Evil Never Dies (The Lizzy Gardner Series Book 6) (12 page)

She gave him one of her
are-you-fucking-kidding-me
stares. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like things just the way they are between the two of us.”

“You do not. You like me more than you’re willing to let on. Everyone knows it, so just say yes. Go on a date with me, Hayley.”

“Where would we go?”

“How about a concert in San Francisco? A lot of new bands play at the fairgrounds over there. It’s cool. I think you’d enjoy it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Fair enough.”

“Guess what?” she said in hopes of getting his mind off her, them, the possibility of a date.

“What?”

“I think I’m ready to give up cigarettes.”

His eyes lit up as if he’d just seen an elephant enter the room. “I can honestly say I never expected to hear you ever say that.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve always said you only had one vice and you were never going to give it up. What made you change your mind?”

“Actually, I experienced my first bout of morning cough, and I didn’t like it. I think it’s time to give my lungs a break.”

Tommy pulled his black knit ski cap over his head and then picked hers up and did the same for her, pulling the cap snugly over her ears. He looked into her eyes for a long moment and then released his hold on her.

Before he could step away, Hayley reached out and gently clasped her hands on to both sides of his face and pulled his lips to hers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Lizzy followed Jessica into the building off Orange Grove. After they signed in, they were ushered through a long corridor by a petite woman wearing slacks, a white blouse, and a beige blazer. The click of her sturdy heels echoed through the hallway as they went.

With everything Lizzy and the girls had going on, the last thing she wanted to do was sit across the table from a couple of FBI special agents. In the end, she figured she didn’t have much of a choice. There was no denying that Jimmy Martin was a good friend, but, more importantly, there was a killer on the loose. If she could be of any help, then she would do whatever she could.

The conference room they were brought to was spacious with four white walls. A picture of J. Edgar Hoover dominated one of the walls. In the center of the room was a long rectangular table where Jimmy Martin and Kenneth Mitchell awaited them.

Jimmy was a cancer survivor. He was in his midsixties. He looked good.

Kenneth Mitchell was at least twenty years younger, tall and slender, with light-colored eyes and thinning hair.

Jimmy stood and greeted Lizzy with a friendly embrace.

After introductions were made, Jessica and Lizzy took offered seats across the table from the two men. The woman in the beige blazer made sure everyone had water before she left, shutting the door behind her.

Jimmy got to it. “Kenneth here will be heading up the Sacramento Strangler case, and I’ll be working alongside him at times. We wanted a chance to talk to you, Lizzy, and ask you a few questions.”

Lizzy nodded.

“I’d like to begin by saying how sorry I am for your loss,” Mitchell said. “Jared was well liked and respected for his single-mindedness when it came to solving a case. He was one of the brightest men I’ve ever worked with.”

“Thank you.”

“We realize this is an incredibly tough time for you,” Jimmy added. “I think you know me well enough to know I wouldn’t drag you here if it wasn’t important.”

“I understand.”

“To start off,” Mitchell said, “it’s important that we ask you if Jared ever talked to you about any of the cases he was working on.”

“He rarely spoke about work,” Lizzy said. “Most evenings, I was the one who brought work home and then picked his brain for ideas.”

He glanced at his notes. “Do you recall Jared ever keeping record of his daily activities, perhaps a journal where he might have kept tabs on people he interviewed or places he visited?”

“No. I would have known if he kept any sort of log.”

He scribbled something on his notepad before continuing. “What about any phone calls? Do you recall Jared having any conversation at all that might have sounded strained in any way? Perhaps you remember a change in his voice or demeanor, anything that might have stood out at the time as being out of the norm?”

She shook her head. “I can’t think of a thing. The truth is, I was so busy I didn’t have time to help Jared plan our wedding. You would have been better off talking to our neighbor, Heather, since she spent more time with him leading up to the wedding day than I did.”

“Can we talk to her?”

“She’s dead,” Lizzy said bluntly.

“I see.” Mitchell reached into his file and began laying out pictures of recent crime scenes in front of Lizzy. One photo was of a young woman among leaves and twigs, her body arranged just so. She had been sliced across the abdomen. There was also a picture of a handheld mirror with a gold finish. She figured that was the mirror Jessica had mentioned.

