Night Hunter (34 page)

In a fit of jealous rage, Corinne pounded her fists on the metal dashboard. Oh, God, why hadn’t she driven away before Jack came home? Then she wouldn’t have had to see him tenderly kissing another woman the way he used to kiss her.

Regina Houston. The bitch. The only woman Corinne had feared. The only one who could compete with her. Then she laughed ironically. There was no competing now. Regina had won again. Regina always won.

She put her forehead on the steering wheel and cried, deep, choking sobs that tore into her frail lungs and throat.

Many hours later, after John had returned to his apartment and Kristy had gone to bed, Regina finally managed to fall into a deep, drug-like sleep. Sometime in the night she awoke to her own voice, the memory of ringing still echoing in her head. The voice was coming from her answering machine. It beeped.

Groggy, she struggled to wake up.

The gravelly voice repeated the message left on the cassette. “... be last. Which one is the prettiest?”

What was happening? Oh my God, what was happening?

The phone rang again. Regina reached for the receiver, then decided to let the machine screen the call. After the greeting a raucous tone warbled in her ear. A recorded voice began, “We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial agai—”

“
Momma?” Kristy cautiously slipped into the room, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on? Who keeps calling? Is it him?”

“
I don’t know.”

“
I’m scared.”

So am I,
Regina wanted to say, but instead she patted the bed and said, “Get in, sweetheart.”

Kristy slid under the covers. Regina clasped hands with her daughter. Kristy fell asleep quickly. Finally, exhausted, Regina followed.

CHAPTER 25

Donna wondered about it. She wondered about it a lot lately.

Would it hurt? Could she do it without making a mess of it? The last thing she wanted was to live indefinitely in a comatose state, a burden on her family, her brain fried by the overdose of drugs.

Why me?
That was one of a dozen questions she asked herself. What kind of monster would do this? What would the future bring? Depression, fear, anger, those were the emotions that carried her through each dreary, pain-filled day. Although she wanted to lash out, to cry and scream and vent the pent-up rage that twisted at her insides, such behavior from someone so habitually kind and optimistic would shock those who knew her. And she was a conformist to the bitter end.

Donna pulled her hand out from beneath the covers and slowly opened her fingers. The bottle was nearly full. Percodan. Painkillers prescribed for her last winter when she’d injured her back skiing.

Donna’s aversion to any drugs stronger than aspirin stemmed from the fear of becoming dependent upon them. For as long as she could remember, her mother had been addicted to one prescription drug or another, in addition to nicotine, coffee, and alcohol.

Nolan had brought Donna the Percodan the night before.

Poor Nolan. He could never tolerate ill health, mental or physical. Just showing up at the hospital each day had to employ a great deal of effort. He came every day, though his visits had become shorter and shorter. He seemed gravely discomforted and wired, pacing the room, standing at the window nervously snapping the band on his wristwatch, until she too wanted him away from her.

The worst was his inability to look directly at her. He looked everywhere but at her face and throat. Occasionally he slipped, casting his gaze where he had so carefully avoided, and the instant flash of repulsion, no less a reflexive action than if he had been punched in the stomach, would leap over his face.

Her father insisted she would be normal again. Dr. Sexton said there would be a dramatic improvement, and that with makeup, high collars, and the right lighting, it would be difficult for the TV viewers to discern the burned flesh from the unburned flesh.

But Nolan would know.

She opened the bottle and spilled the contents out in her hand. She heard footsteps in the corridor. Someone was coming. With tremulous hands, she poured the pills back into the bottle and pushed it under the sheet. It was probably Nolan. He had taken to coming early in the morning, using the excuse of the station as a means of breaking away sooner.

As the door opened slowly inward. Donna felt a sense of hopelessness sucking painfully at her insides. She pulled the sheet up to her chin.

“
Hi,” Tom Gansing said with a warm smile, holding up a book. The room seemed to brighten. Donna smiled back, the sheet slid down unawares.

Amelia parked in front of Fletcher’s apartment building. She refused to use the parking garage. She cautiously climbed the steps to the third floor, avoiding the elevator as well.

At the door of 31 she raised her hand to knock, changed her mind and used her key instead. She slipped in silently and closed the door.

The apartment had an unoccupied smell, devoid of coffee and other cooking aromas. She crossed the living room to the hall that led to the bedroom and bath. In the bedroom an unmade bed and the usual clutter of a bachelor awaited her. Had he slept in this bed the night before?

She went to the closet. His clothes were there, five suits, a dozen shirts, and nearly as many pairs of slacks. In the dresser drawers she found underwear, socks, and T- shirts. On the dresser top was his watch—not the gold Pulsar, but the less expensive Calvin Klein.

