The Perfect Murder (22 page)

Sebastian steeled himself against a similar onslaught of emotion. "Nothing from Malcolm?"

She sniffed. "Nothing from Malcolm."

Resting his elbows on his knees, Sebastian hung his head. This couldn't be easy on his mother. He didn't think he'd be able to go through that stuff himself.

Even after all these months, the pain was too raw. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"I want to help you," she said. "I want to see Malcolm behind bars as much as you do. I'd like it if you could come home and live a normal life. But I doubt we'll get the handwriting samples you need. Not from this collection of miscellaneous odds and ends."

Sebastian closed his eyes. There had to be some of Malcolm's writing somewhere. Maybe Colton's stepfather hadn't kept a journal or written any letters that were with Emily's stuff, but surely the Turner family would have
something.

Question was...did he have the nerve to ask them to look? They weren't too happy with his views on the suicide. They didn't want to face the possibility that Malcolm might've turned his back on them.

Suddenly it occurred to him. He had a sample of Malcolm's writing at his condo in New York. It was a sheet of spiteful complaints Malcolm had left on the windshield of the Porsche Sebastian had owned back then. One day, Sebastian, Constance and Colton had been out in the BMW; Colton had sustained a sports injury, and they'd taken him to the hospital, but Malcolm didn't get the word. He'd gone to pick up Colton without taking his cell phone. Then he'd been furious that the misunderstanding might make him late for his weekly poker game.

Sebastian had kept the hateful note in case he ever decided to sue for custody. He wanted to be able to prove that Colton's stepdad had a dark side--a temper disproportionate to whatever trigger set it off.

If only he'd known how dark Malcolm could be....

"Mom, forget about the storage," he said.

"You want me to stop searching?" She sounded relieved.

"Yes. I know where we can find what we need." In that note, Malcolm had used almost every foul word in the book. But now Sebastian was glad Emily's husband had put his thoughts on paper.

160

"Where?" she asked.

He told his mother where to look; then he smiled as he hung up. "You won't get away with it," he said to an imaginary Malcolm, setting his phone aside so he could finish lifting weights. He needed to get back to the motel and call the florist.

It wasn't likely that they'd have an address other than the P.O. box Malcolm put on everything else.

But Sebastian planned to check, just in case.

Malcolm admired Latisha as she moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. She made a damn pretty sight wearing nothing but his T-shirt. He would never have guessed he could be so attracted to a black woman. He'd purposely kidnapped these girls because he thought they'd pose less of a temptation sexually.

But now that he was being a little more open-minded, he had to acknowledge that Latisha was as fine as any young woman he'd ever seen.

Damned if he'd admit that to another white person, though.

The image of his father, his face contorted with disgust, appeared in Malcolm's mind, but he quickly shut it out. He no longer had to worry about pleasing that racist asshole. Warren Turner didn't even know that his youngest son was alive.

Latisha must've felt him watching her because she sent him a tentative smile.

Maybe kidnapping her hadn't been a mistake. Besides making life more enjoyable in other respects, she'd been cooking and cleaning all day.

But her sister. God, Marcie was a different story. When he'd gone into the bedroom to tell her he hadn't hurt Latisha one tiny bit, she'd called him a rapist devil and spit in his face. If she ever got free, she'd be dangerous. She was the type who might come after him. He should kill her and get it over with, but he couldn't do it quite yet. It hardly seemed fair to go back on his word so soon after Latisha had made him happy.

"I'm not a rapist," he said aloud.

Latisha stood at the stove. "What?"

"I said I'm not a rapist. I didn't force you. You offered, I accepted, and you enjoyed yourself as much as I did, right?" Heck, she was the one who'd asked for more.

The answer came so softly, he could hardly hear it. "Right."

"What?"

161

After clearing her throat, she spoke louder. "I said 'right.'"

"You need to tell your sister because no matter what she says, I'm nothing like the men I used to put behind bars. I've met them. I've seen the crime-scene photos. I know what they're like. You don't have a single bruise on you."

"I'll tell her." Her voice was low again, but at least he could make out her words.