Among the other pictures was a magnified photograph of the mark the killer left on his victims. Jessica was right. The mark, in some cases, could easily be mistaken as a scratch or a cut. Some were big, some small. It looked like some sort of symbol. A capital
Z
with an extra line through it. There were also pictures of the other items found over the years: a clock, a sphere, a book, a bouquet of irises, a wreath of red roses placed around the top of a male victim’s head. There were more pictures, but nothing made sense, so she stopped looking. “What do you think all of this means?”

“We’ve got a team of people working on it. A lot of ideas are being tossed into the hat, but so far we have nothing definitive and no correlation between any of the objects.”

“It’s there,” Jessica said. “Right there in front of us. With every victim, he’s giving us a clue, a piece of him. It’s like putting together a puzzle.”

Lizzy picked up another picture. It looked like a stone. “Is that coral?”

Mitchell nodded. “That was found in the front pocket of one of his youngest victims, a young girl strangled outside a rest-stop bathroom while she waited for her mother. She also had a watch clutched tightly in her hand.”

“He wouldn’t have had much time,” Lizzy said.

“Which is why he didn’t take the time to carve his mark into the girl. She’s one of the few who does not have the symbol, but it’s the timepiece that connects her to the rest. Her mother was adamant about having never seen the coral or the timepiece before.” Mitchell pointed to a picture of the watch that was found.

“Four fifteen,” Jessica said. “Could be another clue.”

“Jessica mentioned that you thought Jared might have been close to identifying the killer. Why is that?”

“As you probably know, Agent Shayne worked this particular case for the last year after Gordon Presley retired. He’s the one who first noticed the symbol or mark on two of the victims. We have reason to believe that sometime within a twenty-four-hour time frame before your wedding day, the killer or someone close to the killer made contact with him.”

Lizzy paled. “Jared was at a hotel the night before our wedding. I talked to him for only a few minutes the next day.” She drew in a steadying breath. “He didn’t mention anything about receiving a call from a killer.”

Jessica put a hand on Lizzy’s shoulder. She looked at Jimmy and said, “Are we done here?”

Mitchell kept his gaze on Lizzy. “We would appreciate it if you could take a look through Jared’s things . . . a calendar with an unfamiliar number scribbled in the margins, a notebook, anything that might stand out or stir a memory.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lizzy said as Jessica stood.

They all came to their feet. Jimmy walked them to the door. Lizzy realized then that her hands were shaking and her knees felt weak. She needed to get out of there.

Box after box of Jared and Lizzy’s life together were brought into the house. Tommy had borrowed a friend’s truck, driven to storage, and picked up every box with Jared’s name on it.

“Unless you need anything else,” Tommy said to the group, “I’m going to take off.”

“Thanks for your help,” Lizzy said.

“No problem.” He pointed a finger at Hayley. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, five o’clock.”

“Why so early?” Hayley asked.

“It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to San Francisco, and I want to beat the crowds. I’ll see you then.” Before Hayley could protest, he gave a backhanded wave and made a quick exit.

“Where are you two going?” Kitally asked.

“Some sort of concert.”

“Wow,” Kitally said. “A real official date.”

“It’s not a date.”

Lizzy took a box cutter and sliced through the tape on the biggest box. “He’s picking you up. Taking you to a concert. Definitely a date.” Without opening the box, she went to the next and cut that one open, too, and then the next, and so on.

Hayley must have noted Lizzy’s reluctance to look inside. The girl knew her well. Hayley opened the first box and began sorting through Jared’s things, carefully, methodically, without making a big deal about whatever was inside.

Lizzy knew she wasn’t emotionally prepared to do this, but there was a serial killer on the loose and he needed to be stopped. She tried to look at it like any other investigation.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Kitally asked.

“Anything that stands out,” Lizzy said. “Any object that might make you wonder ‘Why is this here?’ or ‘What does this mean?’ ”

“Got it. Where’s Jessica?”

“She had to return to Virginia for a few days. She’ll be going back and forth for a while.”

