Be Afraid (37 page)

Mitchell shifted and raised his hand to the doorjamb. “Matter of fact, I do mind. You can’t just bust in here like a bunch of Nazis.”

Bishop dialed his phone and seconds later said, “Magistrate’s office. I need a search warrant.”

Mitchell huffed. “That supposed to scare me?”

“Nope.” Bishop sounded bored. “Once we get the search warrant, we’ll see what you have to say.”

Mitchell’s agitation grew. “You can’t just come into my house. This is my property. My land.”

“No, but we can arrest you on suspicion of stalking and rape.” Rick reached for his cuffs.

Mitchell tensed. “I ain’t raped nobody.”

“Got a witness that says otherwise.”

“Fuck. She’s a liar.”

Rick rested his hands on his hips. “I say we don’t search his place or bother with the rape charges. I say we leave him for the other man to kill.”

Bishop chuckled. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mitchell shouted.

“Whoever is pulling your strings, did the same with a couple of other guys,” Rick said. “Both those guys ended up dead in an alley. Drug overdose.”

Bishop checked his watch. “They were dead within twenty-four hours of the crime. My guess Mitchell is next on the list.”

“This is bullshit,” Mitchell said.

Bishop glanced at his nails as if he was already bored. “I say leave him to his boss. Let him do his thing.”

Neither had any way of knowing what would happen but if they were right about a master manipulator, Cyrus knew it as well.

“We got another errand to run, so you be careful, Mr. Mitchell,” Bishop said.

Rick paused before he turned. “And in case you’re wondering, Pamela’s got around-the-clock surveillance. So does that gal you raped.”

Mitchell’s face flushed red. “I ain’t like those other guys. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

Rick tucked the cuffs back on his belt. “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

They left Mitchell shouting obscenities. Neither was in a rush as they moved toward Rick’s car. As they slid into the front seat Rick’s cell phone rang. “Morgan.”

“This is Dr. Heller.”

“Doc, what do you have for me?”

“That second murder victim from the fire is Nancy Jones. I just confirmed with dental records.”

“Thanks.” As he fired up the engine he relayed the information to Bishop.

“Two successful women. In real estate. Both with dark hair. Attractive.” He leaned back in his seat. “Now we need to figure out who knew both these women.”

Georgia glanced up from her computer screen when she heard the tap of knuckles on her door frame. Rick stood with his feet braced, as if ready for a fight.

“You’re always in battle stance,” she said. “Like you’re always expecting a fight. Waiting for a challenge.”

He shrugged and didn’t bother to deny it. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

“Not me,” she teased. “I have no issues.”

He laughed but was smart enough not to detail her quirks. “Right.”

She cocked a brow. “What, you don’t agree?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to judge or comment. You said you had information on my case.”

“Right, I do.” She shuffled through file folders. “We had a look at the handwriting you found scrawled at the first fire. The word was
faithless
. I got the bright idea to cross-check the handwriting against the word
bitch
written on the doll’s head left at Jenna’s house.”

He moved into the room, his interest humming. “And?”

“The two words have three letters in common. The
I, T
and
H.
” She fished through the file and found samples of both words that she’d snapped with her digital camera. “Note both words are written in block letters. Not upper and lower case but all upper case. Almost as if the word is being shouted. And note the top of each
I.
There’s a slight gap between the top slash and the middle line. Not noticeable at first glance, but look at it long enough and you see stuff like that. Also look at the last letter of each word. The end of the
S
and the
H
both curve in slightly.”

Rick drew in a steadying breath. “The guy who was a party to Diane’s death also left this doll on Jenna’s porch.”

She leaned back in her chair, rolling her neck from side to side, grimacing when she seemed to touch on stiffness. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Did you pull any prints from the head?”

“Wiped clean. Not one print. The guy pulling the strings is very careful. We knew that. Would be a rookie mistake if he did leave prints.”

“Criminals make mistakes. This guy has been careful. We’ve nothing to link him to the first two kills but he’s picking up steam, which, to me, translates into a mind growing more and more out of control. A matter of time before he slips up.”

