Shades of Passion (22 page)

When he was done, Stevens looked as shell-shocked as Simon felt.

“What have you heard on Davenport?” he finally asked.

After talking with Rita Taylor, Simon had once again contacted the authorities in Charleston. The officer he’d talked to said they’d just been about to call him with a report on Davenport. They’d tried contacting Davenport at his home several times, but on each occasion, his house had been empty. In addition, they’d checked with his place of employment, a local landscape company, and verified he’d called in sick for the past three days. So far they hadn’t been able to find him.

“Davenport’s neighbor has said she saw Davenport in Charleston earlier this week. I’m not buying it. I think Davenport was here on Saturday morning and put that letter underneath Nina’s entry mat. I think he killed Nina’s cat on Monday. And if that’s true, he probably killed the man murdered in the park today, as well.”

Stevens sighed. “Well, you’ve done all you can tonight. You can start fresh tomorrow. Check additional flights out of Charleston. Whether Davenport has any documented connection to the murder vic or even Louis Cann. Keep in touch with your contact at the Charleston P.D. That kind of thing. Is Ward still with Dr. Whitaker?”

“Yes.”

“And will she continue to stay with her?”

Simon hesitated. Shook his head. “I’m going to relieve her. I need to talk to Nina. Find out whether she might know anything about the murder victims. I’ll make sure she has protection.”

“Right,” Stevens said again.

“She can’t shadow me tomorrow.” Simon didn’t form it as a question.

“Damn straight she can’t,” Stevens agreed. “Shadowing you isn’t a priority anymore and neither is Dr. Whitaker’s proposed program. There’s her safety to think about now. Plus, whether it’s related to her or not, we’ve got two murders to solve.”

“They’re related to her. They have to be. I just don’t know how yet.”

“So you think Davenport might have been responsible for Cann’s death? Even though the initials weren’t part of the killer’s signature?”

“Both victims stayed at Welcome Home. It’s a coincidence that can’t be explained otherwise. I’ll simply go with it for now. Can’t hurt given we’d hit a dead end in the Cann case anyway.”

“You said you’d seen tonight’s victim before and he appeared mentally ill to you?”

Simon rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. And when I talked to her, Elaina Scott implied she thought Louis Cann had suffered from PTSD.”

“So that seems to be another connection to Dr. Whitaker. The victims are both homeless, but also both mentally ill. She treats people with mental illness. I think you’re right. There’s a connection there. Find out what it is.”

“I will. I—” Simon abruptly frowned as he remembered something. Something Elaina Scott had told him. And something he’d seen at the shelter on that damn bulletin board. “The day I visited her, Ms. Scott had just met with a doctor. A woman who’d just begun pro bono work at a nearby crisis center. Scott described the clinic as the drop-in variety. There’s probably more than one. I think I saw a flyer or two for clinics on the shelter’s bulletin board. It’s possible both victims saw the same flyer and attended the same clinic. Hell, for all I know, Nina does that kind of pro bono work and saw both of them.”

“But that still doesn’t explain the initials. Why on one of the men and not on the other. Why—if they stand for Beth Davenport—why Lester Davenport felt compelled to carve the initials into a man and a cat.”

“It could be the idea for the initials came to him afterward. Doesn’t mean he’s not good for both murders. Or...” Simon’s brow furrowed as he reached for other possibilities. “Lester Davenport hates Nina because he blames her for his daughter’s death. If Nina treated the men, killing them would hurt her.”

“And if she never treated them? Doesn’t even know them?”

“I don’t know. But what else killed his daughter? Apart from Nina’s alleged role in things? Who or what else could he blame?”

“His daughter killed herself.”

“Because she was
sick.
What if in some twisted way he thinks that by killing homeless men—
mentally ill
homeless men—he’s somehow eradicating the type of sickness that took his daughter from him?”

“So who they actually were was irrelevant. It’s the sickness he’s trying to kill. Again, it’s a stretch, but it’s good thinking, Simon. Keep thinking outside the box. I have a feeling it’s the only way you’re going to solve these cases.”

