in time.
 
At that instant she almost panicked, almost
pushed the button on the small pager hidden in her bra, wisely, she
reconsidered.

Despite all the
alarms ringing, breathing slowly, deeply, Cassidy bravely focused on survival;
the gun stuffed into the crack of the couch.
 
Second thoughts rushed her; dammit, she should have placed the weapon
beneath her pillow where the killer planned her demise.
 
Gagging back nausea, she swiped at the
perspiration the reaction induced as faces of family flashed before her,
lastly, that of her mother.
 
“Dear God,
help them to understand,” she prayed.

Resolve washing
over her cleansed apprehension. Without hesitation, Cassidy precisely
positioned the key into the lock that did not click to a door she found
unsecured.
  
Only one thought consumed
the throbbing mass within her skull, any moment now she’d face the man
responsible for Ben's death, someone she planned to send to hell.