Chapter 22
Tuesday, October 11, 6 A.M.
The cool waters of the pool did little to soothe Angie’s ragged nerves. All night she’d tossed and turned and thought of her parents: her stern father, her vivacious mother, and the marriage that had imploded. She imagined her father relenting to Darius Cross’s demands. Could he really have helped dispose of Fay’s body?
Her father had never once spoken of his work at the museum and the dark tasks Darius had required of him. Was Fay the only woman Darius had killed, stripped of flesh, and turned into a trophy?
Angie dug deeper into the water, pulling against it as if the exercise could drive all the frustration and sadness from her body.
She paused at the wall, her lungs screaming for air. Her muscles demanded a respite. She pulled her goggles from her head and set them on the concrete lip of the pool.
“You’re tearing that water up.”
She glanced to the lane beside her and saw that swimmer guy. What was his name? Martin.
Water clung to his dark hair. “How goes it? You look a bit driven today.”
She pulled her goggles up. “It’s been one of those weeks.”
This close she could see that he had blue, blue eyes that made her want to stare. No doubt he’d heard a million comments about his eyes, and she did not wish to join the legion of women who likely followed him. Had her mother once looked into Blue Rayburn’s eyes and felt the same tingle of excitement?
“I haven’t seen you here for a couple of days,” he said. He swam faster than she did, even today, and he was barely winded.
“Work. Gets in the way of life.”
He laughed, flashing even white teeth. Her spirits lifted just being near him.
“So what’s on your agenda today?”
“Paperwork. Lots of it.” She never discussed work with anyone except Eva. Donovan had planted that seed of distrust.
In one fluid move Martin hoisted himself out of the pool and sat on the edge. “Well, if you can ever tear yourself away, Angie, we can grab coffee one morning.”
“Thanks, Martin. I’ll see how the work goes.”
He cocked a brow. “Remember, Angie, there’s always work to be done. But the moments when we can really enjoy our lives aren’t so frequent.”
Her name sounded sexy when he spoke it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He stood and walked toward the steam room. She liked the shape of his body and the way he filled out his suit. It had been a long time since she’d had sex. Suddenly she was painfully aware of it.
“That dirty look could get you arrested in half the world.”
Kier’s voice startled her and had her turning to face him. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and he wore the clothes he’d had on yesterday.
Heat burned her face. “It wasn’t that kind of look.”
He grinned. “Of course it was.”
“Fine. You caught me. What can I say? I really do have blood in my veins.”
“Hey, no need to be defensive. Nice to know there’s fire in your belly.”
She pushed out of the water and stood. The cold air brushed her skin. Her nipples hardened. Kier’s gaze dropped, lingered, and then rose to her eyes. He slid his hand into his pocket, managing to look relaxed and powerful all in an instant.
“You didn’t just come here to harass me.” She slipped on her flip-flops and reached for her towel.
Everything about Kier had to do with purpose and reason. “No.”
In the open air, her skin chilled. Goosebumps puckered her flesh as she dried her skin. “Why are you here?”
All traces of desire vanished from his gaze. “We’ve found another body.”
“Lulu.” The word was a faint whisper.
“For now it’s a body. But Dr. Henson has Lulu’s dental records and promises a confirmation soon.”
She clutched her towel. Oh, God. She’d barely known the girl, but that didn’t stem the sharp pang of sadness. She thought about David. Did he feel alone and abandoned? She hoped not. “Have you said anything to her mother?”
“If the body is Lulu I’d like to go with you when you talk to Vivian.”
“Death notices aren’t nice, Counselor.”
“No, I don’t suppose they are.”
“I’ll call you when we have a confirmation.”
“Thanks. Does Eva know?”
“Garrison is telling her.”
“Good.”
“We released Sierra Day’s body for burial. Her husband has scheduled the funeral for Tuesday of next week. Says he wants it all behind him.”
“Right.”
His phone vibrated. He glanced down at a text message. The lines in his face deepened. He appeared to age ten years in seconds. “Dr. Henson has identified the body. It’s Lulu Sweet.”
“If you give me ten minutes, I’ll change and go with you to see Mrs. Sweet.”
“Sure.”
Donovan stood at the back entrance to the restaurant waiting for his contact to emerge. She was late. Impatient, he took a long pull on his cigarette and let the smoke seep slowly from his mouth and nostrils. He’d never been a smoker until last year, and then after the stabbing and the nightmares he’d found smokes calmed his nerves, especially when he had to hang out in alleys waiting for nitwits from the medical examiner’s office.
