Chapter 4

On Saturday morning, I stopped for coffee on my way to the bi-monthly family dinner. I’d had coffee at home but realized at my current speed, I was on pace to arrive early at my parents.’ Another cup of coffee was a preferable option.

I was next in line and tried to curb my eagerness as the pungent aroma of coffee teased my taste buds. My gaze fell on the lemon bars in the glass case. Someone had captured sunshine in the bright, yellow rectangles of perfection while angels sprinkled their heavenly dust over the top. Or maybe that was just powdered sugar.

I considered having one. If I did, I wouldn’t be hungry at mealtime. My mother would interpret this as a sign of an eating disorder.

If I didn’t have one, I’d be ravenous at lunch and eat too much. My mother would scold me about watching my weight.

You’ll never find a man if you get too heavy, Monroe. You’re already past thirty-five and the weight won’t come off like it did in your twenties. Men don’t like chubby girls.

“Can I help you?” the perky barista asked, thankfully snatching me away from the specter of my mother’s admonishments.

After a few brief mental arguments, I decided against the pastry and ordered my usual. “Large Columbian blend with an extra shot of espresso.”

The girl called out my order over her shoulder as one pink-tipped nail poked at the register.

A voice behind me said, “I hope they serve a chisel with that.”

I turned to find Detective Lane Brody standing at my shoulder.

“Detective,” I said, sounding a little too breathy and pleased for my liking.

“Miss Donovan. How are you?” His clothing was more informal today, jeans and a dark green button-up shirt. The tail hung out, making him look casually mussed. I wondered if that was the look he was going for, or if he just couldn’t be bothered with fashion.

“Fine, thanks.” I paid for my coffee and moved aside so he could order. Suddenly, an unpleasant thought overtook my pleasant ones. “Are you following me, Detective?”

His mouth quirked slightly at one corner. “In a professional or non-professional sense?”

“Professional.”

“No.” He gave his order to the girl, leaving me to sort out the meaning of his cryptic response. Did that mean he was following me in a non-professional sense?

No, of course not. He probably wasn’t following me at all, but my pulse was jittery and my insides fluttered, getting me all confused.

The young guy behind the counter called out that my order was ready. I took the coffee from him, sipping cautiously from the opening in the lid.

“Well, nice to see you,” I told Brody, turning to head to one of the tall, shiny-topped tables.

Brody followed.

“Mind if I join you?”

His tone was friendly, but I wasn’t fooled. His interest was business. I wondered if he had more questions or was just trying to get a read on me, see if I’d lied about Josie. I hadn’t. But I was probably going to. I couldn’t let the cops at her now. She was too fragile.

Even knowing his interest wasn’t personal, I was self-conscious about my appearance. I wore a sweatshirt and Royals’ cap, no make-up. My mother hated it when I “dressed like a vagabond,” so I did so more often than not when I knew I’d see her. Now that I’d run into Brody, my plan to annoy my mother had back-fired.

“Not at all,” I said, pointing at the chair across from me.

Brody sat his coffee and a lemon bar down on the table. It looked even better up close.

We sat across from one another at the table and I raised my eyebrows at Brody. “Did you really just happen to be here at the same time I am?”

“I swear. It really is coincidence that I ran into you,” he said, taking the lid off his cup. “I was heading—” He stopped and looked down at the table, took a breath, and brought his eyes back up to mine. “Heading somewhere I’m not in a hurry to be.”

“This is more of coincidence than you think. So was I.”

“Well, I guess it’s fortunate we ran into each other.” He took a bite of his lemon bar and while he chewed, I tried to think of something to say. I didn’t want to bring up Josie, so I searched my mind desperately for something that would keep him from doing so. Nothing came to mind. Probably because I was trying too hard.

My gaze wandered around the coffee shop, although there wasn’t much to see. Few of the tables were occupied. Most patrons took their injection of caffeine on the run.

In the corner, two young girls sat slumped in a booth, rumpled clothing and smeared make-up indicating they’d pulled an all-nighter. Three young guys at a table next to them alternated between checking out the girls and engaging in conversation too loud and too animated for a lazy Saturday morning.

