Deserves to Die (26 page)

In the pile of clothes where her switchblade had been hidden. She quickly tossed her jeans and sweater aside, but, of course, the tiny phone wasn’t where she’d left it. Her keys . . . no, they were gone, too.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed just as he returned from the bathroom. “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” She was standing in the middle of the living room, trying to come up with some kind of option because no matter what he thought, she was not returning to Louisiana.

“You know, I try my level best.”

At the news of a potential suspect in the Cantnor and Pope homicides, Blackwater wanted an up-to-the-minute report on everything the department knew about the new suspect. If the lead panned out, he would order a BOLO—Be On The Lookout—bulletin for the woman.

He called in Alvarez and Pescoli, Zoller, the junior detective in charge of the Internet research, Deputy Winger as he trusted her advice, and Brett Gage, the chief criminal deputy.

Joelle Fisher, of course, couldn’t let a meeting go without bringing in a tray with two kinds of coffee, cups along with napkins, creamers and sweeteners.

Blackwater finally understood that, especially with the receptionist, there was a certain amount of decorum that had to be followed, tradition, if you will. He could appreciate Joelle’s single-mindedness when it came to a task, but worrying over who drank decaf or avoided artificial sweeteners or that the platter had a damn paper doily covering it, weren’t his top priorities. He wished Joelle would dial it back, just a notch or two, and he’d said as much.

She’d complied, but he sensed it was only temporary. Decorations and baked goods, celebrations of all kinds were part of her DNA, just like her throwback beehive hairstyle.

“Thank you,” he said as she left the meeting room, each step reverberating quickly against the tile floor.

“Let’s get to it,” he said as the invitees took spots around the table.

Other than Gage, no one bothered filling a cup. Alvarez and Zoller each had electronic notebooks, Gage and Pescoli notepads and pens. Blackwater had both at his fingertips. “I know about the prints and the connection, but what do we know about this person, Anne-Marie Calderone? You talked to someone in New Orleans, right?”

“Detective Montoya, yes,” Alvarez said, taking the lead in the discussion and passing out two pages, one with the picture from the suspect’s Louisiana driver’s license, the other a sheet of facts about the woman in question. “Anne-Marie Favier Calderone. She’s thirty years old and, according to Montoya, been missing for several months. He’s sending us the files and a timeline, but the long and the short of it is that she was married to Bruce Calderone, a medical doctor who, until recently, worked at a private hospital in New Orleans. Once connected to the Catholic church, it’s now run by lay people. He was a surgeon.”

“Was?” Blackwater interrupted, feeling his eyebrows slam together.

“He seemed to have disappeared, as well. Both he and his wife. From the interviews Montoya did with friends and family, it appears the marriage wasn’t stable, with accusations of affairs on both sides. Though there were never any charges filed, there were rumors of abuse.”

Alvarez continued on, saying that Anne-Marie Favier had grown up a daughter of privilege. The Faviers had once had family money, at least during Anne-Marie’s youth. According to her parents’ sworn statements, she was headstrong and brilliant but a little unbalanced. In high school, she spent three months in a mental hospital for undisclosed issues. Montoya had said the records were sealed as she’d been a minor at the time. Later, she’d not only finished a four year program but also held an MA in philosophy from Tulane University.

The trouble started after her marriage to Bruce Calderone, a medical student whom she’d helped through school. There followed breakups and reconciliations, even some long separations, which included the last one. She and Calderone had been separated and she’d filed for divorce. She’d signed, but Calderone had balked.

She’d ignored that little fact when she’d married her latest fling, a cowboy by the name of Troy Ryder in a tiny chapel in Las Vegas. When that relationship apparently soured, she returned to New Orleans sans the new groom, but when Calderone learned about the second marriage he’d blown a gasket. Though, again, not reported to the police at the time, the neighbors had heard screaming and yelling which ended abruptly around ten or ten-thirty. The next day, they were gone. Both of them. All of their worldly possessions left behind. It was, according to Montoya, as if they’d each just fallen off the face of the earth.

No cars taken, no credit cards used, no cell phones answered or turned on so the cops could locate them.

