Chapter 3

The song sounded familiar… Pina Coladas… caught in the rain…

Rich slowly opened his eyes, trying to figure out where the music was coming from and why he…

Oh, shit!

He remembered. The man. The gun. The blow to his head.

His limbs were heavy, his head thick and muddled. It was more than being knocked out. He’d been drugged. Now he felt the motion of the vehicle and realized he was tied up in the back seat. There was enough light for him to see the back of the man’s head. The man in the driver’s seat. His abductor.

How long had he been out? What the fuck did the guy want?

Rich was sure he didn’t know him, so why?

He sucked in a breath through clenched lips. The motion of the car and the headache from the blow were making him queasy. He swallowed against the bile. You can’t throw up… you can’t throw up…

Not only did he hate throwing up, it would get the psycho’s attention. He would know Rich was awake and then…

Rich didn’t want to think about what would happen then. He needed to be positive, figure a way out of this. He was afraid like he’d never been in his life. Whatever the guy wanted, it couldn’t be good for Rich. If he’d wanted Rich’s opinion on social issues, or wanted directions, or maybe wanted to take Rich to dinner, there would have been no need for the gun or the abduction.

Nope, whatever nut-fuck had in mind, it wasn’t good. Rich was screwed. In comparison, the shit pool that was life was starting to look pretty good. It was most definitely preferable to whatever this asshole had in mind. The guy hadn’t worn a mask or a disguise of any kind. He’d let Rich see his face. Rich had watched enough television shows and movies to know that only meant one thing.

Rich’s face was pressed into the cloth of the car seat, and the ropes were digging painfully into his wrists. He hadn’t moved since he’d regained consciousness, but his head was pounding, and he was getting a cramp in his shoulder. Before long, he’d have to shift his position. He lifted his head and stirred, just a little bit, but it was enough.

“You awake?” the man said into the rearview mirror. His voice was smooth, calm, not at all what you’d expect from a blunt-object wielding, gun toting, kidnapping maniac.

Rich didn’t respond.

“I know you’re awake. You can stop pretending. Do you know why you’re here?”

Because you knocked my ass out and dragged me here, motherfucker.

Rich said nothing.

Outside the car windows, Rich saw only trees and the faint beginning of dawn breaking. How long had he been out? Where were they heading?

“You’re here because you’re one of them.”

No sense pretending, the guy knew he was awake. “One of whom?” Rich asked, his voice hoarse and quivering.

“You’re all a part of it. She’s the one, the truly guilty one, but you and the others had a hand in it.”

“A hand in what, man? I didn’t do shit.”

The man chuckled but didn’t say anything.

The song ended, then started up again. The same song. Rich hated this song, but he damned sure wasn’t going to complain about the music. He had much bigger issues to worry about.

The car slowed to a stop, and the man cut off the engine. He climbed out and opened Rich’s door. He was average height, nice-looking—if a dude could think another dude was nice-looking. Pleasant features, clean-shaven. Pretty normal, actually. So true what they say. Killers don’t always look like killers.

Wait, Rich, he might not be a killer.

Yeah, right. He brought you out here for a fucking picnic.

The guy reached in and grabbed Rich’s shirt front, yanking him from the car. Rich stumbled but remained on his feet. The world tilted, and the trees spun above his head. Rich closed his eyes, trying to push back the nausea. He did not want to throw up. Hated it. Never understood how bulimics could do it. He’d rather weigh six-hundred pounds.

“Come on.” A gun went into Rich’s ribs. “Move.”

Rich moved.

The gunman led him twenty feet into the woods and told him to stop.

“Get on your knees.”

“What? Why are you doing this, man? Whatever happened, I’m sure I can explain. I didn’t mean it, man, I promise.” Rich was shaking, and tears poured down his face. He was so fucking scared. His stomach tingled, the feeling going all the way down his legs and up into his chest.

“On your knees, now!”

The look on the maniac’s face didn’t invite argument. Rich obeyed.

“You really don’t know what you did, do you?” The man shook his head and chuckled in a ‘can you believe it’ sort of way. “That’s the worst part of all. That you think it’s just okay. No big deal, right?”

“What’s just okay? Man, please, tell me what you’re talking about and I can explain. I promise.”

The man went on like Rich hadn’t spoken. “Since you’re not as culpable as the others, I’m going to show you mercy.”