At a table a few over from ours sat a middle-aged couple, she with her muffin, he with his newspaper, held in front of his face like a barrier.

I turned my attention back to Brody and watched with envy as he took another bite of the lemon bar. He swallowed, then pointed at my coffee. “That’s some pretty strong java.”

“Yeah. You’d think I’d have trouble sleeping the way I drink the strong, dark stuff. But it doesn’t seem to affect it.”

“Actually, the lighter coffee beans contain more caffeine than the darker roasts. The darker beans are roasted longer, and the longer a coffee is roasted, the more caffeine burns off in the process.”

“Fascinating,” I said mockingly. “How did you know that?”

“I know tons of useless information.” He cocked a head toward the three men, whose conversation seemed to have become more heated and had most definitely increased in volume. “For example, they’re arguing about whether or not Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a true story.”

“The original or the remake?”

“It doesn’t matter, they’re both about the same—” He stopped when he saw my grin. “Ah, you’re just being a smartass.”

“Sorry. Continue.”

“Well, it’s not a true story. It was inspired by Ed Gein, who did his deeds in Wisconsin, not Texas. He was only known to have killed two people, although not with a chain saw. Part of the idea for the movie stems from the fact that he used body parts for dishes and furniture and wore the skins of his victims.” He sipped from his cup and shrugged. “Like I said, I’m a veritable plethora of useless information.”

Suddenly, after that gruesome tidbit, I was glad I hadn’t gotten a lemon bar. “Wow. I’m impressed. As a cop, wouldn’t it be better to know tons of useful information?”

He grinned. “You’re probably right. I know a little of that. Speaking of which, any word from your friend since we spoke?”

Damn. Me and my big mouth. I knew Josie needed to speak with the police, but she wouldn’t be much good to them until she was straightened out. And they damn sure wouldn’t be much good to her.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about it.” It was only a ‘sort of’ lie, and I almost didn’t feel guilty about it. I took too big a gulp of the hot coffee, burning my tongue. My eyes watered.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I told him, in spite of my scorched mouth. “Listen, I really need to know. Is Josie in trouble?”

“Not as far as we know. We really are just trying to find her boyfriend. So far, that’s all we want with Miss Detweiler.”

So far. I didn’t like that he’d felt the need to add that disclaimer. I let out a sigh, wondering if I should have left Josie home alone. The only other solutions were missing my family get-together, for which I would be forever lambasted, or bringing her with me. God knows, the poor girl had been through enough without that.

“Your boss seemed to be watching us pretty closely yesterday,” Detective Brody said. “Like our visit was some kind of problem.”

“Adam is the problem.”

“Yeah?”

“We used to date.” I shrugged, not telling him about Adam cheating or the lost promotion.

“Must be awkward at work.”

“A little. But we manage.”

I fiddled with the cardboard heat protector on my cup, not sure what to say next. Winging it, I said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“How could you tell?”

“I hear a bit of an accent.”

He spread his hands. “You got me. I moved here from St. Louis.”

“No,” I said, smiling. “I mean, originally. Where are you from?”

“I was born and raised in Montgomery, Alabama. Moved to St. Louis when I was eighteen.”

“Ah. That explains it. You don’t have a strong accent, but you didn’t quite get rid of that southern drawl.”

“No, ma’am. Try as I might,” he said, purposely making his accent more pronounced. “The guys at the station call me Huck because of my accent. Funny thing is, Huckleberry Finn is from right here in Missouri.”

I laughed. “Of course, you’d know that, with that wealth of trivia stored in your cranium.”

“Yeah. But I thought everyone knew that. Especially people from Missouri. Did you know that The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was the first novel ever to be written on a typewriter?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “More of the trivia?”

He grinned, his face going a few shades darker than pink. “Sorry. I get carried away sometimes. So, tell me about you. You from around here?”

