Blown Away (28 page)

Annie agreed they should move inside. “But you don't think you're working this case, do you?”

“Why not?” Emily said. “I'm a detective, aren't I?”

“You're also a participant,” Annie pointed out. “You're involved.”

“I tried to apprehend a suspect,” Emily argued. “That's all. I have nothing to do with this otherwise.” She grasped at another straw. “It's like back at the station—first one to answer the phone catches the case. I
was
the first one here.” She ran her fingers through her matted chestnut hair.

“And your calf?” Annie pressed. “You can walk and kneel and do all those other crime scene things?”

Barely,
Emily thought, feeling the lobster pinch when she put weight on it. But she wasn't going to miss handling a homicide case because of a stupid cramp. “I'm fine,” she said. “Besides, I already talked to Branch. He's inside with the victim.”

Annie's faint smile said she knew Emily was tapdancing—talking to Branch wasn't the same as getting approval from Branch—but would ignore it because she'd do the same thing. “Well, hell, why didn't you say so?” she said, aiming Emily at the spa. “Let's get your clothes so you can get right to work.” She looked over her shoulder at Marty, cranked the smile to full wattage. “You go finish your bath, dear. You missed some dirt behind your ears.”

His reply was blacker than the mud.

 

“What the hell
happened?”
the shooter screamed as he zoomed down Interstate 55, riding the adrenaline wave now that he was safe. “Who was that fucking
woman?”

The family in the Volvo next to him stared openly.

He glared back, peeling his lips away from his square yellow teeth.

Dad cut off a semi moving over a lane.

“That's right! I'm nuts!” he screamed over the trucker's horn, smacking the steering wheel like it was on fire. “Tell all your fucking friends!”

Wait. Keep this up and someone'll flag down a cop. Can't have that. Not yet. Not till I'm finished. Nothing can interfere with the plan. Get ahold of yourself, goddammit.

“Everything's fine,” he said, forcing himself not to blink. “You escaped. You changed cars. You took side streets to the interstate. Nobody saw you. Nobody's following you.” The rearview was smudgy from all the times he'd made sure. “Sit back and relax. It's an easy drive to St. Louis. Your flight's not till tomorrow. You'll have a nice supper and get a good night's sleep, fly to Arizona in the morning. You'll go kill the rest of them, return to Naperville and finish. You're fine. Just follow the plan. The plan is everything.” He liked the little pep talk. His muscles leaked tension—

“Shit!” he hissed, neck cords re-popping. “She saw me! She can identify me!”

He breathed hard awhile, decided maybe not. The woman had hit his windshield only an instant before blowing onto the roof. Not enough time to focus, let alone identify. Plus he'd been wearing the camouflage cap and beard, which he'd dumped in various fast-food-joint garbage cans. He'd kept gloves on throughout to ensure leaving no fingerprints. The Grand Prix and Taurus were rentals, would trace back to fake drivers' licenses and credit cards. The car he drove now was his own, with real license and credit. He was doubly—triply!—removed from the spa execution, with no way for anyone to connect A to Z.

Still…

He punched in the radio pre-set. After the weather, sports and an advertiser puff-job disguised as a feature story—“And now, another product made in Chicago!”—the news report began. He turned it loud. The announcer said a man shot a woman in west suburban Naperville. Said the woman died. Said cops found the getaway car and launched a manhunt. Said a police detective was inside the spa and heard gunshots. Said she chased the shooter but got run over. Said the detective wasn't seriously injured. Said her name was Emily Thompson. Said she'd killed a man two years ago for trying to hang her.

Killed a man…

He tingled with cold sweat.

The announcer didn't give a description. If she'd seen him they'd have aired it for sure. He was safe.

Then again, he hadn't gotten this far taking chances.

He put on his turn signal and pulled to the shoulder. Trucks whizzed by inches from his door, their windshear rocking the car like a hobby-horse. He didn't care. His hands were steady now.

