Wicked Circle (23 page)

“Beau.” I pulled away, too sore for such antics. “He’s still on the roof, he’s still unconscious and . . . Johnny’s with him.”

“Watching over him! What a fine Domn Lup.”

“Yeah, but you should be cautious approaching him. He’s jumpy, okay?”

“We will be.” Beau walked away. One of the others had pushed the button to bring the elevator down, and everyone was assembling near the gates.

I grabbed Hector’s arm. “Seriously. Be careful. You understand?”

He caught the worry I was conveying to him. “We’re wære too.”

“Still.”

With concern darkening his features, he nodded.

I
n Saranac Lake, New York, SSTIX Investigator Kurt Miller eased his Ford Crown Victoria into the garage and cut the engine. He hit the button to lower the garage door and sat checking the emails that had rung in on his Droid phone during the drive home.

He entered his home via the laundry room, greeted by the mingling scents of “sunshine fresh” dryer sheets, pot roast, and the bread machine.
If she keeps using the bread machine, I’ll never again run a mile in under eight minutes.

At forty-three, though, do I need to run a mile in under eight minutes?

He plopped his briefcase onto the folding table by the dryer and hooked his coat on a peg. He smoothed his hair, trying not to think about how thin it felt.

“Brenda,” he called as he continued on to the kitchen. “Something smells wonderful.”

A woman wearing tan khakis, a tight-fitting periwinkle sweater and pot-holder gloves came into view. She was placing a large pan on the stove. The curly brown hair that draped down her back had few grays in it.

“Hello, beautiful.”

She used her foot to shut the oven door and flashed a perky smile at him as she tossed the pot holders to the counter. “You have a good day?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

God, I’m a lucky man.
“As always,” he said. “You?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. Diane and
I went to the furniture store. They have this gorgeous bedroom set. I want you to see it this weekend, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. He sorted the mail on the built-in desk.
Phone. Cable. Ah . . . Premier Interior Designs.
P.I.D. had just finished remodeling their kitchen two weeks ago. He glanced around the updated and expensive environment and sighed. It made Brenda happy and helped compensate for the time his job often took him away from her.

“But I do have some bad news. We have a change in plans for tomorrow night.” Brenda’s chipper demeanor dimmed considerably.

“Oh?” Kurt kept his expression blank while he wondered what they were supposed to have planned on doing.

“We aren’t going out with George and Diane tomorrow.”

Kurt hadn’t remembered, but he was as disappointed as his wife. Brenda and Diane had been best friends since high school. Similarly, he and George had been pals. “Why? George didn’t put his back out at the gym again, did he?”

“No. Diane is babysitting for Toni this weekend.” There had been another couple who had always run around with them, Antonia and Andy. A heart attack had killed Andy about ten years before. The two women had made sure Toni still felt welcomed and included her in their socializing, then tragedy had struck again a few years back. Toni’s daughter had died and she’d been left raising a grandson, Evan, on her own. They’d all remained friends, but Toni no longer went out much. To need a babysitter for an entire weekend was unusual.

“Why?”

“Toni’s going out of town.
She’s leaving tonight.”

“Why?”

“Hey, Mr. Specialized Squadron Tactical Investigator, my kitchen is not an interrogation room.”

He laughed softly at Brenda’s often used phrase:
My kitchen is not . . .
“And what a beautiful kitchen it is.” Kurt coerced her away from the stove and into an embrace.

“Indeed.” Brenda kissed him, then gently departed from his arms.

He could understand her being saddened by a change in plans, but this was a little much. “We’ll reschedule.”

She said nothing as she collected the plates and flatware and set the table.

It wasn’t like Toni to do something that impacted other people’s plans. She’d known they were all going out. Kurt hoped the three women hadn’t had a falling-out. “Bren, what is it?”

“Toni won’t give me a straight answer about why she’s leaving and where to.”

“Maybe she’s going to Vegas. You know, what happens in Vegas . . .”

“Kurt.”