"Good. Otherwise, I might have to kill her."

Latisha whipped around, wearing a stricken expression. "You promised me you wouldn't! You promised me you wouldn't hurt either one of us!"

"I won't put up with her bullshit. I just want you to know that."

"You promised," she said again.

He scowled. "I don't
want
to hurt you or anyone else, but...you'd better tell her not to provoke me. Okay?"

With a curt nod, she went back to cooking, and he fantasized about how peaceful and pleasant it would be if he had Latisha all to himself and didn't have to worry about her nasty sister. It wasn't as if he could marry Latisha--how would that look? He had
some
pride. But, for the time being, she was better than nothing.

He thought of Mary McCoy. His ex-girlfriend was the woman he
really
wanted. But that relationship was riddled with risk. If they were going to have a chance, he'd have to convince her to cut all ties with her past. If he could make her believe a friendlier version of what had happened the night Emily and Colton died, it was possible. He could say Colton was playing with his gun, accidentally killed his mother and then freaked out and shot himself. He could claim to have staged the crash because he knew the authorities would look at him before anyone else, and he didn't have an alibi.

But even if she bought that, letting go of her family and friends wouldn't be easy. He should know--it'd been difficult even for him. And after what Pam Wartle had told him, he was beginning to wonder if he
could
trust Mary. Whenever he brought up his real name, she didn't indicate that she'd heard about the deaths of his wife and stepson. Yet Pam had told him that his nemesis had dogged anyone and everyone he'd ever known.

Had Sebastian contacted Mary? If so, why hadn't she mentioned it during their discussion of Malcolm Turner? It was natural that she would, wasn't it?

Anyone would...

Opening his laptop, he logged on and checked his buddy list. Mary wasn't 162

online. But she'd sent him an e-mail.

You on for this weekend? I can't wait.

I have a surprise for you. A sample of what you can look forward to. I want to overnight it so you get it immediately. Where should I send it?

Love, Mary

"'Where should I send it?'" he muttered.

"What?" Latisha asked.

He waved her off. Mary's question seemed innocuous. But was it really?

Why would she be so interested in couriering him a package if she was planning to see him this weekend?

What is it? he wrote, then deleted the message before sending it and sat there brooding. How could he determine whether or not she was telling him the truth, whether or not she was trustworthy? There had to be a way....

He chewed his fingernails while he tried to think. He could call her work, ask the nurses if she'd ever mentioned Sebastian. But he doubted they'd open up to a total stranger. He could call the house and pretend to be Sebastian, see how she reacted, but she might recognize his voice....

Then, Malcolm had it--the perfect plan. He'd send her an e-mail from Sebastian, see if they'd been in touch. He knew Sebastian's e-mail address, didn't he? They'd exchanged a few messages when Emily and Colton were alive. He couldn't use that exact account because he didn't have the password, but lots of people had more than one e-mail address. After dinner, he'd create a new account using a variant of Sebastian's name--with the same server, if possible--and send her a message as if they'd already spoken. Something like, "Hey, any word from Malcolm?" That generic a question could mean today, yesterday, in the many months since contact had first been made. In this situation, less was definitely more.

If she wrote back demanding to know who he was and how he knew Malcolm, he'd trust her. And if she didn't, if she wrote back and said, "I haven't heard since asking for his address," Malcolm would set up the meeting she'd been angling for--and kill them both.

163

Fifteen

T
he florist turned out to be a bust. Pretending to be Wesley Boss wanting to double-check the billing address he'd provided with his credit card, Sebastian had spoken with Love in Blooms. But the manager there merely confirmed the P.O.

box.

As he ate some more of the Chinese takeout he'd picked up for dinner, he tried to come up with other ways to track Malcolm and, as usual, thought about the charred body. It'd been found in Malcolm's car, which was discovered the day after Emily and Colton were murdered. Did Malcolm kill a drifter, whose corpse he used for that purpose? Did he "borrow" a freshly buried body from some remote cemetery? Or did he pay off a mortician? If Sebastian could turn up a lead on that body, he might be able to tie it to Malcolm. But he'd spent the first two months of his investigation working that angle and had found nothing.