Rich nearly wet himself with relief. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. I’m sorry for whatever I did. I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise. You won’t regret that you let me live.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he gave a quick shake of his head.

“I didn’t say anything about letting you live.” He pointed the gun at Rich’s head and cocked the hammer. “Since you’re not as culpable, I’m going to kill you quick.”

****

The sound of bulldozers and drills accompanied me as I walked toward the door of the newspaper. I hadn’t slept much the night before, and the noise of the construction going on next door gnawed at the fringes of a headache I was working on.

The professor was in his usual spot by the Pandora fountain. Today, he had a couple of friends with him. He stood as I approached. The others did not. One was leaning back against the fountain, his eyes closed, the other sat next to where the professor had been, wearing headphones and rocking back and forth. The headphones were hooked to a small, portable CD player but I wondered if it was actually playing. Could the homeless afford to keep batteries in their electronics?

“Good morning, Miss Donovan.” The professor smiled, showing surprisingly well-cared for teeth. He was tall with slightly stooped shoulders and gray hair that, although receding from his forehead, was long in the back. His voice was cultured, making him sound like Batman’s butler, Alfred.

“Good morning, Professor. How you doing?”

“If I were any better, I’d be delirious with the pure joy of it, my dear.”

I smiled. The professor was one of the most optimistic people I’d ever met. Considering he lived on the streets, it was pretty impressive. The rest of us could take a lesson on attitude from him.

“Who are your friends?” I dug out a few bills as I spoke and dropped them discreetly into the bucket that sat at the professor’s feet.

“Headphone and Carl. Headphone doesn’t talk much, but he’s good company.” Neither man looked up. “Headphone only appeared recently. Not sure where he came from or how he came to be in his current circumstances.”

I’d chatted with the professor off and on during the year or so since he started hanging around the newspaper. I’d gleaned that he was once actually a professor. He fell on hard times because of alcoholism. Lost his job, his wife, wound up on the streets. He’d stopped drinking but hadn’t put his life back together.

“Perhaps, like me,” the professor continued, “he prefers the simple life.”

I glanced at the tattered clothing all three men wore. Their coats were barely sufficient to keep out a strong breeze, let alone the biting wind. “I can’t imagine choosing to live out on the streets.”

“You’d be surprised, my dear. In many ways, street life is preferable to the rat race of the world. Do you realize how many people live a life of constant stress? They hate their jobs, their very lives. This is stress-free. There is no pressure. No luxury, either, but luxury doesn’t really make you happy. This is the perfect existence for those who are miserable, day in, day out, not doing what they truly want to do. Those who dislike having others expect something from them. This is freedom.”

“So you’re saying people who are homeless prefer it that way?”

“Not all, not by any means. There are those who would like to get back on their feet but either do not have the means or can’t kick their addictions. But some, like me, are content to live this way. I like being off my feet.” He smiled. “Especially when it allows me to make the acquaintance of charming and lovely people such as yourself.” He made a small bow. “You are a rare individual. You see us as people and don’t ignore our existence. For that, I’m grateful.”

I smiled. “And I’m grateful to you, Professor, for keeping me grounded.”

I said goodbye and headed to the door, cursing my timing when I reached it at the same time as Adam and Tabitha. She brought him to work every morning and met him for lunch every day. Apparently, eight hours apart was just too much.

“Hello, Monroe,” Tabitha said. She had this nasally, cartoon voice that always set my teeth on edge. She was a big-boobed, small, athletic blonde, who came from a wealthy family. Superficially, the entire package was quite a catch, I had to admit, but I didn’t know how Adam could stand to listen to that voice for the rest of his life.

“Tabitha. How are you?”

“Great, thanks.” She held possessively to Adam’s arm. “Just heading to spinning class.”

Spinning class. Figured. The closest I’d ever come to spinning was watching the turntable through the microwave door while my food cooked.

I looked past her to Adam, who squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, I’ll let you two lovebirds say goodbye,” I said. “I’ve got to get inside. Those obituaries won’t write themselves.” I gave Adam my best smartass look and strode past the couple into the building.

****

Lane sat with his hands linked between his knees, leaning forward in his chair as he watched Catherine brush her hair. She wore a blue silk robe, the same color as her eyes.

She sat in front of the window, the lights shining in making a hint of lavender shimmer in her auburn hair. She was beautiful. Even after all this time, all they’d been through, she was still an amazing-looking woman.

“I saw the Emersons today,” he told her, wanting to make small talk, anything to fill the silence.

