The Switch (12 page)

Forcing some nonchalance into his posture, he propped his hips against the hotel manager's desk and crossed his ankles. "Okay, Detective Lawson. Who is Juliet—"

"Gillian. Last name Lloyd. Her nude body was found in her bed this morning. She was the victim of multiple stab wounds, most of them to her lower abdomen and pubic region. We think—hope—that most were delivered postmortem because it was a fuckin' bloodbath. In fact, her killer wrote obscenities on her bedroom wall in her blood." He finished snidely. "Do I have your attention now, Colonel?"

He did definitely have Chief's attention. Genuinely sobered and subdued, he said, "I'm sorry. Truly. It's... that's terrible. But I still don't understand why you're talking to me. I didn't know this lady. I never met—"

Then it all congealed. Moving slowly, he uncrossed his ankles and came to his full height. "Jesus," he whispered. "I just got it. Lloyd. Melina's sister? Her twin?"

Lawson nodded.

Chief expelled a long breath and ran his hand around the back of his neck. For a moment, he stared into near space, trying to absorb the shocking news and the rippling impact it would have, especially on Melina. Only a few hours ago, he'd been making love to her. Now she was somewhere in this city trying to come to terms with the brutal slaying of her identical twin.

He blinked Lawson back into focus. "Is Melina all right?" "She's bearing up."

"I'd like to call her." Her number was on the itinerary. He'd already called it twice this morning but had gotten no answer. He had planned on calling it until he reached her, not just a voice mail. But he hadn't planned on calling to extend condolences.

"Not a good idea," Lawson told him as he removed his cell phone from the pocket of his leather jacket. "She's got more distractions than she can handle right now."

He hoped that Melina would look upon a call from him as something other than a distraction. He hoped she would welcome hearing his voice. But he wasn't going to discuss Melina or what had happened between them last night with this detective. Replacing his telephone he mumbled, "I guess you're right."

"What do you know about her?" Lawson asked.

"I only met her yesterday. She'd been retained—" "Yeah, she explained her job to me."

"She's very good at it. Competent." He smiled at the memory of her at the news conference, bossing the reporters in a way they seemed to adore. The women as well as the men. "She's very capable."

Remembering her smile as she gave in to his pleas that she stay just a little while longer, he wondered if she was blaming herself, wishing that she'd left when she had first tried to go, wishing she hadn't been with him at all last night, castigating herself for not protecting her sister.

It was crazy thinking, of course. But people tended to think irrationally, and often with self-chastisement, when a loved one died unexpectedly, like in an accident. But murder? That would thrust someone's guilt into overdrive.

Backing into the edge of the desk again, he said, almost to himself, "God, she must feel awful." He raised his head and looked at Lawson again. "Do you know who did it?"

"Not yet."

"Any clues?"

"A few. The writing on the walls, for instance. That's what linked this crime to you."

"To me?"

Up till now, it hadn't occurred to Chief why the homicide detective had sought him out. Upon hearing the staggering news, his initial concern had been for Melina and how she must be feeling. He hadn't connected all the dots. But Law-son's last statement made the connection. It put him in the picture. He just couldn't yet tell what the picture was.

"I never even met Gillian, Detective. If there's any doubt of that, you can ask Melina."

"In fact, it was Melina who put us on to you."

He shook his head. "I don't get it."
"You will. We'll explain it all."

"We, who?"

"Me. Melina. At a meeting downtown. Two-thirty today."

He felt sorry for Melina, but for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why he was being dragged into her sister's murder investigation. "At two-thirty today, I plan to be in my car somewhere along I-45 between Dallas and Houston."

"I don't recommend that. You'd probably be summoned right back."

Chief gave him a long incisive look. "Cut to the chase, Lawson. Are you suggesting that I had something to do with this woman's death?"

Lawson merely turned his back on him and headed for the office door. "Two-thirty, third floor of police headquarters downtown. Ask for me." He opened the door. As guessed, the uniformed cops were standing just beyond it. "You might want to call one of those NASA lawyers before the meeting." He started out, then paused and turned back. "You're too recognizable to hide for long, Colonel. Just in case that's what you were considering."

"You've demonstrated your faith and loyalty, Brother Dale. Far beyond my expectations."

Dale Gordon, speaking to Brother Gabriel by phone from his room, shivered with delight. His throat was tight with emotion. "Thank you."

"And you're absolutely sure that Gillian Lloyd has been properly sanctified?"

Brother Gabriel had a real way with words. The reporters on Dallas TV were calling his mission "an act of seemingly unprovoked violence." Gillian Lloyd's sanctification had made all the local midday news shows. They showed video of her house with policemen going in and out. They showed the gurney bearing her body being wheeled down the front walkway toward the waiting ambulance. It had torn a bright yellow blossom off one of the chrysanthemum plants at her front door when it was pushed past.

The reporter standing on Gillian's street with her house in the background had termed his mission a vicious homicide. But the reporter didn't understand. Few would understand that it was neces
sary for Gillian Lloyd to be ki
... sanctified.

"Yes, Brother Gabriel, she was sanctified."

"Did she suffer?"

"No. I was swift and sure, as you instructed, as you promised I would be when the time came. I felt the strength and sense of purpose you said I would feel."

"You've done well, my son."

Dale Gordon blushed hotly with pride. No one had ever called him son before. His father had disappeared before he was born. Mother had called him many things, horrible things. Never son.

"Give me an account, Brother Dale. I want to share it with the disciples here in the Temple."

The Temple! Brother Gabriel was going to praise him to the disciples who'd actually earned the right to live with him in the Temple!