The murders had been carefully choreographed. That was probably what bothered Sebastian the most. While eating and sleeping in the same house as Emily and Colton, while playing the part of caring husband and stepfather, he'd been taking steps to end their lives. He'd
slept
with Emily, knowing he was going to kill her.

Maybe Sebastian hadn't liked Malcolm. But even after all this time it was hard to imagine the man he'd known,
any
man with a regular upbringing and a regular job, as that cold-blooded. Especially a cop.

How could Malcolm live with himself? Did he realize what he'd done? Or care about the people he'd hurt? Look at the humiliation he'd brought his own family....

The telephone jolted Sebastian out of his thoughts. Dumping what was left of his dinner in the trash, he got his cell phone from the desk. He'd already heard from Mary while he was at the restaurant, waiting for his food. She'd called to let him know she'd sent the e-mail from her work account notifying Malcolm of the package and requesting his address.

This was her again. "Hello?"

"How's it going?"

164

"Not bad," he said, but he was feeling restless. He suspected it was because of Jane. He'd been thinking about her all day, fixating on the fact that he'd made love to her twice and still hadn't seen the tattoo on her breast. "Have you received a response?"

"Not yet. That's what I'm calling to tell you. I just got home from taking the boys to their hockey lessons and checked my work account. Nothing."

"It probably won't come until later this evening."

"I won't be around. I'm heading out. Some of the girls at work are getting together for dinner and a movie."

This was unusual. Mary was such a dedicated mother she didn't allow herself to leave the boys very often. "I'm sure you could use the break. Do you have someone to watch Brandon and Curtis?"

"I've got a sitter lined up."

"Sounds like you're all set."

"I am, but...I'll check in with you when I get back, okay?"

They'd developed such a routine it was difficult for her to pull away. She acted as if she felt almost as responsible to him as she did to her kids. But now that he could communicate with Malcolm directly, he didn't need her to be in contact as much as before. "Don't worry about it. Go have fun. You can e-mail me when you get home, and if I'm awake, we'll talk. Otherwise, we'll catch up tomorrow."

"What are you planning to say to him tonight?"

"The usual."

"Should I expect more flowers?"

"Who knows what to expect from Malcolm? That's the problem." He said goodbye and disconnected, but before he could put down his phone, his mother called. She'd found Malcolm's hateful note in his home office and would overnight it to the handwriting expert in the morning.

Sebastian wasn't sure this would have a big payoff, but some proof was better than none. He'd collect whatever he could. "Thanks, Mom."

"Sebastian?"

He brought the phone back to his ear. "Yes?"

"What would Malcolm want with two teenage girls?"

The rain had stopped but the chilly air and early darkness made it seem later than it was. Sebastian had kept his coat on while he ate, but was finally warm enough to take it off. "I'm afraid to guess."

165

"If he's raped them or...or tortured them, he can't let them go. He'd know the value of a witness."

Sebastian regretted telling her about Gloria Rickman's sisters. He talked with Christa often, shared most things with her, but the kidnapping had upset her so much he should've left that out. Knowing Malcolm had already killed two people made the possibility of more murders all too plausible.

Fortunately, he hadn't told Mary, or he doubted she'd want to go out tonight.

"I'll find him," he said.

"Now you don't have any choice," she responded. Then she was gone.

Releasing a deep sigh, Sebastian threw his phone on the bed and signed on to the Internet as Mary. It was time to strike up another conversation with Malcolm, see if he could get him to talk a little more about his new "roommates."

But Malcolm wasn't on and Jane called a few minutes later.

"I'm going back to the casinos to talk to the dealers who work the night shift, so I need another picture. I gave the one I had to an employee who promised to go over the security tapes for us."

"You don't have to stay home with your daughter tonight?" he asked in surprise.

"She went back to my in-laws'. I felt it was best. I've already spoken to the dealers who work the day shift. I figured I should check with the night-shift staff, and the sooner the better."