“That’s basically it, except for one interesting fact,” Alvarez said. “Though Anne-Marie wasn’t close to either of her parents, she was adored by her grandmother. The grandfather died years earlier, but the weekend Anne-Marie and her husband went missing, the grandmother was robbed. She claimed she had fifty thousand dollars in her safe and no one, other than her granddaughter and her daughter, knew the combination, though they of course could have told others. Montoya thinks the mother is in the clear and that leaves Anne-Marie.”

“She would steal from the one person she loved?” Pescoli asked.

Alvarez paused. “Maybe she was desperate. According to her parents, Montoya notes, that despite all of her education, their daughter never made any serious money or pursued a career in her field of interest. She held odd jobs all through school. Worked as a clerk or a waitress even after she graduated.”

“While her husband finished medical school?” Blackwater asked.

Alvarez studied her screen. “Uh-huh. What little Anne-Marie made, coupled with his student loans, kept them afloat.”

Blackwater asked, “Either of them ever steal before?”

“Neither had a criminal record. So if they had, they were never caught. But if they had the grandmother’s cash to finance their disappearance, and maybe new identities, it could explain why we can’t find either one of them.”

He rubbed his chin and shook his head as he thought. “They hated each other, so it’s unlikely they were on the run together, and if he had a thriving medical practice—”

“Not thriving.” Alvarez shook her head. “In fact, Dr. Calderone not only worked at the hospital but was a partner in a clinic. The business was going bankrupt, though his partners think he was not only syphoning off money but prescription drugs, as well. After he disappeared, a couple women came forward and reported that he’d been inappropriate with them. They’re suing his practice as well as him personally, and as such, his wife.”

“Because she had money?”

“Her family had money,
at one time
, but according to the New Orleans PD, Mr. and Mrs. Talbert Favier are teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. It’s kind of a case of everyone believing everyone else had huge piles of dough stashed somewhere, but the Faviers had invested in real estate and their own business and it was all hit hard during the recession. The only person with any money left is Grandma Favier.”

Blackwater frowned at the flat image of the woman who seemed to be staring up at him from her driver’s license photo. “Do we have any more pictures?”

“Montoya’s sending them through e-mail.” Alvarez checked her iPad. “Oh, here we go. Let me hook this up.” She spent a few seconds connecting her device to a large monitor on the wall and clicked through a series of images of a beautiful woman in her twenties, laughing and mugging for the camera. “Some of these are from her Facebook account. No activity of course since they disappeared. Nothing on any social media platforms. And here.” She flipped through another series. “This is the husband, Bruce Calderone.”

They all leaned forward to look at the picture. Calderone was a big man with even teeth and an easy smile. He was dressed in a lab coat.

“And one more. Anne-Marie Calderone’s love interest. Troy Ryder.” Another image filled the screen, a man of thirty odd years with tanned skin, crow’s feet, and eyes set deep in his skull.

Blackwater looked from Alvarez to Pescoli, who’d let her partner do all the talking. Pescoli’s mouth was stubbornly set as if she didn’t agree with what was going on.

He glanced back at the picture. “So, now we’ve got a love triangle, a robbed grandmother, two missing people from New Orleans, and our two dead victims with the severed fingers dumped here in Grizzly Falls.” He glanced around the table. “Am I missing anything else?”

“Just one more thing,” Alvarez said. “There was talk about her being involved at one time with Cade Grayson.”

“Another boyfriend?”

“Long before Ryder. Cade’s a person who could be her connection to Grizzly Falls, maybe why she ended up here.”

“That woman really gets around,” Gage observed.

“Two boyfriends, one husband,” Pescoli said. “Not so much getting around.”

“More like two husbands, one boyfriend,” Gage rejoined. “She seems to have a little trouble with her marriage vows.”

“Lot of that going around,” Pescoli said.

Blackwater interrupted. “Someone needs to talk to him. See if Grayson’s seen her.”

Alvarez said, “Already on it.”

“Good. Now, is there anything else?”

Gage shrugged and Alvarez shook her head. Zoller and Winger were both busily taking notes. He focused on Pescoli. “What do you think, Detective?”

“Fingerprint or no fingerprint, I have trouble believing our doer’s a woman.”

Blackwater felt impatient, but whether he liked the rogue detective or not, he grudgingly respected her gut instincts.