Simon looked at his watch. It was almost 9:00 p.m. “I need to get to Nina, sir.”

“Spend as much time as you need with her tomorrow. Consider her just another lead in this case. If she’s connected to the victims, even if she doesn’t consciously know it, you need to explore it. And if you don’t think you can be objective here, Simon, I need to know that right now.”

“Sir?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming that after working with Dr. Whitaker for three days, you’ve come to like her. Can’t blame you, of course. What’s not to like? But you need to maintain your objectivity. I haven’t once heard you consider the fact she might know something about these murders and simply isn’t disclosing it.”

The idea of Nina lying to him about something so important floored him. “There’s nothing to indicate that.”

“Not much, maybe, but I disagree that there’s
nothing.
She showed up pushing this MHIT program right when our public relations problems began. And right around the time Cann was murdered. We let her in close, and all of a sudden she’s linked to it? And a subsequent murder, too?”

“What are you saying? That Nina is somehow orchestrating all this to make us look bad? So she can manipulate us into giving her program the green light. That’s ridiculous!”

Stevens ran this hand through his hair, suddenly looking weary. “I agree. Nonetheless, the theory has been posed.”

“By who?” Simon exploded.

Stevens frowned. “By me. I don’t buy it, but I’m not ruling out anything. As I said, one of us has to stay completely objective here, and something tells me that person isn’t going to be you. Am I wrong?” When Simon didn’t answer, Stevens sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just follow every lead, Simon. Every. One. If you can’t do that, I’ll put someone on the case who will.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A
FTER HE LEFT
S
TEVENS,
it took Simon a minute to gather his composure. The idea that Nina knew anything about the homeless murders and was intentionally manipulating them was ludicrous. But he’d do what Stevens said. Follow every lead. Because that was his job and failing to do his job would only serve to put more suspicion on Nina.

As he drove to her house, he called Carrie and told her he was on his way.

“How is she?” he asked.

“She’s lying down in her room. Trying to hold it together. But she’s pretty upset.”

Of course she was. God, he felt bad for her. “Take care of her until I get there, Carrie.”

“You know I will, Simon.”

When he got to Nina’s house, it was almost ten. Carrie had left the front lights on so he had a clear path up the walkway. She opened the door as he was walking up. He filled her in on what he and Stevens had talked about, leaving out Stevens’s paranoid speculations about Nina, then said, “Thanks, Carrie. I’ve got it from here.”

Carrie nodded. “Just call me if you or she needs anything.” She gave him a hug, squeezing tight.

He returned the hug as tightly as he dared. Then he went to find Nina.

He found her lying in bed, with tear streaks drying on her cheeks. Her eyes were red, her breathing ragged, and her obvious distress made his head and heart hurt. He hated that he hadn’t been able to hold her as she’d cried.

But he was here now.

If she wanted him.

He stepped up to the side of the bed and hesitated, uncertain what she’d want.

“Nina—”

With a sob, she launched herself out of the bed and into his arms.

She buried her face in his neck and cried.

Her grief and fear poured out of her, and she didn’t even try to stifle her sobs. She was completely outside herself, completely out of control. Nothing like the elegant, professional woman he was used to.

And also exactly like her.

He wrapped his arms around her.

Held her tight.

And didn’t let go even after she fell asleep.

* * *

D
E
M
ARCO BARELY REMEMBERED
the drive back to his house after he’d left Simon at Golden Gate Park. He barely remembered anything about what they’d talked about while they’d been there. But he remembered exactly what he’d seen, and how the entire time he’d been trying to keep himself from throwing up.

For weeks, he’d been feeling more and more out of control. When he’d started hearing that damn file calling to him in the office, he’d thought he wasn’t getting enough sleep. He’d gone home and started popping pills and drinking to force the issue, but that had merely made him twitchy the next day, so he’d stopped.

Aside from a royally bad mood here and some memory lapses there, he’d been getting by. Memories still haunted him, but talking folders had ceased to make another appearance. But then Simon had called him, telling him that a man had been killed with the letters
BD
carved into his back, and DeMarco’s entire world had imploded. It had continued to crumple as he’d seen the horrifying evidence for himself.

