Rage Factor (38 page)

Parker stroked Mud’s side, needing the comfort himself.

“It’s not what you think, boy. She’s fine.”

Mud barked.

“She’s at Brenda’s,” Parker muttered. “She’s fine.”

Mud nudged his hand. Parker started to pat, but the dog shrugged him off and moved toward the door.

“Wait, fellow. I don’t know where Brenda lives. We’ll call her.” He located the telephone directory and flipped it open. Lots of Bensons with the first or second initial B, but no Brenda. He looked under attorneys, found none that came close, then dialed information.

“This is an emergency. I need a home number for State Prosecutor Brenda Benson.”

The operator spelled the last name, then said, “That’s an unpublished number, sir.”

“Okay,
you
call it. This is an
emergency.
There could be someone in trouble at that number.” He explained the message he’d received, not mentioning it was from a cellular phone. Cell phones were notorious for going dead when you needed them.

The operator hesitated, then asked for his name, and apparently dialed the number. He could hear it ringing.

“I’m sorry, there’s no answer.”

“Are you sure the line’s okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine. I’m sorry—”

“Wait. Give me the address.”

“I can’t do that on an unpublished number. I’m sorry. Would you like me to connect you with the police or fire department?”

If Dixie was into something she wanted kept quiet,
sending in the cavalry wouldn’t help her any.
What was the name of that homicide detective…?

“Sir?”

“Never mind, Operator.” He disconnected and flipped through the directory to City Government, Police Department.

Mud paced between the desk and the door, nudging Parker’s leg every time he passed.

“Wait a minute, will you? We can’t charge out of here without knowing where to go.”

Finding nothing that looked helpful, he dialed Belle Richards’ home, got her machine, and left his cell phone number. The only other person he thought might know where Brenda lived was Amy. He hated to worry her if it was nothing, but—

“Ryan? Parker. Is your mom there?”

“Yeah. How’s the boat?”

“You’ll find out for yourself on Sunday. Listen, I’m in kind of a hurry. Can you put your mother on?”

“Sure … MOM/”

“Parker?” Amy’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

Why would she think something was wrong? “Nothing. It’s just … Dixie called and left a message she was at Brenda Benson’s and forgot to leave me the phone number. Would you have it? Or even her address.”

“Oh, my, no-o-o-o. Let me look, but I don’t believe I’ve ever had that … She lives in Bellaire, though, doesn’t she? Seems like Dixie said she lived just a mile or two from us.”

Bellaire.
Couldn’t be more than a few square miles. He’d drive every street, if necessary.

The directory had fallen open to C. Hadn’t that detective’s name started with C? Parker ran his finger down the page, hoping to jog his memory…. Cash, Cashly, Chase … He stopped at Coombs, Lawrence Riley.

Coombs had threatened Brenda. What if…?

Without consciously deciding to do it, Parker dialed Coombs’ number.

“Hello?”

“Lawrence Coombs?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

Parker dropped the receiver back in its cradle. At least that sick sonofabitch wasn’t the problem.

“Come on, Mud. Let’s go find her.”

Ben Rashly ducked under the crime-scene tape and joined Dixie against the garage wall.

“You okay, kid?”

“Yeah.” Dixie was numb.

Behind them, someone from the Medical Examiner’s office was bent over Brenda, on a stretcher, where they’d moved her after photographing the scene.

“Come on out where you can get some air. You look like you’re going to throw up.”

Dixie rubbed her forehead. “She was a good friend, Rash.” Her voice had gone shrill. She took a breath to slow the fluttering in her chest.

Rashly placed a hand on her arm to lead her away from the garage, but Dixie resisted, feeling the need to be right here, where it had happened, until she’d figured it out. Her toe touched her cell phone. When had she dropped it? The plastic cover had broken open, the battery spilled out.

“I talked to her a little more than an hour before I got here. She was … worried. Scared, I think.”

“Scared of what?”

“I don’t know, but maybe that’s what she was planning to tell me. I think she called from the car—the connection was terrible—on her way home. Somebody must’ve been waiting—but dammit, her keys were inside the house. Why would she go in, then come back out without her keys? Miles would’ve been locked—unless she intended to leave again. Except she knew I was coming.”