“I think it’s damn convenient that we have her prints, no, make that
print
, singular. One at each scene,” Pescoli went on. “Doesn’t anyone else find that convenient?”

Gage gave another shrug. “Maybe odd.”

Blackwater regarded Pescoli for a moment, then said, “Since we can’t find hide nor hair of Mr. or Mrs. Calderone, maybe we should be looking for Ryder. Unless he’s hiding, too, and they’re all involved in this thing together, which I don’t believe, there should be records of him. Credit card receipts and cell phone records?”

“Montoya’s already on it,” Alvarez said, reading from her device. “Looks like he was recently in Denver, but he did buy gas in Casper, Wyoming and Billings, Montana and finally, a few days ago, made a purchase right here in Grizzly Falls at Corky’s Gas and Go.”

Blackwater said, “And I assume we have a make and model of his vehicle?”

Alvarez glanced up from her computer while Winger broke down and poured herself a cup of coffee. “We do.”

“Then I suggest you start at the gas station with pictures of Ryder. Take the others as well, just in case he’s traveling with either of them, then check the local motels. He probably doesn’t think anyone’s looking for him, so he might be registered under his own name. Let’s bird-dog him.” Blackwater felt a warm spot deep in his gut. Maybe this case would break under his watch, the culprits of a scandalous crime spree that stretched from the deep South to Grizzly Falls brought to justice. “Don’t forget Cade Grayson. The two on the run might be in disguise, so let’s work with the computer guys, do some enhancements, Photoshop a little, play with the images.” He grinned at his team. That’s right,
his
team. “Who knows, the missing Calderones might be hiding in plain sight right under our noses.”

A
nne-Marie was through being bullied. She jabbed an angry finger straight at Ryder. “I’m never going back to Louisiana, but I was willing to turn myself in here.”

“Because of Cade Grayson?”

She’d picked up her jeans and was reaching for her sweater but stopped to look at him in surprise.

“I knew about him. And when your coworkers in Denver mentioned you were hooking up with an old boyfriend, he came to mind.”

“What happened between Cade and me was a long time ago.”

“But you came here.”

“I was going to meet with his brother. Dan was the sheriff. Cade had sworn he was fair and would look at all sides of an issue. I knew I had to turn myself in, that I couldn’t keep running, but I didn’t trust anyone in New Orleans. My father golfs with judges and lawyers and . . . and he thought I’d made a big mistake. That no matter what, I should stick with Bruce. He would rather believe I was lying.” She bristled at that thought, that her own parents had sided with the man who had beaten her.

“So, what made you finally run?” Ryder asked, a tenderness in his voice.

It made her heart soften though she knew it was stupid. He didn’t care for her, possibly never had. After the whole bigamy thing, he could never trust or think kindly of her again. Yet there was a note in his words that pierced beneath the shield she’d built around her heart.

She sat on one arm of the couch and pulled on her jeans. The fire was burning bright and finally casting some heat into the room. “We’d had one of our classic fights. The last one, I’d hoped. It was on the phone and I’d decided, once and for all, it was over. I was strong enough to leave him forever.

“I’d never moved back into the house once you and I . . . well, ever since Las Vegas. I didn’t love him. Probably never had. I was done. I wanted out. If I never saw him again, that would have been fine. I knew he’d never forgive me, but I made a major mistake. I still had things at his house where I used to live, and so . . . I knew he was working at his office, so I went back to our townhouse intent on loading up the rest of my things and leaving town.”

She clenched her teeth at the memory, and heard once again in her mind, the downstairs door opening when she’d been on the upper floor in the master bedroom.

She had already stripped out the closet. Her clothes were strewn across the king-sized bed she’d come to hate. Barely able to breathe, she prayed he had just come home for a quick bite, that he hadn’t seen her car parked out back.

And then she heard his footsteps on the stairs, his tread swift and determined as he mounted the steps to the second floor. She cowered in the closet, but it was no use. He threw open the bedroom door, looked at the mess on the bed, and zeroed in on the closet. As he opened the door, a shaft of light pierced the messy interior where she was hiding between his suits and shirts.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he roared, though her intent was painfully obvious. “Leaving? Leaving me? You think you can do that? Leave me for some cheap cowboy? Steal away like a common whore in the middle of the night?” His face, the contours of which she’d once found so handsome, twisted in rage. Nostrils flared, skin flushed, cords in his neck pronounced, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her forcibly from the interior of the closet.