They’d agreed that meeting at the medical center would be too obvious. Since last year’s coverage, Donovan’s much-guarded anonymity had been destroyed, and too many people, especially in cop circles, knew his face.
A thin woman peeked her head out of the back of the door and quickly spotted him leaning against the wall. “Let’s make this quick,” she said.
Donovan inhaled from his cigarette. “Fast or slow. Doesn’t matter to me.”
She rolled her eyes and dug a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “You said to call if we got more bones in the medical examiner’s office.”
His senses perked. “That’s right, babe. What do you have?”
“We had a Jane Doe delivered early this morning. Nothing but bones, stripped almost as clean as the last.”
He lifted a brow. “Really.”
A grin tugged at the end of thin lips. “And for an extra hundred, I’ll tell you her name.”
“The cops have her name already?”
She glanced from side to side to make sure no one had spotted them. “Apparently they’ve been looking for a chick.”
He snapped his fingers. “Name. Give me the name.”
“The hundred first, pal.”
He dug five twenties out of his pocket and handed them to her. “Now.”
“Lulu Sweet.”
“Lulu Sweet? The hooker in the Dixon case?”
“Yep.”
Angie Carlson had torn her apart. Another connection to Carlson. On some days life didn’t get much better.
“How did you ID her so fast?”
“Dental records.”
“How’d she die?”
“Anybody’s guess.”
“Laid out by a Dumpster near Temple and Redemption Streets.”
“Redemption? That’s interesting.” He pulled in a lungful of smoke. “Who called in her missing persons report?”
“From what I hear on the grapevine it was her attorney. Carlson someone.”
“Carlson was representing Sweet?”
“Custody thing, I hear.”
He pulled an extra fifty from his pocket. “You hear Carlson’s name come up at all again, you call.”
“Why do you care about her?”
“I’m going to nail her to the cross.”
Dr. Dixon studied the picture of Angie Carlson. He’d taken it a couple of weeks ago when she’d been walking out of King’s. Hair the color of ripened wheat brushed her shoulders as a light breeze teased the edges upward. Frowning, she’d looked both ways before she crossed the street toward her car.
He traced the lines creasing her forehead. “You need to relax. You need to stop worrying. You need someone who can look after you.”
His phone buzzed. He lifted his gaze to the receiver as he carefully tucked the picture in his middle drawer. “Dixon.”
“Your next appointment is here.”
“Right. Thank you.”
He rose, tugged the edge of his sweater vest down, and adjusted the collar of his white lab jacket. The door opened, and his secretary extended her arm. “You can go right in.”
Dr. Dixon tensed as he came around the desk and extended his hand. Aware that his nurse was watching, he smiled. “Welcome.”
The man smiled. “Thank you, Doctor.”
When his nurse shut the door, he pulled his hand free and backed up a step. “What are you doing here?”
The man sat back and folded his arms together. “I need some professional advice.”
Dixon glanced toward the door, wondering if he should lock it. He opted not to turn the dead bolt for fear his nurse would hear and wonder. Just play this smooth and easy. Normal.
“What kind of professional advice do you want?”
“Plastic surgery of course.” His smooth, even voice had the power to shred Dixon’s nerves.
As tempted as Dixon was to sit behind his desk, he took the chair next to his newest patient. “Do you want to change your face?”
“Good God, no. I’m fairly fond of my face.”
“Then what?” His gaze roamed over the man, who kept his body trim and his muscles sculpted.
The man stared at him, hesitating. “I have a few scars I’d like removed.”
“Scars?” In all the time Dixon had spent with this man they’d never discussed scars. But then their relationship wasn’t built on trust but dark murderous tastes begging to be fed. Dixon recognized that he was a sexual sadist, and his friend liked to kill. Dixon found his release when a woman screamed in pain. His partner found satisfaction when the light drained from her eyes.
Each was smart enough to know their individual desires would eventually draw the attention of the police. However, together, they could be unstoppable.
Dixon wanted to ask about Lulu Sweet. Was she dead? Had he discarded the bones? But that had been their number-one rule after their initial agreement. No talking shop. Ever. And so they’d maintained an oddly impersonal relationship. Barely a word was spoken when his partner would deliver a woman to Dixon, and even less was said when Dixon handed her back for the final act.