“Born and bred, right here in the Kansas City area. Blue Springs, actually.” Which reminded me. That was where I should be now. We’d both nearly finished our coffee and I was on the verge of being late to my mother’s. That wouldn’t bode well for the afternoon. “It was nice seeing you,” I said, standing. “Much as I dread it, I’d better head out.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He stood also and we picked up our cups, walking to the door.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Brody said. My expression must have revealed my anxiety. “I’m sure your friend will be fine. If you talk to her, be sure to tell her we want to see her.” He opened the door to let me pass. “And tell her she might want to stay away from Matt Lovell.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“I will,” I promised.

We said our goodbyes and I hurried to my car, watching out of the corner of my eye as Lane climbed into a blue Crown Vic. I didn’t know if that tight, nearly painful tremble in my chest was due to concern over what Josie might be involved in, or because Detective Lane Brody was just so damned sexy… almost frighteningly so.

****

My parents still lived in the house where I’d grown up. The back yards on their side of the street led into a wooded area where my brothers hunted when they were younger. Not only did my brothers no longer hunt there, we all avoided even the mention of those woods nowadays. Deep within them is the place where Katie was killed.

Most of the houses were brick, which was the first sign the neighborhood had been around for a while. A majority of the new homes in the Kansas City area had vinyl siding, making them look like duplicates of one another, other than the subtle changes in color.

Halloween decorations from witches to scarecrows to elaborate grave yard scenes were prominent in nearly all of the yards. My parents’ house was one of the exceptions. They hadn’t bothered to decorate for any holiday other than Christmas since their children moved away.

My brothers were already there. Of course, they would never dream of being late. My oldest brother was Coburn, then came Mitchum. My brother just older than me, the one I was closest to, was Gable.

My mother had named them after Marilyn Monroe’s co-stars, Charles Coburn, Robert Mitchum, and Clark Gable. My mother was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. A testament to her lofty expectations for me was that she named me after a gorgeous sex symbol she idolized. If she’d known how I’d turn out, she could have saved herself the disappointment and named me Jane, after Plain.

Fortunately for her, my three handsome, successful, nearly perfect brothers prevented her foray into motherhood from being a total bust. Coburn was tall with sandy-blonde hair that fell over his forehead with just the right amount of devil-may-care stubbornness. His wife, Naomi, was a petite red-head, who was pregnant with their first child.

Mitchum was a stockbroker, and although the least good-looking of the Donovan trio, he was still extremely popular with the ladies. His twinkling hazel eyes, lopsided grin, and charmingly reckless personality had them swarming like ants on a crumb.

Gable’s hair was the color of a raven’s wing and with his white-toothed smile, naturally bronze skin, and jet-black eyes, he was the best-looking of my brothers, but it was a waste, at least, where women were concerned. Gable was a priest. My family had always been Easter/Christmas, hit and miss Catholics. Gable had been more miss than hit. That’s why it had surprised everyone when he’d announced, at fifteen years old, that he wanted to be a priest.

Gable had been rowdy, headstrong, bordering on wild until the summer of Katie’s death. The way it happened had had an effect on my entire family, each of us in different ways. It seemed to have a sobering effect on Gable. He’d grown up overnight. He’d entered the seminary as soon as he graduated from high school and hadn’t looked back since. It made my parents extremely proud, although it hadn’t increased their devotion to Catholicism.

I took off my coat and said hello to my sister-in-law and each of my brothers, suffering a top-of-the-head knuckle rub from Gable.

My dad rose from his recliner, standing long enough to give me a hug, then planted himself back in front of the television. Funny how when I was growing up, he’d seemed so big. Now, with his thinning gray hair, his old man spectacles, and stooped shoulders, he seemed like a shrunken version of the man I’d once thought was larger than life. He wore the same hangdog expression he’d worn for years. I wondered when he’d started to be so miserable, or if he’d always been that way and I just hadn’t noticed as a child. I thought of what the professor had said. Would my dad be one of those people who’d be happier on the streets? He couldn’t be any more miserable, that’s for sure.