She swung at him hard, connected with his ribs, and then saw the hypodermic needle in his free hand. Oh God, she thought, he knew she’d returned and was ready for her.

She felt the jab of the needle in her arm and, as the room began to swim, saw him pick up the rings she’d put on the nightstand—the engagement ring and wedding band that he’d given her—that she shouldn’t have ever let him see again.

“Are you fucking kidding me? This isn’t over until I say it’s over.” The diamonds winked in his hand and then he closed his fist around the clear stones. His lips were curled in rage.

Still swinging her arms and flailing wildly, she gratefully passed out at that moment.

Anne-Marie shook her head. From that point, she remembered nothing at all until she became groggily aware. It all came back.

She felt cold air on her bare skin and a dull throb in her hand, something slick beneath her, the smell of dank earth in her nostrils. Before she could fully revive, she was kicked hard, sent spinning and rolling. The plastic tarp whipped from under her body as she careened down a berm and splashed into the murky water where she woke with the first gulp of silty water.

She knew she had to play dead, to let the slow-moving current carry her on its path. She caught glimpses of moonlight through scudding clouds, saw the ghostly roots of cypress trees rising above the water line, and knew she wasn’t alone in the sluggish water, that alligators waited, hunting. Yet she managed to slip slowly downriver, around a wide curve, and deeper into the woods, undisturbed.

She eased her way to the bank, praying that she didn’t disturb a nest of gators or step on a snake as she dragged her naked body out of the water by grabbing on to a thick, bleached root. She made her way through the soupy ground to a shack that was boarded over. She broke through a small window and found clothing three sizes too large, but dry. She quickly dressed and stumbled out to the road.

She made her way to the outskirts of New Orleans, hitching a ride with some teenagers high on marijuana.

“Anne-Marie?”

She heard and snapped back to reality and the dilapidated cabin where Ryder was still waiting for an answer. There was more to her story, of course. The most pivotal part that she hated to think about.

He was standing by the fire, warming the backs of his legs.

“I ran because he beat me, Ryder. That’s why I ran.” She closed her eyes at the admission, and though she knew she shouldn’t be ashamed, it was difficult to admit the hateful truth. How could someone who’d sworn to love her, to protect her, had vowed to be her husband for all their lives, been able to raise his hand to her, to beat her with a viciousness that could only be described as hatred?

“I put up with it for a while, believed him when he claimed to love me, begged me to come back, and promised that he would never hurt me again. He cried, and I wanted to believe him. At least in the beginning.” She saw the unasked questions in Ryder’s eyes, listened to them ricochet off the walls of her brain because she’d asked herself the same things—
Why did you stay? Why didn’t you walk away the first time? Why didn’t you call the police? Why in the world did you let it happen more than one damn time?

“You didn’t tell me any of this.”

“I didn’t want you to know.” She couldn’t read what he was thinking, so she just went on. “I finally realized that he would never change so we split up. He wasn’t happy about it, but I was through being his punching bag. It wasn’t about love, it was about ownership. I was his, and though he really didn’t want me anymore, he sure as hell didn’t want anyone else to have me.” Her fists clenched at the memory. “So, I filed for divorce, met you . . . and it felt so good to laugh again, to fall in love, to . . . oh, hell, I don’t know . . . to
live
again without fear. I wanted it to work out with you and me. Wanted it so much.”

She blinked back tears. Refused to cry. She knew that she’d thrown herself into her affair with Ryder far too fast and her enthusiasm had more to do with breaking free of her old life than of starting a new one with him. She hadn’t really known him and had kidded herself about finding true love with a happy-ever-after ending.

Forcing her balled fists to unclench, she said, “I thought he’d sign the divorce papers, but I should have known better. Bruce Calderone doesn’t lose. Especially to his wife. My leaving meant that I’d won. At least to him. I was naive enough to think that with time, he’d cool off, see that our marriage was a big mistake from the get-go. I convinced myself that he would calm down and accept that we shouldn’t be together.”