Dixie studied the Miata, willing it to reveal what had taken place. Except for smudges where Brenda’s heel had kicked the driver’s inside door, the car appeared clean. Maybe the fingerprint technician would find something.

“You know more than you’re saying, Flannigan.” Ben’s voice was gentle but firm.

“Honest, Rash, I don’t
know
anything.” But she took a stab at relaying her hunch that Brenda was involved somehow in the attack on Lawrence Coombs, the disappearance of Patricia Carrera, and the death of Gary Ingles.

The detective bit the stem of his pipe, talking around it.

“An hour, you said. Plenty of time to search a house, find what you want, strangle somebody, and get away.”

“But she wasn’t at home yet when I talked to her.”

“The mess in that bathroom looks like she surprised a burglar.”

“A burglar stealing her bath gel?”

“The bedroom was tossed, too. Women usually keep their jewelry in the bedroom.”

“Rash, why would a burglar bring her back out to the car to kill her?”

“Somebody she knew, then. Maybe one of her vigilante buddies. You saw that mask and wig?”

Dixie shrugged. “Maybe she went to a costume party.”

“Maybe. But the bunch who jumped Carlson and Ingles were wearing dark clothes and knitted caps, like the cap
hanging out of that bathroom drawer.” He studied Dixie for several seconds. “Coombs threatened her. But why would she go after Carrera and Ingles?”

“Because monsters shouldn’t be loose in society. Rash, we don’t know that stuff was hers. Maybe she’d taken the mask and clothing as evidence, and threatened to expose … someone.”
Someone eventually brags to a friend
, Les Crews had said.
Or guilt causes someone to want out.

A hungry pack turning on the weak member? Only, Bren wasn’t weak. Stubborn, maybe. Dixie crossed her arms against the memory of her friend’s stubborn lungs, refusing to respond as the paramedics labored over her.
Dead.
Dixie couldn’t get her mind around that. She’d
talked
to Brenda, alive and well … and frightened….

“Her skin was still warm. Why the hell didn’t I come when she called me?”

“Don’t think like that, kid.” Rashly took the pipe out of his mouth and used it to point toward the darkness beyond the garage. “You know the killer may’ve been hiding out here when you went inside.”

The noise in the trees.
She told him about the footstep, or whatever it was.

“Maybe Brenda got away from the killer and ran—but dropped her keys in the scuffle—and the killer caught up with her out here. Then I arrived before he had a chance to go back after the evidence.”

“Possible.” Rashly drew a hiss of air through the cold pipe. “Benson didn’t go down without a fight. We may get a skin sample from under her nails.” He took her arm again. “Come on out of here. I gotta have a smoke.”

This time, Dixie grudgingly allowed him to guide her. But she noticed one of the officers lift some trace evidence from the shadow of the car’s right front wheel, a cigarette, only partially smoked.

Brenda didn’t allow anyone to smoke inside her car.

Dixie stopped the officer before she bagged the butt.
It was thin, with a narrow gold band around the deep filter.

“Capri,” Dixie said, remembering Grace Foxworth. Striking in her spice-red pants suit and radiantly optimistic about her comatose daughter, Grace had shared her pack of Capri with Julie outside the courthouse.

Parker slid the Cadillac to the curb near a driveway crowded with police vehicles. He’d spotted Dixie right away, standing near the garage, inside a roped-off area. Talking to her friend, the Homicide cop. Parker’s runaway pulse slowed. She was okay. Whatever the hell had happened here, Dixie wasn’t the one on the stretcher being lifted into a coroner’s van.

Mud stood on the passenger seat, pressing his nose to the window.

“No dice, boy. The last thing she needs is us mucking around over there.” But Parker sympathized with the dog’s eagerness to jump out and give her a good licking.

The full moon they’d intended to enjoy on the lake tonight hung high above oak and pine trees. High above the police department’s halogen flood lamps. The effect was like a low-budget film. Grainy. Unreal.