“What?” he asked. “Andy’s been gone ten years and things have only gotten worse since. She’s allowed to go to Vegas. Maybe she’s embarrassed.” Poor woman. Toni’s parents had been killed in a car crash her senior year in high school. Pregnant shortly after, she and Andy had gotten married the day before graduation. They’d done well for themselves and their daughter. Little Francine had everything a girl could want until her dad died when she was fourteen. After Andy’s death. Toni couldn’t afford the big house and downsized to something more modest.

Brenda opened the
bread machine and removed a round loaf. “She’s not going to Vegas.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. She’s going to Cleveland.” She set the bread on a cutting board. “Of all places, she picks there. There! And on a bus, no less. She’ll be riding more hours than she’ll get to stay in the city. For all that trouble, if I were her, I’d be going someplace
warm
.”

“Does she have family there?”

“I don’t think she has any family at all, Kurt. Just Evan.”

“Damn. Whatever she’s doing must be important if she’s willing to ride a bus.”

Brenda placed the serrated knife by the loaf with more force than was necessary. “Quit it. This isn’t funny.”

Kurt pulled her into his arms again. “I just want to see you smile.”

Brenda laid her head on his shoulder. “Kurt, have you
seen
her lately?”

“No,” he admitted.

“She looks awful. She doesn’t get her nails done anymore, and half the time she doesn’t even bother with makeup. She always used to fuss over the details, and now . . . she doesn’t. It’s not like her. She needs to go somewhere and relax. Diane and I have been telling her that for months.”

Maybe a long, arduous bus ride would be relaxing after taking care of that kid.
“Maybe that’s what she’s doing.”

“Yeah. That’s what she said.”

“So why aren’t you happy?”

“I pressed her and she gave me the name of the spa she was going to. It doesn’t exist.”

It wasn’t like Toni to lie.
“So, we’re back to Vegas and embarrassment.”

“No, Kurt.”

He rubbed his wife’s shoulders. “She’ll tell you when she’s ready.” She arched into the impromptu back rub. “If you and Diane have been telling her she needs a vacation, why is Diane the one who gets to look after the boy?”
Babysitting would do her good. Maybe it will get that mothering need worked out.

“Because George actually
likes
kids. Unlike someone I know . . .”

Kurt realized he had given her an opening to lead this into another conversation about adoption. Kids weren’t Kurt’s favorite portion of the population. Loud, spoiled, tantrum-machines. He and Brenda couldn’t have kids. For him, that was the end of the story. Not for her.

Leaving his arms again, Brenda selected a bottle from the new little wine refrigerator, and leaned against the counter, downhearted but not sulking. “Diane asked if we would come over to their house for dinner, but I told her you would rather reschedule.”

“Smart woman. Diane better not take her eyes off that boy.”

“Kurt.”

“He’s a brat.”

“Kurt!”

“Am I wrong?” The last time Kurt had seen the kid, probably two years ago, he’d tried to be tolerant, but the kid made him nervous. Evan was into cars, so Kurt thought seeing the flashing red light mounted to the dash of his car would be fun. The kid had been delighted, but he’d proceeded to push
every button and flip every switch in the car
and
in the house.

Brenda sighed but said nothing. She slid the wine and the corkscrew toward him, and then carried the meal to the dining table.

Kurt made a mental note to check the bus schedule.

It was well after nine when Kurt switched on his home computer. Though the evening was far from over, the world was dark, and Brenda was presently soaking out her worries in a cherry-blossom-scented bubble bath.

He checked the online schedule and found that the local terminal would have a bus leaving tonight at eleven twenty, and, with all the stops and connections, it seemed that someone could arrive in Cleveland as early as one in the afternoon tomorrow.

That
is
a long ride.
It was definitely out of character for his wife’s friend.

He opened his briefcase and plucked out a key to a certain filing cabinet. Inside, the rearmost files comprised his personal copies of a particular cold case from his days as a local small-town cop. He drew out the one marked
Hampton, Elena A.

He opened it a fraction and saw a candid photo of a positively gorgeous young woman. Black hair, long and straight and thick. He remembered how sleek her hair used to feel when he ran his hands through it.

Guilt twisted in his gut.

