One Scream Away (7 page)

“Let go of me.”

“Why did you try to kill me just now?” Christ. That wasn’t what he should have asked. He should have asked her about the phone call. But his brain had short-circuited. Sensory overload. The fragrance of berries in her hair, the throb of her pulse in her wrist, the brush of her breasts against his rib cage. “Answer me,” he said. “Why did you go off like that?”

“You grabbed me,” she snarled.

“I touched you. There’s a difference.”

“You’re still touching me. Let go.”

Neil held her eyes then couldn’t resist letting his gaze drop to her lips. It was the tightness there that shook him free of the spell. Pinching back secrets.

He cursed and let go, but she came after him the instant she realized he’d wrenched her phone away. “Damn you,” she said, stomping her foot. “What do you want?”

“I wanna know what makes a woman lie to police, then walk around ready to rip a man’s throat out,” he said. “But I’ll settle for finding out who called you during lunch.”

“What?”

“Your cell phone rang about forty minutes ago. Lieutenant Sacowicz thinks the call came from Omaha.”

She blinked, as if genuinely surprised, and Neil arrowed down her phone screen.

“You have no right to listen to my phone messages! I’ll sue the police department.”

Her conviction was so righteous he almost chuckled. “I’m not a member of the police department, remember? Of course, you could file charges against me for assault or stealing your phone, but it would be one of those he-said, she-said situations.” He cocked a dark brow at her. “And
I
haven’t already lied to the police this week.”

“Give me my phone.”

He pushed her hands away and punched Okay. The screen came up with a number: area code 402. Well, shit. “You didn’t answer your phone during lunch,” he said, “yet this call was almost a minute long. Guess that means there’ll be a message here, huh?”

Denison ground her heel into the floor. Neil punched Okay again and put the phone to his ear.
“Ah, Beth, where are you? Answer the phone, doll. I need to talk to you.”

His blood turned cold. Not a woman, not the owner of the phone. Was this the voice of Gloria Michaels’s killer? He turned off the phone and looked at Denison. One more chance. “Who is this?”

“How would I know?
I
haven’t heard the message.”

He pushed the appropriate buttons and held the phone to her ear. She listened, and the blood drained from her cheeks.

“Ms. Denison?” he said, but she didn’t seem to hear him. He touched her shoulder and she jumped like a startled cat. Neil frowned. Thirty seconds earlier, the woman had been spitting nails. Now, she looked scared to death.

But there wasn’t time to think about it. A pair of uniforms came through the restaurant, and Neil slid the phone back into her purse. He dropped back as they walked into the lobby.

“Ms. Denison,” a balding officer said, “Lieutenant Sacowicz would like for you to come with us to the station.”

“What?” She looked at Neil, shock and anger swimming in her eyes, then back to the officers. “What the hell for?”

“Just questioning, ma’am,” said the other uniform, a striking blond who might have been of legal drinking age. He schooled his features into an expression he’d probably practiced in front of a mirror, adding, “Unless you wanna do it the hard way.”

Denison looked as if she’d gone numb, but for the sheer betrayal in her eyes. She stared at Neil, the cops flanking her out the door, and a memory stabbed him in the chest.
Damn it, Heather, I can’t help if you’re not gonna be straight with me…

He cursed.

Déjà fucking vu.

Chevy shoved the woman’s arms into the driver’s seat of the Honda. He stepped back and peered over the edge of the ravine, a hundred-and-fifty-foot bluff that sank into an abandoned quarry like the end of the earth. It made for a long hike back, but here he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding the woman. That was critical to his plan. This woman needed to be
missing
, like the one from Denver.

He propped the doll on the dead woman’s lap, smiling a little at the idea of all that money about to go over the bluff and into oblivion.
Eighteen sixty-four Benoit, original clothing. Bisque head and breastplate, kid body. One of a pair missing from the Larousse collection until 1995. Appraisal: $20,000–$25,000.
Another precious doll that Beth would never see.

Damn, he wished he hadn’t thought of her again. The only flaw in his plan so far was that she hadn’t answered her phone this morning, hadn’t given him the chance to turn the thumbscrews a little. Leaving a message was risky, but Chevy had finally given in. He’d had to hear her voice, even if it was just in voice mail, and know that when she got his message, the fear would start thumping in her chest. He had to know she was suffering.