She didn’t respond, but then, she seldom did.

Lane tried again. “They said to tell you hello. They still live in the old neighborhood. He just retired and they bought a travel trailer. Going to hit the road for a few months.”

Finally, she lifted her head. Wide, unfocused eyes stared at him. “Joseph?”

The name sliced through him like a knife to the gut. Still had that effect. Even after two years.

“No, it’s Lane.”

Her brows drew together. “Where’s Joseph?”

“I don’t know,” he replied wearily. In hell, I hope.

She gave him that blank yet desperate stare, the one that said she almost knew who he was, but not quite. He had to look away. His gaze roamed over the room. In addition to the bed, there was a metal desk with a few drawers that held Catherine’s belongings. No mirrors. Too dangerous.

Even if he didn’t already know where they were, the smell would give it away. The hint of ammonia that couldn’t quite mask the odors of sweat and madness.

The Riverbend Psychiatric Hospital was nicer than the one she’d been in before. He’d had her moved here when his transfer with the force came through. He’d had to get away from St. Louis. Too many memories. All bad. He’d hoped a change of scenery would help. So far, it hadn’t.

A sound at the door caught his attention, and he turned to find his mother-in-law, Miriam, standing behind him.

She was nearing sixty but looked no older than forty-five. Her blond hair barely showed the gray and her face, thanks to what he suspected were a few tucks here and there, was nearly wrinkle-free. She was tall and willowy, just like her daughter. Her gaze went from Lane to Catherine.

“How is she today?” she asked, tight-lipped.

Lane shrugged. “The same.”

“Did she ask about him?”

He didn’t reply. That was all the answer she needed. She moved further into the room and stopped next to her daughter’s chair, tossing an oversized red handbag onto the bed.

“Why do you put yourself through this?” She spoke to him but still stared at Catherine.

“I could ask the same question of you.”

“She’s my daughter,” Miriam bit out, like it was a curse rather than a blessing.

“She’s my wife,” he responded, much the same way.

Miriam’s lips tightened further. She took the brush from Catherine’s hand, the gentleness of her movements at war with the tension in the set of her shoulders. She began brushing her daughter’s hair. Catherine sat like a statue, unaware of Lane’s or her mother’s presence.

“I wish I’d gotten help for her sooner,” Miriam said.

“You did all you could. She’d been in therapy for years.”

Miriam shook her head in a short, impatient motion. “I could have done more. Could have started when she was a child. Even then, I saw signs that her emotions weren’t quite stable. I should have warned you before you married her.”

“I knew she had issues. None of us could have predicted what would happen.”

She made a motion that was somewhere between a nod and a shrug, as if in acquiescence, and said, “You should sign those divorce papers.”

“I will, eventually. It’s just difficult. I made a vow.”

She let out a scoffing chuckle. “Too bad your wife didn’t feel the same.”

A pang stabbed his chest. He didn’t need a reminder of how Catherine treated their vows. Suddenly, it was too warm in the room. Too stifling… too much.

He was searching for a plausible reason to escape when fate handed him one in the form of a call from his partner.

“Break’s over,” Tony said. “Got a call that a body was found out on Macon road.” He gave Lane directions.

“I’ll meet you there.” Lane ended the call and turned to his mother-in-law. “I need to head out.”

Miriam nodded but didn’t speak. Lane left her humming softly to her daughter, tears glistening in her eyes as she lovingly slid the brush through Catherine’s hair.

****

Twenty feet was as close to the crime scene as Lane could get in his car. He parked and walked the rest of the way through the trees, letting the light bars on the squad cars guide him. The air around him smelled of rain and damp earth. He tensed at the anticipation of the odor that would soon join those.

A patrol cop met him at the perimeter of the barrier tape.

“You’re lead, right, Detective Brody?”

“I am,” Lane said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“We got an anonymous call and when we arrived, found the victim.”

Lane walked with the guy to the tape where a handful of patrol cops guarded the perimeter. Tony was waiting for him.

“What do we have?” Lane asked.

“Caucasian male, mid-thirties,” Tony answered as they ducked underneath the tape.

Lesli, a crime scene tech, squatted next to a body lying on its side, hands tied behind the back. Lane stopped next to Lesli and she looked up, her lips set in a grim line.

“Apparent trauma to the left temple. Looks like a gunshot wound.” She gestured a gloved hand to a round hole with a stream of dried blood beneath.