“Monroe Rachel Donovan. You’re late.” My mother came into the living room from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a white strawberry-patterned apron. Her hair was impeccably coiffed, her make-up slathered on, her navy slacks and white blouse crisp and spotless, even though she’d probably been cooking for hours. She was just now starting to get plump with age, although with her diets and made-to-flatter clothing, she was fighting it every step of the way.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Stuff your sorry in a sack, young lady. I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” She gave me a peck on the cheek, all the while haranguing me. “Your brothers managed to make it here on time and they have important jobs, families.” Unspoken were the words, And what do you have?

“I know. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I woke up later than—”

“Out partying ‘til all hours? You look terrible. Come in the kitchen and help me finish up with lunch.”

I followed her into the overly warm kitchen where the smell of lasagna was strong and should have been tantalizing, but I felt no more pleasure than a death row inmate anticipating a last meal.

“You have to start showing some responsibility. It’s obvious you’re not going to have a husband to look out for you.”

“Why is it obvious?” I asked, even though I doubted it as much as she did.

She turned and gave me ‘the look.’

“You’re thirty-six years old, dear. I don’t see men lining up. What about that Adam, are you two back together?”

“No. And we won’t be. He’s engaged to another woman.”

“See?” she said, shaking her head like I’d done something wrong. “You’ll never give me grandchildren. I’ve resigned myself to that.”

I wanted to say, “If you’ve resigned yourself to it, why don’t you quit bitching at me about it?” But that would only increase the bitching. Here I’d been cheated on and dumped by my boyfriend, and Mom’s only thoughts were how it affected her.

We finished cooking the meal in relative silence. Mom called my brothers and father to the table and we all sat.

After each of us had satisfactorily praised my mother’s cooking, she launched into her homage to my eldest brother—and her favorite—Coburn. Coburn’s already exalted status had been elevated a few months ago when he and Naomi had announced their impending parenthood. He would be the first to fulfill Mom’s dream of being a grandmother. I tuned her out, not even minding the ode to Coburn. At least it would keep her off my back for the remainder of my visit.

****

Lane sat at his desk, rubbing the spot between his eyes with his forefinger, his thoughts wandering from his caseload to his wife. Always, his wife. He’d gone to see her when he left the coffee shop, but had cut the visit short. It was even more depressing than usual, with her not speaking, not moving, just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling while tears leaked from her eyes.

The usual questions hammered away at him. Should he divorce her? Would she ever be fit to stand trial? Did he really even want that? To dredge up everything again? Did he really want her to pay for what she’d done, or did he just want things back the way they were?

Right. Want the impossible. That’s healthy.

Unbidden, another thought crept in with the usual fare. Monroe Donovan. Something about her had captured his attention, although he wasn’t sure what it was. She was pretty, that was a given. But he saw countless pretty women every day of his life. What was it about her that tugged at him?

There was something warm and inviting about her, a vitality… some kind of light that drew him. He was sure her life wasn’t exactly smooth sailing, but she had an upbeat, ‘ain’t life a bitch, but ain’t it kinda funny’ amusement hovering in her brown eyes. He recalled the way her generous mouth intermittently twitched at the corners. When she offered a full smile, a dimple creased just her right cheek, as if she only found life half-funny. Just thinking about her could almost invoke her scent… light and crisp, fresh, like spring grass and summer rain.

A file slapped loudly on his desk, startling him, bringing him back from a place he shouldn’t have been.

Lieutenant Michelle Karakas dropped into the seat next to his desk, plunking her feet on the arm of his chair. He looked at her feet, then at her, but didn’t tell her to move them. She grinned at him but didn’t offer to.

Karakas was tall and squarely built, with short blonde hair, manly features, and a pug nose that didn’t match the rest of her face.

Tony joined them, perching a hip on one corner of Lane’s desk.

“Okay,” Karakas said, opening the file. “Our unfortunate soul was one Richard James Hebringer, thirty-three years old, night desk clerk at the Highland Lily Bed and Breakfast. Don’t know if she changed her name, or if corny luck made it turn out that way, but the owner is a widow, Lily Highland.” She cocked a brow. “Cute, huh?”

“Adorable.” Lane said.