Not like Mother. She had never suffered; she was gone between one heartbeat and the next. Incessant, lilting little folk tunes on her lips one second, death rattling in her throat the next. A .38-caliber pistol in her hand.

Chevy shook off the memory and wrenched the gear-shift into neutral. He walked to the back of the Honda, lodged his shoulder against the bumper, and gave it a shove. The wheels turned, the front end of the car dipping as the tires edged toward the ravine. Breathing hard, he pushed until the car crept another inch, then two, then picked up speed as the front wheels rotated down the slope and past the edge. A second later, momentum hurled it into the ravine.

He listened for metal crunching into the earth, the ribbon of sound swirling up from the bottom of the bluff like a scream. He pulled out the dead woman’s cell phone and started to dial Beth, then stopped.

He looked at his watch. Two o’clock, and an hour later in Virginia. God, he wanted to talk to Beth, but this woman’s phone wouldn’t be good for much longer. It might not even be safe now. The date book in her purse showed she’d had a hair appointment at nine o’clock this morning. It could be someone had noticed her missing already, maybe even reported it. Normally, there would be no need to worry so soon. But on the heels of Lila Beckenridge and Thelma Jacobs, the authorities just might take the report of a missing woman seriously enough to look into it without waiting the usual twenty-four hours.

He studied the cell phone, the frustration of not hearing Beth’s voice causing almost physical pain. But the risk of this phone being watched increased with every passing moment. No sense in taking chances.

He turned off the phone and with a pitcher’s windup, hurled it into the ravine. He pulled a pen from his pocket and marked off the insurance form for the doll that had just gone over. Already thinking ahead to his next stop, he turned to the fourth page.

Ah, yes.
That
doll. A thrill shot through him. Better pick up a couple of blank tapes for that one.

“Ah, Beth, where are you? Answer the phone, doll. I need to talk to you…”

Beth sat at a cold metal table in the interrogation room, eyes closed as the recording of a phone message from Omaha streamed from a digital recorder. It was the third time the lieutenant had played it for her, but if he expected repetition to wear her down, he’d be sadly mistaken. She simply blocked it out.

“Ms. Denison?” Lieutenant Sacowicz said, punching off the message. “Is there anything you’d like to say?”

Find him. Kill him. Take him out of my life.
“No.”

“Care to explain the gun in your purse?”

“I’m a single woman with a daughter to protect,” Beth said, referring to the .22 derringer she’d started carrying again. “I have a permit.”

“Martial arts, kickboxing, a pistol. You take protection pretty seriously.”

Yes
.

The lieutenant stared at her with eyes the color of pewter, then suddenly hit the recording again. Beth hadn’t prepared for it this time. A tidal wave of panic washed through her at the sound of Bankes’s voice. Gorge rose in her throat.

Hold it down. Don’t let the fear rise up. Omaha is still a long way away.

But the trembling began anyway, deep in the center of her bones. She clutched her arms over her chest, trying to contain the shivers. It didn’t help. “I need to go,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, too. “Abby will be finished at T-ball in half an hour.”

The lieutenant rubbed a hand over his face. “The problem is, Ms. Denison, I think you need some time to think this over. See if a name comes to mind.”

“What? Abby will be waiting. I have to get her.” The lieutenant set his jaw. Beth couldn’t believe it. “I haven’t been charged with anything. You can’t keep me here.”

He shook his head—a slow, weary gesture that made him look older than he probably was. “Have it your way.” He sighed. “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice and failure to cooperate in a police investigation. You have the right to remain silent, not that I need to tell you that,” he editorialized. “If you give up that right, anything yousay—”

“Wait! What about my daughter?”

“Is there someone you can call to go get her?”

Desperation clawed at Beth’s heart.
I’m in jail, Evan; would you go get Abby? Hannah, would you mind keeping Abby until they release me from jail?

“All right,” Sacowicz said, taking her silence as his answer. “I’ll take care of her. Shaw Park, right? Coach Mike’s team, the Ladybugs.”

“Wait,” Beth cried, shocked at the raw terror that seized her.
Chevy Bankes! His name is Chevy Bankes. But you can’t touch him. He’s free and he’s coming and as far as the law is concerned, he has every right…
She was stunned by how close the words came to spilling out. “Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?” he asked, bending close. “You can stop all this right now and go get your little girl and take her home. Just tell me the name of the caller and walk out of here.”