“How old are the scars?” Dixon pulled a pen from his front coat pocket and clicked the tip.
“No notes. No records, please.”
Dixon set the pen and paper down on the desk. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you.” He pulled an imaginary piece of lint from his pant leg. “The scars are old. I’ve had them since I was a teenager.”
“What caused the scars?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. It will help me determine treatment.”
“I was burned.”
Dixon made several notes. “I’ve had some success with laser treatment.”
“I don’t want surgery. Anesthesia can dull the mind and make people say things they should not.”
“There are ways to numb your skin so that you would be fully awake and fully conscious.”
“Perfect.”
“Mind if I examine the scars?”
“Sure.” He rose and moved through the connecting door into an exam room. He sat on the table and pulled off his shirt. He had a well-muscled flat stomach and a sprinkle of hair on his chest, but the lower part of his belly was disfigured with puckered, pink flesh.
Dixon nodded. “This must have been terribly painful.”
“It was.”
“These are deep. It could take quite a few laser treatments, and even then it won’t be perfect. The skin will never be like it was.”
“I’m hoping you can get rid of it all.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s important that you try. They link me to a past that I want to release completely.”
“Sure.”
He pulled his shirt back on. “When can we start?”
“I can schedule you next Tuesday.”
“Any time after two would work. I have a one o’clock appointment.”
The obits page in the paper had listed Sierra Day’s funeral for Tuesday of next week. Dixon had sense enough to stay away from the event, which would be crawling with cops. He prayed his friend had the same kind of sense.
“Tell me you are not going to her funeral.” He lifted his gaze. “I need to know. Are you going?”
The man raised an index finger to his lips. “It’s none of your business if I do or don’t.”
Dixon lowered his voice a notch. “We agreed to stay away.”
“I know what we agreed to.”
“So what are you doing?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t the first to break the rules.”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned forward and flashed even white teeth. “You want to keep her all to yourself, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been following Ms. Carlson.”
“I’ve not been following Angie.”
A thick eyebrow arched. “So it’s Angie now?”
“It’s always been Angie. She was my attorney. And I went to see her because the cops came to see me. I needed legal advice.”
“Please, you did not need advice. You wanted to see her, to smell her.” His eyes danced with glee. “Don’t feel bad—I’ve thought about her too.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve thought about the warmth draining from her skin as I choke the life out of her lungs.”
Dixon’s tension ratcheted up. He’d often thought about keeping Angie all to himself. “I don’t want her to die.”
“That’s the deal. You play. I kill.”
“I know. But she’s different.”
The man shook his head as he hopped off the table. “She’s not different. She’s just like the others. She’s a whore. Willing to sell her soul for fame, relief, or power. You fill in the blank.”
Dixon’s anger simmered below the surface. “I want her.”
“I can see that.” He leaned forward. “But you can’t have her for yourself. We share. That’s the deal.”
Dixon fisted his fingers. “I can stop you. I can stop you from killing her.”
Lightning-quick reflexes sent the man’s hand shooting up to Dixon’s throat. He tightened his hold, choking the breath. “You cannot stop me. No one can stop me.”
Dixon clawed at the hands around his throat. “Let me go.”
“Say it. Say that you can’t stop me.” He squeezed his fingers, bending cartilage and bone to the point of breaking. “Say it.”
Dixon twisted his neck trying to break free. His lungs screamed for air. “Fine. I can’t stop you.”
The pressure eased just a fraction to allow him to speak but not really to breathe. “And?”
He released Dixon’s neck. Instantly Dixon sucked in air. He’d only been afraid three times in his life. When he’d found his girlfriend’s killer leaning over her dead body all those years ago. The second time had been when Garrison had arrested him for attempted murder. Garrison questioned Dixon for hours about Lulu and the missing prostitutes. The cop had sworn to link Dixon to all the women. But he’d kept quiet, knowing silence would serve him as it had in the past.
The third time was now. Now he was afraid of this partner he had brought into his life. He hoped silence would be enough to save him this time.
The ride to Vivian Sweet’s house was solemn and quiet. A heaviness had settled on Angie’s shoulders, and she found emotions kept jabbing her.
Malcolm pulled up in front of the small house and waited for her as she walked around the front of the car. He followed her up the front walk. She rang the bell.
Vivian appeared seconds later. The lines on her face deepened when she saw them. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her face pale. “I dreamed about her last night. I dreamed that she’d died.”