“What’s this?” Kitally asked, pulling a tiny collar out of the box. “It says Rumpelstiltskin on it.”

Hayley looked at Lizzy. “Isn’t that the name he first gave Hannah when he brought you the kitten?”

Lizzy nodded and looked away. “I didn’t know he had a collar made.”

“And he kept it, too.”

“Look at this,” Hayley said, pulling out a T-shirt that said, “Don’t forget to smile.”

Lizzy smiled. “Jessica gave him that for his birthday. She always teased him about being too serious.”

It went on like that. Kitally or Hayley would pull out something that would make them all remember a particular moment in time. By the end of the day, they had laughed and cried and laughed some more. It was a powerful, emotionally exhausting exercise. However cathartic it might’ve been for Lizzy, they’d unearthed nothing of use for the Strangler investigation.

After Hayley and Kitally disappeared, Lizzy closed each box and stacked them against the wall away from the high windows. The last box she picked up was filled with clothes. Lizzy’s sister, Cathy, had ended up packing Jared’s things for her. Jared’s favorite suit was on top of the pile, zipped up tightly in a garment bag. Lizzy pulled the suit out and brushed her fingers over the lapels before putting the luxurious fabric against her cheek, breathing him in. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she recalled the last time she’d seen him wearing it at a dinner party. They had snuck out early and then stopped at some dive that ended up serving the best hot pastrami sandwich she’d ever tasted.

As she put the suit back into the bag, she felt something crinkle beneath her fingers. She reached into the inside front pocket of the jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. It was a note, folded twice. She set the suit aside for a moment and opened it up.

Three words:
We must talk.

There was a telephone number scribbled below the message. It was a 916 area code. She glanced at the clock. It was too late to call the number now. She would wait until tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After he finished setting up his easel, he readied his palette and then selected a few basic colors to start: titanium white, ivory black, cadmium red, permanent alizarin crimson, ultramarine blue, phthalo blue, cadmium yellow light, and cadmium yellow. He would be using oils and a preprimed canvas.

He peeked through the metal slot in the door.

“What are you looking at now, you disgusting pig? Are you going to drug me again so that you can have your way with me? I know what you do when I’m out cold, you sicko.”

“My little Claire. You have not the tiniest clue of what I do to you when you’re unconscious. Trust me when I tell you that whatever your imagination conjures up is nothing compared to the cold hard truth. I like to experiment and play. Your flesh is as soft and smooth as a newborn baby’s. I like to take my time with you, Claire.”

“Shut up!” She squeezed her eyes shut—all there was for her to do, since her hands and feet were bound with tape.

“I like to take my time with you,” he repeated, louder this time. “I know every curve of your body. I know the scent of you . . . every bit of you.” He breathed in, sucking air through his nostrils as if reliving the moment.

“I hate you!” she shouted, trying to spit at him, but only making a mess of her little bed. “You make me sick.”

“I’ve tasted you, too.” He smacked his lips. “Your every secret has been exposed, Claire.”

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! You’re the most grotesque and disgusting monster on earth.” She shook her head wildly back and forth.

If she kept that up, she was going to pass out all on her own.

He let the flap clank shut.

Little Claire was getting on his nerves with all her name-calling over the past few days.

Even so, the excitement was building. He took in a deep, cleansing breath.

It was time to get her image on canvas.

This would be the first time he would paint a portrait of one of his victims while she was alive, right here in the flesh. His insides hummed at the prospect. Everything he’d done to her over the past few days was nothing compared to this.

His magnum opus.

As he pondered which brushes he would use, his phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. The name that flashed across the screen squashed every bit of thrill humming through his body.

Gillian.

The only woman he knew who could kill a buzz in the blink of an eye.
Why did she have to call today?
She’d always had excruciatingly bad timing. It often seemed as if she had a sixth sense. And yet he knew he must answer the call. To do otherwise would only prove pointless—she would not stop calling until he answered.

“Hello,” he said, failing miserably at hiding his disappointment.

“Thank goodness you answered. I’ve been worried about you.”

“And why is that?”

The poor, nervous female always sounded as if she were standing on a cliff, ready to jump. “Oh, you know me,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to?”