She strode to the telephone on the night table and lifted the receiver. The dial tone confirmed that it was in working order. With the receiver tapping lightly against her chin, she stood stiffly, her gaze sweeping the room. Everything was as he’d left it. So goddamnit, where the hell was the sonofabitch?

She scribbled out a note telling him to call her house and use the code of two rings. She signed it with a large A. As an afterthought she squeezed in the word “love” over the initial.

In a tiny, cramped office in the courthouse, John watched Wilma Greenwood squeeze honey from a small plastic package into her coffee mug. She stirred it as she looked from him to Regina, then again at him. She smiled. John, somewhat self-consciously, returned the smile.

He’d met Regina that morning at the station and she’d seemed reserved, avoiding his eyes, jumping at his casual touch, talking quickly and nervously. She’d had plenty of time to think about what had happened between them in his apartment last night, and he suspected she had deemed it a mistake. Her husband had been dead six months. Only the widow could decide how long was long enough to grieve. She had enough problems without adding guilt and shame. He wanted her. The next move was hers. He could wait.

“
How do you like married life?” Regina asked Wilma.

“
I like it. Clyde’s a loner like me, so we respect each other’s privacy. And he has warm feet.” She sipped her coffee. “I have a feeling the two of you are about to enhance my life. Or should I say my workload?”

John looked to Regina. She cleared her throat. “Wilma, we suspect Tammy Kowalski may have been murdered.”

“
Pretty strong word ... murder,” Wilma said.

“
Yes, it is.”

Wilma leaned in, forearms on her desk. “So tell me.”

Regina explained about the poisoning of Tammy’s dog, the chlorine at the gym, the fingernail they’d found, and, finally, the message on her answering machine.

“
You have that message?” Wilma asked.

“
Right here.” Regina dug in her purse and extracted the cassette. “Isn’t there something police use, like fingerprints, to identify a voice?”

“
A voiceprint analysis. But it determines identity through comparison. We need a voice to compare it with.”

“
If we got a voice?” John asked.

She nodded. “It could be done. Anyone in particular in mind?”

“
Not yet,” John said.

“
Where’s the fingernail?”

Regina went back into her purse and pulled out a sandwich-size ziplock bag. She held it up.

Wilma stared at it a moment, then she rose, and before going out the door she said, “Sit tight.”

She was back within minutes with a file folder. She sat behind her desk and opened the folder. John saw photographs and reports.

“
May I?” Wilma said, holding out her hand.

Regina handed over the plastic bag.

“
Hmm.” Wilma handed John the bag along with one of the photographs.

Regina leaned toward him. Her hair, smelling of scented shampoo, tickled the side of his neck as she looked at the color picture.

In the picture two hands were displayed, obviously female by the slim contours and the long painted fingernails. The left hand, ring finger, was missing a nail. Something red —torn flesh, John guessed—ran across the edge of the nail. He didn’t have to compare the nail in the bag with the hand in the picture. The bright color, the diagonal stripe and glitter told the story.

Wilma read from the report. “Lacerated finger above nail bed. Trauma, fresh. Contusion on upper thigh, fresh. Lacerations on face determined to be caused from the fingernails of deceased.”

“
We found the broken nail in the utility room,” John said.

“
What about the bruise on her thigh?” Regina asked.

Wilma shuffled papers. “According to the police report the bruise and broken nail likely occurred when she went into the pool.”

“
Not only was Tammy a strong swimmer,” Regina said, “she was physically strong as well. I can’t believe she couldn’t have saved herself, impaired or not.”

“
Regina, people have been known to drown in inches of water.”

“
What about the dog?” John asked.

“
And the phone threats?” Regina added.

“
I must admit there does seem to be an aura of mystery surrounding this case. Beauty contestants, psychics, animal poisoning. Look, you two should contact the detectives that are working on the Lake case. If you feel there’s a connection, they’re the ones to notify. Make sure they get that cassette with the voice.”

“
What if they refuse to see a connection?” John said.

“
Then, should that happen, I’ll do what I can to help you if you want to carry on with your own private investigation. Sound fair?”

“
More than fair,” Regina said.

John had expected as much from both Wilma and Regina. So now he had to convince Regina that she had to talk to the police without him. He knew he should tell her about his involvement with Corinne and the fact that he was a suspect in both cases, but he held back. He was attracted to her. He felt the feeling was mutual. If she knew the truth, she might turn away from him. But would that be so tragic? He felt his stomach tighten at the thought.

On the street in front of the courthouse, Regina put on her sunglasses, then scanned the block. “The police station’s not far,” she said, “shall we walk?”

“
I’ll walk you down, but I won’t go in with you.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

“
I have my reasons. I’d rather not say just yet.”

“
What is going on?” Her voice betrayed exasperation. “Are you running from the law? Is that it?”

“
I’m not running from the law. They know where to find me if they want me.”