The words tumbled from him. Never had he spoken so eloquently. With the same precision with which he'd carried out his mission, he briefed Brother Gabriel on it. He enhanced the basic facts with small details so that Brother Gabriel would realize how attentive he'd been to his task.

"To the best of your knowledge, you left no clues?" "No, Brother Gabriel."

He didn't mention touching the drinking glass in the kitchen. It wouldn't matter anyway because he'd never been fingerprinted by police. Even if they found fingerprints, they couldn't be traced to him.

Nor did he mention writing on the walls. That had been a last-minute inspiration, one he'd thought of all by himself. Mother had always used ugly words. They were very effective
to make a person feel low and worthless and deserving of harsh punishment.

He reasoned that Gillian Lloyd deserved to be hurt and insulted with ugly words. After all, she had tempted him beyond his ability to resist. It was her fault he had committed the sinful act of mortifying his flesh. With her so near, lying naked on soft sheets, he couldn't help himself from touching his nasty thing and rubbing it until it got hard. He didn't tell Brother Gabriel about that, either.

"Excellent, excellent." Brother Gabriel's melodic voice was like a soothing hand stroking his head. "Because you've done so well, I'm giving you another assignment."

If Dale Gordon hadn't already been lying in his bed, cradling the knife stained with Gillian Lloyd's blood, he probably would have collapsed from joyful disbelief. "Anything for you and the Program, Brother Gabriel."

"That's the kind of enthusiasm I wish all the disciples had." Dale Gordon's pale body turned pink with a flush of pleasure. "What do you want me to do for you?"

"Not for me," Brother Gabriel said with his characteristic humility. "For the Program."

"Certainly."

"I caution you to think about it carefully before you accept, Brother Dale. It's a very difficult mission this time. Harder to carry out than the sanctifying of Gillian Lloyd."

Pulsing with a rare sense of power and self-confidence, Dale Gordon boasted, "I can do it, Brother Gabriel. Whatever it is. Give me a mission, and I'll do it. Gladly!"

CHAPTER 9

"Can I get you anything, Melina?"

"No, thank you."

Jem looked at her more closely. "Are you tired of everyone asking you that?"

"A little," she admitted with a small smile "A soft drink isn't going to help. But I appreciate your vigilance and concern for my well-being."

"No one knows what to say or do."

"I understand. Because I don't know what to say or do, either. I'm numb."

They'd arrived shortly before the appointed time and had been instructed to wait for Lawson in a small, cramped room adjacent to the Capers—Crimes Against Persons—Unit of the DPD. Groups of desks were clustered in the large room, but none of the personnel could claim an individual office.

Lawson had arranged for this room to be available to them. The furniture was uncomfortable, the atmosphere claustrophobic, but at least the room afforded some privacy. Already she was weary of people watching her with the covert, careful scrutiny given to someone whose stability is unpredictable.

Jem's eyes were red from weeping, and there were other signs of his distress. Ordinarily his ego and self-image were firmly intact. His air of superiority often put people off. This morning, however, he looked haggard and unsure. In deference to the situation, his conceit was taking a day off.

He reached for her hand and chafed it between his own. "Your hands are cold. Just like Gillian's. Her hands were never warm. I teased her about it all the time."

She swallowed a sob, refusing to let herself fall apart in such a dismal place. "I can't imagine my life without her, Jem."

"I can't, either."

"But she was in your life for only one year. She was with me from the moment the cell divided. She was like a part of me. She was a part of me."

"I can imagine how you feel."

Actually he couldn't, but she wasn't going to conduct a contest to see whose grief was more severe.

"Did you notify her office?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, they had already heard it on the news." "Jeez, that's tough."

"They were devastated, but eager to help. Some of them even beat me back to the house."

Before Lawson left to contact Christopher Hart, he had asked Lewis and Caltrane to drive her home. Jem had offered to take her and stay with her, but she really wished to be alone, so she had accepted a ride in the squad car.

Much to her dismay, however, word of the murder had spread quickly and already so many friends, neighbors, and associates had arrived to offer condolences that there was barely space for Caltrane to park at the curb.

The group of mourners followed her inside, where they congregated in the living room. One of the realtors said, "I don't know if you know this, Melina. Yesterday Gillian secured the biggest deal she'd ever negotiated."

"Actually, she told me about it over lunch. For an ad agency, wasn't it?"

The young woman nodded. "We toasted her with cheap champagne before she left the office yesterday afternoon. She seemed so happy. On top of the world. Invincible. Little did she know..." Unable to finish, she collapsed in tears and had to be comforted by a coworker.

The refrain became familiar. Gillian Lloyd was highly respected and well liked. At least it seemed so, judging by the number of people who either came by or called to pay their respects and inquire about funeral arrangements.

Funeral arrangements. How could she even think about it?

Their parents had had the foresight to make those arrangements as part of their wills. Gillian and Melina had chided them for being so obsessed with death, and teased that such a preoccupation was macabre. But their parents' attention to detail had turned out to be a blessing. They had died within three months of one another, their father's coronary following their mother's pancreatic cancer. In each case, all that was required of the twins was some necessary paperwork. They hadn't been burdened with having to make deadline decisions while grieving.

Now the thought of planning her sister's funeral service was daunting. "I can't make any definite plans until the coroner releases the ... her body," she told the people who inquired. "I don't know when that will be. And I suppose Jem should have some input."

Gillian's friends and associates seemed as surprised as she to learn of the unannounced engagement, although it was inappropriate to gossip about that in the same discussion with funeral plans. They registered astonishment, but tactfully refrained from fishing for information.