“Mr. Hebringer moved here from Chicago two and a half years ago. No family here but he lived with his girlfriend, exotic dancer, Susan Quintero, aka, you guessed it, Susie Q. Mr. Hebringer was last seen by guests at the B and B at around ten p.m. on Thursday night, when a Mr. Pruitt asked if there was a condom machine on the premises. There wasn’t. The guest came down once more after eleven to ask where the nearest convenience store was, but Hebringer wasn’t at the desk. Hebringer’s shift was eight p.m. to six a.m. He probably disappeared sometime around eleven. If he’d still been there, he should have been at the desk. Pruitt waited for several minutes, but Hebringer never appeared. Detective Woodson learned all this after speaking with the B and B owner on the phone, and also with the horny Mr. Pruitt.” She looked up from the folder. “What kind of lab reports you get in so far?”

Lane picked up the paperwork he’d received on the labs. “So far, only a few. Blood found at the scene belongs to the victim. It appears the footprint was some kind of construction dust. Mr. Hebringer’s DNA was not in the bank. Thus far, no DNA matches on anything recovered from the scene. The words on the tree were written with paint. They’re testing it now to see what kind. Still waiting on ballistics.”

“We need to divvy up the interviews. You girls wanna mud wrestle over who gets the stripper?”

“The PC term is clothing challenged,” Tony said. He looked at Lane. “I’ll fight you for her, man, mud and all.” He feigned putting someone in a headlock.

Lane held up his hands in surrender. “I figured you’d be all over that like stink on a garbage truck. You take the stripper. I’ll take the bed and breakfast.”

“The mother’s on her way in from Chicago,” Karakas said. “You can both have a crack at her. Miss Q apparently has friends on the force, because she called us wanting to know if we’d found her boyfriend’s killer yet, less than an hour after the body was found, before we even had a positive ID. I told her someone would be out to see her.”

“Either she didn’t want to wait,” Tony said, looking over the lieutenant’s shoulder, “or someone called dial-a-dancer.”

Lane followed Tony’s gaze and deduced, as Tony had, that Susie Q had decided to pay them a visit. She wasn’t tall, but the six-inch heels she wore gave that illusion. Her legs were bare and nicely shaped, as were her overly large breasts. Her hair was dark, streaked with blonde highlights. She wore a tight, blue stretchy skirt and a blue and white striped blouse that had to work hard to keep her flesh encased.

She headed straight toward them, led by Detective Lucinda Rochester. Lucinda’s gaze found Lane’s and she rolled her eyes, probably not liking the threat the woman represented. Lucinda had somewhat of a reputation. She was curvy and attractive, with sultry eyes and long, thick, chestnut-colored hair. Since Lane’s arrival in Kansas City, Lucinda had been on a mission to bed him, not caring about his marital status. Thus far, Lane had just barely avoided her clutches. Not an easy task. Especially when he didn’t particularly want to avoid them.

Lucinda brought the woman to Lane’s desk. “This is Susan Quintero. She’d like to speak to the detectives on the Hebringer case.” Lucinda left, giving Quintero a less-than-friendly once-over as she did.

“Are you Lieutenant Karakas?” Quintero asked the lieutenant, who’d dropped her feet and stood by the time the woman reached Lane’s desk. “I’m Susan Quintero. I’m here about Rich’s murder.”

Karakas shook her hand. “Please, Miss Quintero, have a seat. We’re very sorry for your loss. Our detectives were just about to come and see you. You saved them a trip. Have a seat and I’ll let my detectives talk to you. Let me know if you have any problems,” Karakas said, although Lane knew she didn’t really want to hear about any problems the woman might have.

The lieutenant went back to her office, and Susan Quintero sat in the vacated chair, crossing her legs. Despite the low temperatures, her skirt was so short she was in danger of giving a free show right there in the squad room. Conversely, she also wore a heavy, rabbit fur coat.

“Miss Quintero.” Tony stuck out his hand. “I’m Detective Webber.”

She shook his hand, then dabbed at tears that filled her eyes. “Do you know what happened to my Rich?”

“No, ma’am. Not yet, but we’re trying to find out.”