He pulled a spiral notebook from his sportcoat. It was pocket-size, with a canary cover and light-blue page rules. He clicked a pen and added the name in red ink, with neat lettering that touched neither rule.

Emily Thompson.

He smiled. The cop was as dead as all the rest of the names.

She just didn't know it yet.

 

Emily sniffed cautiously as she entered the spa's lobby. Before, the woman was so freshly slain she had no odor. Now, feces and urine had drained from her bladder and bowels. The odor of her wastes joined the waxy copper odor of the blood puddle congealing around her body. There was chlorine from the whirlpools. Jasmine and sandalwood from the mood candles. The palpable fear of the traumatized employees and clients, who couldn't leave this wretched place till detectives took their statements.

Which Emily couldn't do till she knew some basics.

“What's her name?” she asked the large man bending over the small corpse.

Hercules Branch didn't look up, but raised an index finger to indicate, “With you in one minute.”

“OK.” She turned to a uniformed cop. “Please tell me you brought Vapo-Rub.”

“I don't leave home without it,” he said, pulling a flat tin from his pocket.

Emily smeared a gob under each nostril and breathed the menthol fumes that would mask the stench of death. She murmured thanks and turned to examine the room.

The building was an old Chinese buffet restaurant reincarnated as an elegant day spa. This was its ornate lobby—what management called the “client welcome center.” Its high ceiling came to a series of peaks, reminding Emily of a circus tent. Fringed Oriental rugs softened the white granite floor. Sheetrock walls, rag-rolled in sky blue, held a series of oil paintings that were colorful but indefinite. Dark red curtains covered the windows. A dozen chairs, lacquered the same black as the picture frames, surrounded a low, round table filled with women's magazines. The manicurist who had directed Emily through the front door occupied one chair. Next to her sat their attendant from the mud bath. A cappuccino maker steamed in one corner. A water dispenser gurgled in another.

“Leila Reynolds,” Branch said.

Emily watched the Naperville Police Department's chief of detectives push to his feet with the help of a black thornwood cane.

“I got her information from the manager,” Branch continued. “Before he became too shaky to continue.”

Emily recalled the white-faced young man being helped to the ambulance by the paramedics. “And the other witnesses?”

“Those two insisted on staying with Leila till her children arrive,” he said, pointing to the chairs. “The rest are out back. The squad's taking their statements. Soon as we're done, go help.” He took his notebook out of his jacket and started his recitation.

“Leila Clarice Reynolds, age seventy-seven. She's a retired bookkeeper for a Chicago auto dealership. She lived in Old Farm”—a subdivision on Naperville's south side—“and was widowed four years ago. Started working here a year after her husband's funeral. She has two grown children, a daughter in Milwaukee and son in Miami. I already called them. The daughter will get here first, obviously, so keep an eye out for her arrival.” He stopped to write himself a note.

“Why was she working?” Emily asked, taking her own notes. “If she'd already retired?”

“Leila got bored,” the manicurist piped up. “You know, living by herself after her husband died. We're glad she took the job—she was so much fun.” Her lower lip trembled. “She wasn't supposed to be here today.”

“Why not?” Emily asked.

“She had a cold. I told her to go home, I'd cover the desk. You know what she did?”

Emily shook her head.

“She patted my face. You know, like a grandma? Then she said, ‘It's OK, dear. I'd rather work. It's better than sitting around the house feeling sorry…for…my…'” The manicurist's face crumpled as the floodgates opened.

“Why don't you take her outside?” Emily told the attendant. “Fresh air will do you both good. I'll come find you when I'm ready.”

The attendant put her arm around her sobbing friend and led her out. Emily glanced at the uniformed cop.

“I'll keep them from leaving till you get there,” he said.

“Thanks.” She moved to join Branch at the body. Marty touched her shoulder from behind.

“Find your clothes?” she asked, reaching back and taking his hand.

“And a shower,” he said. “Listen, I'm gonna go back to my shop and write up my report.” Marty was chief of detectives for the county sheriff's police. “I'll send over a copy soon as I'm finished.”