Ryder was frowning hard, but he let her continue without comment.

“I made the mistake of returning to the house after we’d been separated for over a year to pick up some of my things. And . . . and he beat me within an inch of my life.”

Ryder’s jaw slid to one side, a muscle working under his temple. “So, what happened to him?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“He’s still your husband.”

Her insides shriveled at the thought. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Something Ryder had mentioned earlier still bothered her. “You said that there were two reasons you wanted to haul me back to Louisiana, the first being to clear your name as that detective down there . . . what’s his name?”

“Montoya.”

“He thought you were involved in my disappearance.” She pulled her sweater from the pile of clothes she’d gathered on her lap and drew it over her head. “What was the second?”

Ryder was still standing by the fireplace. He’d scarcely moved a muscle.

“What’s the other reason?” she asked again. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that it isn’t because you missed my company.”

He was quiet, as if he didn’t want to admit to his reasons.

Though she’d sworn she didn’t care, she felt a niggle of disappointment. She’d kidded herself that he was different, that he wasn’t interested in her because of her looks, or her charm, or the fact that her family had money and someday she would inherit a small fortune. No, Troy Ryder had been different from the others, more into her as a person than anyone, including Bruce Calderone and Cade Grayson, had been.

She saw he wasn’t all that different, after all. And then, like a tidal wave that’s drawn far out to sea only to turn, she realized the truth in a crashing, drowning blow. “Let me guess,” she said, hating the thought. “You’re here because you think I have money.”

“Close.” His jaw was hard.

“You think my family will pay for me? You’re going to hold me for ransom?”

“Gettin’ warmer,” he said but didn’t seem to have any pride in his statement. And the drawl she’d once found so endearing actually grated.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not a ransom,” he said shortly. It was clear he was having some difficulty explaining himself.

Why would he chase her down, then spend these last months searching for her? Then she knew. “It’s a bounty. My damn family offered you money to bring me home and you accepted.” She let out a disgusted sigh and folded her arms across her chest, staring at him. “How disappointing.”

That actually looked like it penetrated, but she wasn’t going to let her romantic side believe something that wasn’t true any longer. “I can’t believe they even care,” she said bitterly. “How much am I worth, if I dare ask?”

It took him a moment or two, but then he bit out, “One hundred thousand dollars.”

“Cade Grayson’s still not answering,” Alvarez said from the passenger seat of Pescoli’s Jeep after calling twice. She’d left two messages for him to call her back.

“He might not have his phone with him.” Pescoli was driving, her wipers slapping off the snow. “He doesn’t seem the type to keep his cell with him twenty-four seven, and I don’t see him texting.” She turned off of the road leading down Boxer Bluff. “He’s probably pretty busy with his livestock in a storm like this. It’s not a picnic. If we have to, we’ll drive out there.”

Alvarez said dryly, “Conditions couldn’t be better.”

Ever since the meeting at the station less than half an hour earlier, Pescoli had been anxious, more anxious than usual. Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel as she followed three cars all creeping through town. Her mind was on the case, running through the newfound information about Anne-Marie Calderone. She felt a sense of urgency, as if time were her enemy and she had to keep moving—which was damn difficult as traffic was crawling more than ever, just inching along.

“Why don’t these people stay home?” she muttered when the lead car finally pulled into the parking lot of a pharmacy. The guy, ninety if he was a day, cruised slowly into a handicapped spot, his front tires running against the berm in front of the sidewalk.

“People still need their meds.”

“Then they should learn to drive in the frickin’ snow.”

Alvarez shot her a look and Pescoli gripped the wheel a little harder. She was tired, cranky, hungry, and had no use for anyone out driving in the bad weather who didn’t know how. No, strike that. She had no use for anyone driving and getting in her way.

Finally, the gas station mini-mart came into view. At the first entrance, she pulled into the parking area of Corky’s Gas and Go, the very station where her son worked off and on, and wheeled into an empty parking space. “Let’s do this,” she said, and she and Alvarez climbed from the vehicle.

Inside, a girl in her early twenties with huge eyes rimmed thickly in mascara was manning the cash register. The detectives flashed their badges, introduced themselves, showed a picture of Troy Ryder, and asked if she’d seen him.