The body had been found less than twenty-four hours ago, and she wanted to know who’d killed him. Of course, it wasn’t unreasonable. On television, they solved murders in an hour.

Tony opened his notepad and leaned a little toward Susie Quintero. No doubt it offered him a better view of her bosom.

“I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr. Hebringer and the last few days of his life. If you’re feeling up to it.”

She nodded. “I’ll do anything I can to help you find the bastard.”

“Thank you. Your cooperation will help us tremendously. Do you know of anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Hebringer? Who might have wanted to harm him for any reason?”

“No. Rich didn’t have many friends. He hadn’t lived here very long. But, no one hated him. I’m sure of that.”

“Did you two live together?”

“We stayed together most nights, but we each had our own place. Rich needed his space. You know, men.”

Tony smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I do. When was the last time you saw him?”

She wrinkled her brow, as if thinking was something she didn’t do often. “It was Wednesday night. Well, no, wait. Thursday morning. But I barely saw him. I was asleep when he left. I opened my eyes once when he was getting dressed, but nodded back off.”

“Did you speak to him after that?”

She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, slowly, like it was a part of her stage routine. “I talked to him on the phone at around ten-thirty or eleven that night. We had plans for the weekend, so I wanted to talk to him about them.” A rush of tears welled, then spilled down her cheeks. Tony grabbed a tissue from the box on Lane’s desk and pressed it into her hand. “I thought I’d see him on the weekend. But I didn’t. I’ll never see him again.” Her breath hitched and a sob tore from her throat, her shoulders quaking with her grief.

Not wanting the interview to get off track, Lane allowed her a few moments to regain control, then jumped in. “Did he seem upset when you spoke to him? Anything to indicate something might be wrong? That he was frightened or under duress of any kind?”

Quintero shook her head.

“You say he didn’t have many friends, but was there someone he was particularly close to? Someone he might confide in about any problems he might have had?”

“What kind of problems?” she asked with an edge to her voice.

“Any kind. Gambling, drinking, drugs, women.”

“Rich didn’t do any of those things. I mean, he drank a little, and we… he,” she hastily amended, “smoked dope occasionally, but nothing that was a big deal. Nothing that would get him murdered.” Her voice rose on the last word and the sobbing started again.

Again, Lane waited for her to gain control. After a brief time, she took a deep breath and dabbed at her eyes with the second tissue Tony provided.

“Do you know what he did on Thursday after he left? What he did between then and eight that morning when he went to work?”

She shrugged. “I slept ‘til nearly three in the afternoon. I work all night,” she added defensively, as if they’d called her lazy. “I didn’t hear from him all that day. Have no idea what he did.” Suddenly, her face brightened. “Wait. He had a job interview. I know that.”

“With?”

“That I don’t know. Some accounting firm.”

Lane made a note. Probably would lead nowhere, but it wouldn’t hurt to have all the facts.

“Did he have any hobbies? Any activities outside of work?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“We’re trying to track all of his movements. All of his associations. You never know what kind of link will lead us to solve a crime.”

“He liked to watch TV. Liked sports. Watching them, that is. And fucking. Pretty much it.” Her head bowed as she blotted tears.

Tony waggled his eyebrows over Quintero’s bent head, and Lane guessed he was indicating his willingness to take over for Hebringer in the ‘fucking’ arena. The man had no compunction when it came to his dick.

“I think that’s about it, Miss Quintero,” Tony said, rising from the edge of the desk. He took the woman’s hand and helped her to her feet. “We’ll be in touch if we learn anything or if we have more questions.”

“You promise? You’ll let me know when you catch him?”

Tony nodded solemnly. “You have my word.” He slipped a card into the hand he still held. “Call me, any time, day or night if you need anything at all.”

It was a variation of the offer normally made to family members and witnesses, a little more intimate, more personal. Susie may or may not have gotten it, but Lane definitely did.

Tony walked her out while Lane took the contents of the folder Karakas had left, along with the files from the lab, and filed them in the murder book.

He resumed his between-the-eye rubbing, trying to think about Richard Hebringer instead of Catherine… and the man she’d loved, then murdered.