“If this mastermind recruited Cyrus, then he’s made a mistake. Cyrus is sloppy.”

“You got someone watching Cyrus?”

“Yeah. Sooner or later, he’s going to reach out to his boss.”

Georgia picked up a pencil marred with chew marks and rolled it between her fingers. “Jenna does fit the profile of the two dead women and Pamela. Dark-haired. Assertive. And this guy left a memento on her doorstep. She’s on his radar.”

“The other women were stalked for almost a year. Jenna has only been here a few weeks.”

“Her family is from the area.” Georgia bit the end of the pencil. “And what if your crazy theory about this case being linked to the Thompson case is right. Jenna looks like Sara.”

Rick loosened his tie as if it were a noose around his neck. “The Thompson family were all shot point blank in the head and the shooter tried to set the house on fire.”

Georgia pointed a finger as if aiming for a bull’s-eye. “But the arsonist used gasoline. It ignited too quickly and didn’t burn as planned. The scene was not destroyed and the bodies were found.” When he raised a brow, she shrugged. “I saw the files on your desk and read a few.”

Rick didn’t want to be right. Right meant Jenna was in real danger. “All those men, Tuttle, Wheeler, Dupree, and even Mitchell weren’t great thinkers or planners.”

Georgia scraped her thumbnail against a spot on the arm of her chair. The spot was well worn, a divot created by endless hours of pondering.

Rick’s neutral tone didn’t hint at the emotions swirling in his gut. “So do we have a new puppet master or is the old one back in the game?”

“The killings started about the time Jenna arrived.”

“Weeks before the twenty-fifth anniversary of the original killings.”

Madness saw the cop car parked in front of Cyrus’s house. Instead of being afraid, Madness welcomed the cops. Let them follow Cyrus around for a day or two. That would be just enough time to finish it all.

A ringing phone forced a glance from the scene to the phone’s display. Cyrus Mitchell. The phone was a burner, untraceable by the cops. Cyrus was a nervous sort and would keep calling and calling. Fine, let him. The longer Cyrus kept the cops distracted, the better. Soon it would all be over.

“The cops are smart. They’re going to figure out our connection to Cyrus,” Reason said.

Madness savored the surge of adrenaline that heralded excitement.
“Stop whining. Just let me take care of this.”

“When you take over, we always end up in trouble.”

“Stop worrying.”

“Wait until it all goes sideways. You’ll come crawling back. And I only hope I can fix the mess this time.”

“Worrier.”

They’d been careful never to use their real name with Cyrus and never gave him any identifying information. A wig, glasses, and baggy clothes had altered their physical appearance so whatever description Cyrus gave to the cops would be inaccurate.

“You swear Jenna will be the last.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve lied before.” Reason’s wail sounded childlike.

“I always lie. But not this time.”

Reason went silent. This game with Madness was never going to end. Madness would destroy them both.

Thursday, August 24, 6
P.M.

Rick and Bishop pulled up in front of the East Nashville home. The white on the siding had faded to a muddy brown and the cracked sidewalk was a hazard even in daylight.

As they approached the front door, Bishop tugged his coat in place. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“It won’t take long.” Rick knocked on the door. Inside a television blared. Footsteps sounded and the front door opened to an old woman with stooped shoulders. He held up his badge. “Mrs. Dupree.”

Old eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your late son, Ronnie.”

“Ronnie again? I knew when that woman showed up trouble wouldn’t be far behind.”

“Woman?” Rick asked.

“That Thompson girl. Wanted to know why Ronnie did what he did.”

Jenna had been here. Rick’s irritation coated his next words. “And what did you tell her?”

“I told her I didn’t know. Ronnie was a good boy. He loved me. But I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”

“You never had any idea why he killed that family.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Did he have any friends that he hung out with? A friend that might have been smart or a fast talker.”

“The only friend Ronnie had was Billy.”

“Billy,” Rick said. “Where did they meet?”