Watching her, Parker felt clammy and disoriented. The frantic energy of the past hour was draining out of him. Whatever had occurred here, Dixie appeared in complete
control. Her keen mind would already be speculating, calculating. He admired her ability to focus on a problem, excluding all other considerations. But it frightened him, too. Had their ruined evening infringed on her thoughts at all?

Dixie Flannigan brought a quality of contentment to his life he’d never before experienced. She drew from him the desire to look further into the future than next week or next month. But was there a next week or next month in their relationship?

She stood less than fifty feet away, but in a world removed from everything he knew or cared about. A vile world of savagery and pain. A world she moved in daily.

He watched her cross her arms against the cold and wished he were beside her, wrapping a blanket of comfort around her. Far away from tragedy and death. He could feel the curve of her warm body molding against his own. Smell the fragrance of her hair. Hear her peaceful breathing as she slept.

Mud whined and nosed his arm.

“This is no place for us, boy. Let’s go home.”

Dixie arrived home shortly before midnight, having spent hours going over her story with Rashly. He would investigate the whereabouts of Lawrence Coombs, Julie Colby, Regan Salles, the Foxworths, and the Thomases. Parker’s Cadillac was parked near the back door, its trunk open, a couple of cartons loaded inside.

As Dixie gimped toward the house, her foot aching miserably, he came out the back door, carrying another box. Mud alongside. The dog padded over and licked her fingers, a worried whine barely audible on his warm breath.

“Your pager was off tonight,” Dixie said.

He didn’t look at her. “I was in the shower. What about yours?”

Dixie felt at her waist. Gone. She must’ve dropped it searching Brenda’s house. “Sorry about the boat. Did you get my messages?”

He set the box in the trunk, and began rearranging things to fit.

“Dixie, I don’t care a damn about the boat.” He sounded tired, defeated.

“Brenda’s dead.”

“I know. I … caught a newscast.” He looked at her then, and the expression in his eyes made her want to weep. “I’m sorry about your friend. I know you two went way back.”

“But you’re mad at me for not showing up tonight.”

“No. Mad doesn’t even come into it.” The cartons were cocked up, and he shoved one back to make more room. “All right, I was mad at first. Then … your cell phone was still on when you …” He sighed, and in that one long breath Dixie heard all the fear and frustration he’d suffered. “What the hell happened?”

She explained, leaving out the parts that would worry him most, like searching the house. But he knew how to fill in the blanks.

“You could’ve been killed, too.”

“I didn’t see anyone … and there was no time. I was worried about Brenda.”

“Yeah.” Another long sigh. “That’s what scares me. You never worry about yourself. I kept calling your cell phone, your pager. I knew you wouldn’t blow off the trip without an explanation. Unless something was wrong.” He tried to shut the trunk, but one box was still too high. “I drove Bellaire, one street after another, knowing
whatever
had happened, I was too late. Do you understand how helpless that feels?” He wrenched the box aside and slammed the trunk lid with more force than necessary. “You were in trouble, Dixie,
and I couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it”

“She was a friend.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been telling myself, how could I fault you for helping a friend?” He raked a hand through his hair.

“Parker, I didn’t realize—I never intended to worry you.”

“I know.” He shook his head wearily.

Dixie ached for him. But what could she say? Words couldn’t erase the past few hours. She’d had no idea what he
was going through—which was exactly the point he was making—she never considered how her actions affected him. She was used to getting along fine without anybody worrying about her. Guilt curled like a worm in her gut. Guilt over Brenda. And Parker.

She didn’t want to ask the next question, wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer….

“Where does this leave us?”

Parker’s gaze roamed over her face as if memorizing it. His usually expressive features held no clue to what he was thinking.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Then he reached out one of his big arms to draw her close. As he tightened the embrace, a shudder went through him, and he wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her tight, enveloping her completely, as if renewing his own strength from her closeness.

“Dixie…” His voice was thick, and a knot rose in her own throat. “It’s hard to imagine you not being part of my life.” He spoke so softly she felt rather than heard his words. “These last two months, the best part of every day has been the time I spent with you. I love you so damn much it tears me up inside to think of losing you.”

They stood that way, holding each other. Mud tried to nose between them.
It’ll be okay
, Dixie told herself.
We’ll talk and we’ll be together and it will be okay.