“Will it contain anything you didn't tell me in the parking lot?” Branch asked.

Marty shook his head.

“No hurry, then,” Branch said. “Get some coffee, take your time.”

“Nah. Might as well get it over with. If I think of anything I didn't tell you, I'll call.”

Branch gave him a thumb's up, and Marty swung his attention back to Emily. “Want me to stay over tonight?”

She nodded her head back against his chest. “I'll call you when I'm done,” she said. “No idea when that will be, though.”

“Doesn't matter. You just call.” He rubbed her shoulders, then gently pushed away.

“Aw, Marty, tell her you wuv her,” Branch said.

“I'd better not,” Marty said. “She'd fling her arms around me then you'd have to fire her for sexual harassment and we'd all be embarrassed…”

Cop humor,
Emily thought as the two men laughed. Like these two homicide veterans, someday she'd be an expert at whistling past the graveyard.

But not today.

Not with Leila Reynolds staring at her.

Emily turned her attention to the short, slender victim. She lay face up, her legs straight out and arms at her sides. She hadn't fallen that way—Marty had to reposition her for the CPR. Her wrinkled hands were cupped, as though she was holding water. Her black wig was sharply askew, exposing white hair so thin that the overhead lights sparkled on her scalp. She had large green eyes with perfectly shaped brows. She wore an expensive yellow sundress, an alligator belt with silver buckle, and brown sandals with medium heels. Bra and briefs—Emily saw the telltale lines—but no hose. Toe and finger nails looked freshly manicured, and painted the same shade of pink.

She finished cataloging Leila, then studied the holes in her chest and forehead. Each was the size of a pencil eraser. Her forehead had flame-charring, but her chest didn't. That suggested the chest shots were fired several feet away, then the shooter moved up close for the insurance shot. “What caliber do you think, Branch?” she asked. “A .38?”

“Maybe .357 Magnum—there's lots of damage on the wall that caught the bullets after they exited Leila.” He tugged at his chin, considering. “Both are revolver cartridges, so that's what the shooter used.”

“Unless it's one of the few semiautomatics that do,” she countered. “I should look for ejected shell casings to make sure.”

“Unless he picked them up to fool us.”

“Marty and I were right behind—he didn't have time. So if I find casings, he used a semiautomatic. If I don't, he used a revolver.”

Branch smiled. “Very good, Detective. Go ahead.”

She mentally divided the room into three-foot squares. She tucked her gloved hands behind her back and examined them in order. She worked her way across the floor, reached the door to the parking lot.

She stopped, cocking her head in confusion.

“What?” Branch asked.

“There's a pair of burnt matches on the floor.”

“Que?”
Branch said, raising an eyebrow.

She squatted to study them, wincing at the ripple in her calf. Wood. One-eighth-inch square, two inches long. Large kitchen matches—Ohio Blue Tips or a generic clone. Available anywhere.

She closed her eyes and visualized scraping one against its sandpapery lighting strip. The bulb head flared yellow. The flame crawled down the stick. The flame died when it ran out of wood.

She opened her eyes, compared reality to the visualization.

The heads were indeed charcoaled. But the burn ended right under the bulbs—the sticks were untouched. Suggesting the matches were lit and immediately blown out.

She relayed the information.

Branch pointed to the mood candles.

“I've been at this spa enough,” she said, “to know they light their candles with butane torches. Like you'd use on a Weber grill.”

“That's not it, then. Do they allow smoking?”

She pointed to the large warning sign over the cappuccino maker. “No. They're pretty militant about it. They even called the police when a guy waiting for his wife wouldn't put out his cigarette. And he was out on the sidewalk.”

“Ah, the cigarette Nazis,” Branch said, shifting his grip on the cane. “Interesting where you found those matches, eh?”

“In a corner
behind
the door,” she agreed. “Where nobody stands. I think it's a clue.”

“Almost certainly.”

“But what on earth does it mean?”

“Hey, you're the detective,” Branch said. “Find out.”