So simple. As if giving the devil a name would end it.

She couldn’t do it; she had to think about Abby. Keeping her mouth shut today would affect Abby for a couple of hours, maybe for the rest of the afternoon. Naming Chevy Bankes would haunt her daughter for a lifetime. About that much, anyway, Adam had been right.
Never tell, Beth. No one will understand.
And just this morning, hadn’t her lawyer confirmed that?
Keep quiet, Ms. Denison. The best thing you can do for your daughter is to never tell a soul and pray we can convince Bankes to leave you alone.

Beth grabbed the edge of the table, looking at the lieutenant through blurry eyes. “Please, Lieutenant.” She hated the tears but was helpless to keep them from running down her cheeks. “You said you’re a father. Please. Don’t let Abby be afraid. Whatever else happens, please don’t let my daughter be afraid.”

Sacowicz cleared his throat. “I’ll take care of her, Ms. Denison.”

He started for the door and Beth said, “Wait.” Her voice was barely loud enough to stop him. She cleared her throat. “I want a lawyer.”

T
he attorney blew in like a tornado, Neil thought. Her name was Adele Lochner, tall and slim, with a slick bun, sharp cheekbones, and a nose one size too big.

“Harassing good citizens again, Lieutenant?” she asked, looking at Denison through the one-way glass. She turned to Neil. “Who are you?”

“Neil Sher—”

“He’s former special agent Neil Sheridan, with the FBI.”

“Former,” she said. “Who is he now?”

“I asked him to consult with me. He has knowledge of a related case,” Rick said. “Could we talk about the case now?”

“Sure. Obstruction of justice? What kind of charge is that?”

“It’s a charge to shake the woman into identifying a man calling her on the phone,” Rick said. “A man we think committed a murder nine years ago and might be at it again.”

She straightened. Hadn’t expected that, Neil thought. “Tell me,” she said.

Neil told her first about Gloria Michaels, then Rick laid out the dead Seattle woman and the missing Denver woman, and their phones being used to call Denison.

“Did my client admit to talking to anyone?” Lochner asked.

“She claims they’re obscene phone calls.”

She rolled her eyes. “You guys are incred—”

“Whoa, there’s more,” Rick said. “Denison got another call about two hours ago. From the cell phone belonging to a
third
woman whose family says she disappeared this morning in Omaha. And this time, we got the recording of the call.”

“Shit,” Lochner said. She drew a breath through her narrow nose. “Have you told Denison this man is a murderer?”

“Not yet,” Rick said.

“And why is that? Afraid of another lawsuit, Lieutenant?” She looked back and forth between them, a smug look growing on her face. “You’re not sure this caller murdered anyone at all, are you?” Rick opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “The Seattle woman’s phone has never been found, so anyone might have used it. And what about the Denver woman? You’re not even sure she’s the victim of foul play.”

“That’s bullshit,” Neil said, but Rick cut in.

“Maybe not.”

“What?” Neil asked, and Rick looked at the floor.

“A little while ago, Denver FBI got Thelma Jacobs’s support group counselor talking,” Rick said. “The day she disappeared, Jacobs had learned the cancer wasn’t gone.

She was despondent, talking about not wanting her son to have to deal with her care and all that.”

“Ah, man,” Neil said.

“So,” Lochner speculated, “the counselor believes she might have run off, or killed herself.”

“And wiped down her own fucking car?” Neil shot. “Made a phone call to the same woman as Beckenridge?”

Lochner was undaunted. “And let me guess: The Omaha woman isn’t officially
missing
. You said she disappeared just this morning.”

“She skipped an appointment, that’s all,” Rick said. “But her family insists that’s not like her.” He suddenly looked beat. People thought cops got ulcers from criminals. They got them from attorneys.

Of course, if Neil was being totally honest, the information about the Denver woman threw him for a loop, too. Maybe they didn’t really have two missing women. Maybe they had one woman with cancer who ran away, and another who simply forgot about a hair appointment this morning and was scaring her family to death. Maybe the Seattle woman’s phone really was picked up by a random stranger, who made a random phone call to Elizabeth Denison. And maybe all those likenesses between the murders of Gloria Michaels and Lila Beckenridge were just figments of Neil’s imagination.