He’d barely held it together at the park before making it home, downing a few drinks and collapsing in bed. He’d curled up in a ball and eventually he’d fallen asleep.

But even in sleep his thoughts troubled him.

As he slept, DeMarco’s body moved restlessly beneath the sheets. At the same time, his mind fought a losing battle against a slide show of horrifying images.

First, he dreamed of two murdered men. One by one, he saw the crime scene photos that had been in Cann’s file. Saw how an ex-marine, a man who’d fought for his country, a man who couldn’t have been a
bad
man given that, had been dismissed by society and then disposed of as if he was trash.

Next, DeMarco once again saw the grotesque initials that had been carved into the back of a different homeless man. Though he knew nothing about
that
man, he sensed he was more than what he appeared. Even the green-and-white-checkered pants he’d worn had made him seem more pathetic. More vulnerable.

The visions in his head spun and undulated before changing once again.

Suddenly, DeMarco saw himself, six years younger, all spiffed up and shiny in his patrol uniform, walking his beat in a city that had yet to be devastated by Hurricane Katrina. The vision became reality, one steeped in familiarity.

He smelled stale beer and urine. Felt the hard, uneven pavement of the sidewalk beneath his feet. Recognized one person after another. Merchants. Streetwalkers. Juvenile delinquents and bums. Some he liked. Others he didn’t. But he protected them all. And he was suspicious of them all.

DeMarco groaned, long and hard, and the sound bounced off the walls of his bedroom. Yet it didn’t wake him. In some part of his consciousness, he knew he was dreaming. That he really wasn’t back in New Orleans, patrolling Rampart Street and chatting with the locals.

But it
felt
real.

So the dream continued.

In a few weeks, he’d be leaving his beat behind. He was being promoted to detective, a change he was really looking forward to. He wouldn’t miss seeing the people on Rampart Street, of course—not enough for it to matter. But he knew them, knew things about some of them that even their families probably didn’t, and in some ways that made them part of him.

That included William “Billy” Dahl, the seventeen-year-old kid who, despite having nimble fingers and a long theft record, had a good sense of humor and loved his mother to distraction.

DeMarco had already busted Billy twice that year, once for snatching a woman’s purse, and once for robbing a local grocery store—with a gun that had turned out not to be loaded. Billy had spent almost a year in juvy hall for that one, but when he’d gotten out, he’d returned to the streets. Every time he’d seen DeMarco, he’d greeted him as a friend would. They’d joke around, no hard feelings in sight. Billy had even threatened to set DeMarco up with his sister, whom DeMarco had to admit was mighty fine.

On the last night he was scheduled to be on patrol, DeMarco stumbled upon Billy’s latest theft attempt.

Once again, the images in his mind morphed. DeMarco, who’d been walking and chatting with those he encountered, froze as he caught sight of Billy.

The kid had cornered a couple, tourists by the looks of them, and was shouting at them to hand over their money. DeMarco was about twenty feet away when he saw Billy waving the gun.

Damn it, Billy,
he thought.

He drew his weapon. Shouted at Billy to put down his.

Billy jerked in surprise, then, to DeMarco’s utter disbelief, grinned.

“Hey, DeMarco,” he called out, his voice slightly slurred as if he was drunk or high. “You know the kind of guns I carry.”

He turned back to the frightened woman cowering against her companion, pointed the gun at her and said, “Just give me the purse before I shoot you. I’ll give you until five.”

He started counting.

One.

“Billy, don’t!” DeMarco shouted. “Put down the gun.”

Two.

“Put it down now!” DeMarco waited for Billy to comply, but he didn’t. He just kept counting.

Three.

Billy turned to DeMarco and winked.

Oh, shit,
DeMarco thought.
He’s trying to tell me the gun’s not loaded. But I don’t know that. I don’t
know
that, Billy!

Four.

He had a split second to make a decision.

To take a chance that he was right about Billy and put an innocent woman’s life in danger.

Or to take Billy’s threat seriously and shoot.

He did what he had to.

What he’d been trained to do.