Lane squatted next to her and ran his gaze over the body. The man’s eyes stared blankly in front of him, a cloudy film over them. His lower body was twisted at an unnatural angle, meaning the gunshot had come suddenly and unexpectedly. Lane glanced at the ground around the body. Based on the two sets of footprints, and the fact that there were no drag marks, the murder had likely happened here.

Lane looked at the fingers. No visible evidence of defense wounds, but he was tied up, so how much defending could he have done? Lividity had settled in the lower areas, and the corpse was stiff, which meant he’d been dead less than thirty-six hours.

Lane stood and glanced around. “Got a take on the entry and exit points?”

Tony pointed the direction Lane had come. “That’s the only way in or out to the road.”

“What about casings, weapon?” The chance that the weapon was left behind was almost nil, but sometimes they got lucky.

“One casing from a Smith and Wesson .38,” Tony said.

“No weapon left at the scene?”

Tony snorted. “Did you think there would be?”

Lane shrugged. “A little optimism never hurts, right?”

“Coroner’s here,” one of the patrols said.

Byron Keaton, the county coroner, was tall and lanky, with a thick head of curly hair. He nodded to Lane and Lesli as they stood to let him in next to the body.

Lesli reported what they knew so far, while Lane stood patiently, waiting for Keaton to complete his initial exam.

“Lividity fixed. Rigid. Only visible signs of trauma an apparent gunshot wound to the left temple.”

Lane took notes as Keaton spoke, although he doubted he’d find anything they didn’t know already. Not until he did the autopsy.

A commotion behind Lane made him turn. Two coroner’s assistants approached, carrying a gurney with a body bag lying on top.

“Hell of a long walk,” the one in front complained. He was young, with longish hair and a put-out expression.

“Be glad you’re walking it instead of being carried,” Keaton barked.

The guy flushed but didn’t respond.

“You can take him,” the coroner said, standing and pulling off his gloves.

There was no more grumbling as the two of them worked the body into the bag and placed it on the gurney, then, one on each end, carried it back the way they’d come.

Once the coroner had gone, and the CSI techs finished photographing and videotaping the scene, Lane walked the perimeter, searching for any more spent casings, more footprints, anything to tell him what had happened. He found a white dusty footprint and knelt to study it.

“Did you guys lift a print of this?” he called to one of the techs.

“Not yet, but we’ll get it, Detective.”

Lane turned back to the print. Chalk? Some kind of talcum powder? He touched a finger to it and brought it to his nose. No scent. Not talcum powder. He placed a versa-cone next to the footprint, marking it as evidence.

Being extra careful not to disturb the crime scene, Lane moved slowly through the area. The sound of leaves crunching beneath his feet was unnaturally loud in the silence left behind by the dead.

“Did you know that an average mature oak tree sheds around 700,000 leaves during the fall?” he said to Tony.

“Nah,” Tony said, “but thanks for the 4-1-1. Now that I’ve got that question answered, I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

“Cool.” Lane grinned as his partner meandered in the opposite direction.

After a few fruitless minutes of not finding any clues, Lane heard a shout from Tony.

“Hey, come look at this.”

Tony stood near a gigantic oak tree, pointing at the trunk. The words, ‘Partners in Crime’ were written in dark red.

Dread settled in the center of Lane’s chest… a dread that told him it wasn’t just a random shooting. Not a robbery or a fight that got out of hand. Something about it had the mark of a person with a mission. He felt it in his bones.

“This ain’t his first rodeo,” Lane said quietly. “Or at least, not his last.”

“Nope. I’d say this guy has some kind of plan in mind. You think that’s blood?”

Lane shook his head. “The victim didn’t lose enough blood for this. Plus, the color’s not dark enough.” He called one of the techs over to take a sample.

A rustling above them made him look up. A squirrel perched on one of the branches peered down at them suspiciously. “If only you could talk,” Lane muttered.

They were losing what little light they’d had. There was no moon out, or if there was, the thickness of the trees blocked its glow.

“Want us to set up flood lights?” a tech who’d been sweeping the leaves and bushes with a metal detector asked.

“No,” Lane said. “I’ll do another walk-through, but I think we’ve got all we’re getting for tonight.”

He watched as the techs packed up their equipment. Looking around the scene, he found himself wishing the dead man had simply pissed someone off and this would be the end of it.

His gut told him he was shit out of luck.