He’d cheated on Brenda. They hadn’t been married yet, but he’d still been unfaithful. After high school, he’d gone away to college. She’d stayed home to attend the local community college. They maintained their relationship long-distance.
Then he’d met this girl . . . Elena. They had a math class together. Deliberating for all of August and September, he built up his nerve and asked her out. Throughout October their romance had been torrid. He’d even considered breaking up with Brenda, but resisted. Then Elena abruptly broke it off with him the day after a wild Hallowe’en party they’d attended. She said she was transferring to a college closer to her hometown in Montana and stopped talking to him.

Kurt never saw Elena again until her file crossed his desk. She’d ended up in Saranac Lake, working at the federal prison as a guard.
Did she know I was here?

He closed her file, set it aside and pulled another.
Burdette, Doug R.

This file he opened fully. Photocopies of news clippings lay on top.
Deadly House Fire
. There was a picture of the remains of a house, below the date May 20. The next clipping had bold letters stating,
Gruesome Discovery in the Ashes
. The next,
Authorities Suspect Murder, Arson
.

Behind that was the official documents, then a photocopy of a work ID. Burdette had been an HVAC mechanic at the prison. Next was the autopsy report. Kurt scanned the highlighted words: “
. . . in approximately twelve pieces found on the stairs and in the upper hall
” and “
. . . claw marks consistent with those of a large animal.
” The official cause of death was listed as exsanguination.

“Kurt?” Brenda called from the hallway.

“Yeah?”

She appeared in the doorway. “It’s awfully late for work.”

He let the pages slither through his fingers to lie flat on the file. “I think I’ve got a break in this case. . . .”

“I took some melatonin,”
she said. It was her natural sleep aid. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good idea.” Kurt rose from his seat to go and kiss her. She hugged him tighter and longer than usual. “Toni will be okay,” he whispered.

Brenda left him there. “Good night.”

Sinking behind his desk again, Kurt flipped to Burdette’s autopsy. Under that was a list of driving citations—speeding, DUI, hit-and-run damage to other vehicles. There was a rap sheet, too. Assault and battery, destruction of private property, various domestic violence crimes. There were also charges of possession, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and a dropped charge of rape.

Since these files first crossed his desk years ago, Kurt had always wondered how a sweet, straight arrow—never even a parking ticket—like Elena could have been with someone like Doug Burdette.

Doug had been a less-than-model citizen, but he’d been alive when someone—some
thing
—tore him limb from limb. Burning the house down had not been able to disguise that.

Kurt closed that file and slipped Elena’s to the top again. After mustering his resolve, he opened it. Except for her picture on top, it had the same organization: articles, ID, autopsy. He reread part of the report.
Cervical vertebra 1 and cervical vertebra 2 fractured, allowing for the odontoid process to sever the brain stem. This severe hyperextension of the head and neck is consistent with a forward fall down the stairs.

Her body had been found at the bottom of the steps.

Something had entered Elena’s house. It attacked Doug and ripped him
apart. Elena must have stumbled in her attempt to get away. The fire, deemed to be a result of a cigarette meeting alcohol, had either forced the killer to leave before it could tear into her, or the killer had set the fire to destroy evidence. Kurt had his opinion about which it was.

She shouldn’t have died like that.

He reached into the filing cabinet again and brought out a third file. This one was marked,
Hampton, John C.

Inside, an enlarged photo from the local high school yearbook showed a sophomore with longish black hair, blue eyes. Beside it was written:
John Hampton. Dated Francine Brown. Missing since fire
.

Under that was a report Kurt had filed himself. But Kurt didn’t need it to vividly recall that night. . . .

He was driving like a maniac, speeding under streetlights, following a teen who was on foot but ran like a startled deer. Kurt would gain on him, then the kid would race down a side street, forcing him to slam his brakes and squeal around a curve. He thought the kid must be on drugs; he should have been getting tired.

At the end of the road sat an abandoned mechanics garage. The kid kicked down the door and ran inside. Kurt left his patrol car. Drawing his gun but keeping it lowered, he jogged to the doorway and shouted, “Come on out, son. I just want to talk to you.”