He wanted nothing more than to tell her he’d just been about to walk out the door and had to get off the line, but that would never work. She often talked about paying him a visit, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen.

His gaze fell upon the painting that had been hanging on the wall of the cellar when he’d first moved into the house. The artist had used oils. The artwork was layered, which could mean the painting dated back to the nineteenth century, at least. It was merely a fisherman on a boat, but there was something very dark about the painting. Perhaps it was the bloated grayish clouds or the tumultuous waters.
No
, he thought,
it’s the fish
. A single fish at the end of the line, its tail whipping upward in vain as it tried to escape, instinctively knowing death was near.

“Are you there?” Gillian asked, pulling him back into the real world. She’d been talking nonstop, and he had no idea what she’d said.

He forced himself to answer. “Yes, I am here.”

“Your classes are going well?”

He nodded, then remembered he was on the phone and said, “Yes,” letting the
s
out in a long, drawn-out hiss.

“Are you taking your medications?”

He placed a finger on a pressure point near his left temple, trying to stop an irritating twitch under his eye, because if he didn’t stop the twitching, he might completely lose it and then he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. “I am taking my medication,” he lied. “I am doing everything you’ve suggested I do, and I am feeling quite well. Thank you for asking. I no longer think it’s necessary for you to keep checking up on me—”

“Does that mean you’ve been journaling?”

“Of course,” he said. Journaling wasn’t a new idea. But, of course, Gillian believed she’d dreamed up the idea of writing down one’s thoughts as a form of therapy.

“The last time we talked, you mentioned that you had invented a new coping mechanism for when you’re feeling a high dose of anxiety. You told me you had written it all down in your journal and that you would read me a bit of it next time we talked. Do you think you could do that now?”

“No. Now is not a good time.” His attention was back on the painting, back on the fish. Something about the picture—the frantic movement of the water and the trout—made him shiver with anticipation. It was a speckled trout. The fear in its eyes was palpable. He could almost feel the sting of the hook and the bite of the barb cutting through his own soft flesh just inside his mouth.

“Well, I’m disappointed. Have you at least been trying to meet people?”

“Not really. No need.”

“What about the woman you told me about . . . Lola, wasn’t it?”

“We still talk,” he lied. Lola was merely a figment of his imagination, thought up to make Gillian happy. How stupid could she be to think that he actually knew a Lola, a name he’d come up with after listening to a song on the radio?

“Wonderful news. When can I meet her?”

“I don’t know why you try so hard to pretend we’re friends,” he announced, already at his wit’s end. “We’re not.”

“We’ve been over this. You know I’m only trying to help.”

She made him feel as if he were suffocating.
Who does she think she is?
He could feel his anger building, starting at the arches of his feet, ready to work its way up to his core and burst into outrage.

To make matters worse, Claire shouted something from within her small confines. Despite being bound, she also managed to make a loud thumping noise against the floor.

“What’s going on over there? Are you having work done?”

“It’s the neighbors,” he said quickly. “They’re always in the middle of one renovation or another.”

“Why is it always so difficult for you to talk to me?”

“Do you want the truth, Gillian?”

“You know I do.”

“Because I don’t like the way you make me feel.”

“How is that?”

“Small and insignificant.”

“If that’s true, then there must be others who make you feel small and insignificant.”

Endorphins rushed to his brain.
Only you, Gillian. Only you.
“Gillian,” he said through clenched teeth, “do I need to remind you that, thanks to my parents naming you trustee, you control my finances, my wealth, and now you’re trying to control my personal life, too? So, no, you’re not like anyone else.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have upset you.”

“I’m fine.”

Finally, after a string of awkward apologies, she allowed the conversation to end. The moment he disconnected, he was overcome with relief. He felt a tremendous desire to sag against the wall and take a moment to collect himself. Instead, he pulled the key from the hook on the wall, opened the door to the wine cellar, and headed straight for Claire, eager to set her straight on who was in control around here.

And this time when she screamed, it was a shrill sound filled with fear and anxiety. It was downright primal, instantly filling him with heavenly rapture. In that instant, he found himself wishing he could keep Claire here with him forever.