“At the school. I don’t know exactly where.”

“Do you have a last name?”

“Whenever I asked, Ronnie always got huffy about answering questions about his friend. So I dropped it. I was grateful the kid had somebody.”

“Do you have any pictures from that time?”

“I burned ’em.”

“Burned them?”

“Seemed fitting. Ronnie and his friend liked fires.”

Sitting at the edge of the bar, a small woman with dirty-blond hair lifted a glass to her mouth with a trembling hand. She stared into the mahogany depths as if willing the liquid to transform into courage and give her strength. She sniffed, set the glass down hard. She ordered another drink.

Silently, Madness rose and took the seat beside her, allowing her to order another drink. Impatience nipped at Madness, but lessons from Reason kept a tight hold on the reins of action.

The woman downed the drink in one shot and then watched as the bartender poured her a fourth drink.

Madness had moments like this. Ones that were so charged with energy or loss or anger that the only thing that could dull the throbbing sensations had been booze.

The bartender, a woman in her mid fifties with blond hair and dark eyebrows, frowned as she reached for the drink. “Go easy or I’ll have to cut you off.”

The woman sniffed and snatched up the drink. “I ain’t drunk. Not by a long shot.”

“I can’t afford to have you stumbling out of here.”

“I don’t stumble, asshole.”

Madness loved chaos. “Looks like you’ve had quite a day.”

She didn’t raise her gaze as she downed the next drink and then set the glass down hard on the bar. “One for the record books.”

“I’ve had my share of those. Somebody must have really dumped on you hard.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Do something nice for someone a long time ago and then everyone is trying to pin a murder on me.”

The report was old news now. The Lost Girl’s identity had been made and a woman, Loyola Briggs, was suspected to be her mother. She’d been brought in for questioning last night. There’d not been enough evidence to hold her, so she’d been released. However, those in the know said this gal was on borrowed time. Weeks separated her from hard time in prison.

“Got to feel kinda helpless.” A raised glass got the bartender’s attention. When the glass arrived, Madness slid it toward Loyola. “Looks like you could use this more than me.”

“What do you want for it?”

“Nothing. Just thought I’d be nice.”

Her gaze settled on a crack in the bar as she shook her head. “No one is nice unless they want something.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” The fishing line dangled in front of her, the whiskey was the bait. She’d not be able to resist the glass, and soon she’d not be able to resist what came next.

“I can help.”

She downed the glass. “How?”

“I know the woman who got you into trouble. The one that drew the sketch of that girl.”

The woman raised her gaze, filled with anger and confusion. Ah, here was another kindred soul whose reason battled with madness. By the looks, her madness won regularly. “That picture ain’t of my kid. My kid is living a happy life in California.”

“Of course she is. Shame though someone would tell such horrible lies about you.”

“She’s a bitch.” Another glass of whiskey was ordered and quickly tossed back.

“Want to get even?” Madness could have a sweet and kind voice when it suited. “I can help.”

Loyola stared into the empty depths of her glass as if lost. “I don’t know where she lives.”

“I do.”

“Why would you care?”

“Maybe I don’t like her either.”

She swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “What did she do to you?” She had the eyes of a dead woman.

“Doesn’t matter. You in or not?”

Loyola held up her empty glass and smiled as he refilled it. “I’m in.”

“Excellent.”

Twenty minutes later they stood in front of Jenna’s house. Loyola swayed, so drunk she could barely stand.

“What’re we doing here?”

“This is the house of the woman who drew that picture of the Lost Girl. She’s the one that started all your trouble.”

Squinting, Loyola glared up at the cabin. “She lives here?”

“She does. I hear she’s the type of woman who likes to stir up trouble for the sake of it.”

“Some secrets need to stay buried,” Loyola said.

“They surely do. No good comes from dredging up the past.”

“No good.”

Loyola shifted her stance and flexed her fingers. “Bitch.”

In a voice low and sharp, Madness asked, “How about we give her a little payback for all the trouble she’s caused?”