Malcolm drew in a breath.
But it was Angie that spoke. “Her body was identified early this morning.”
“Identified this morning. You couldn’t tell it was her just by looking at her?” Her knees buckled, and Angie pushed forward and caught her under the arm. She guided Vivian inside and helped her sit on the couch.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sweet.”
“How did she die?”
“We’ve yet to determine that,” Malcolm said. His voice held a tenderness she’d never heard before.
The silence in the house tweaked Angie’s senses. “Where is the baby? Where is David?”
“In his bed asleep. He’s been cranky all morning. He must sense that his mama is gone.”
“Do you have someone who can stay with you?” Angie said. “Someone who can help you with the baby?”
“Got a neighbor who said she’d come by. Should be here soon.”
“Good. You shouldn’t be alone.” Vivian needed care, but so did the baby. And Vivian, her body so fragile and worn as it was, didn’t have the strength to care for him now.
“I can call social services,” Malcolm said.
“That’s not necessary,” Angie said. “Vivian and her neighbor can watch out for him today.”
Malcolm shifted his weight as if wrestling with a new frustration. “Right. But what about tomorrow?”
Vivian looked up at Angie, her eyes watery and red. “He’s right about tomorrow. I don’t have it in me to take care of him. I was barely holding on, hoping Lulu would return. Now I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”
The idea of turning the boy over to strangers or social services made her sick. “I’ll help you figure out something. I promise.”
“Did she suffer?” Vivian said. “Did my girl suffer?”
Angie did not want to lie, but the truth could not be good. Her killer had stripped the flesh from her bones for a reason. “She’s at peace now.”
Vivian dropped her face to her hands and cried. For long, tense minutes Malcolm stood over them while Angie patted the woman on the back. And then in a split second the front doorbell rang, and the baby wailed.
“I’ll get the door,” Malcolm said.
Angie nodded and rose, knowing she’d take care of David. She found the boy standing in his crib holding on to the railing. His eyes were watery, and he clutched a pacifier in his mouth. He smiled when he saw Angie. She grinned and picked him up. The weight of his diaper told her he needed a change. She’d never changed a diaper before, but how hard could it be? She carried him to the changing table.
“Hey, guy,” she said.
He raised his hands and grabbed her lip.
She laughed, pulled his hand away, and kissed his palm. “I don’t know much about diapers, but I can manage.”
He kicked and squirmed as she unsnapped his pants. She stared at the diaper, not quite sure what to do first. She smiled at the boy, who kicked his feet harder.
“The neighbor is here,” Malcolm said. He stood in the doorway.
“Great.”
“Are you changing him?” No missing the amazement in his voice.
She blew a wisp of hair from her eyes. “That’s the plan.”
“And you’ve never done it before.”
“Not even once.”
He moved beside her and grabbed a diaper from the shelf below. He made quick work of stripping the soiled diaper and replacing it with a fresh one.
“I’m impressed, Detective.”
“Niece and nephew. I babysit from time to time.” He handed her the baby.
Emotion hitched her throat. “You’ll be a great dad.”
Angie hadn’t dwelled too much on the fact that she couldn’t have children. It was what it was. But for the first time in seven years, a well of sadness rose up in her. She simply wanted to cry.
The visit to Vivian Sweet’s house weighed heavily on Angie’s mind as she parked illegally on the city street corner near a newsstand. She dug in her handbag and fished out her change purse, and locking her car, dashed to the newsstand. She counted out a handful of quarters and glanced up at the news guy, a black fellow who wore a red knit hat and a blue scarf wrapped three times around his neck.
“A paper to go with a diet soda,” she said.
“You’re usually my magazine junkie.” He grabbed a cold soda from a small refrigerator and a paper.
“What?”
“You show up the third week of every month and clean me out of magazines. You never buy a paper.”
He was yet another person who noticed her habits. “My paper never showed up this morning.”
“You are a news junky.” He pulled a paper, folded it, and handed it to her.
“Am I that obvious?” She never considered that he’d noticed her buying habits.
“I know most of my regulars’ habits.”
She wondered who else noticed her habits. Maybe the time had come to mix things up a bit. “How much do I owe you?”
“Five dollars.”
She dropped the money in his hand, replaced her change purse, and grabbed the soda and paper. “If I don’t get back to my car I’m going to get another ticket.”
She smiled, turned suddenly in a rush to get to her car, and smacked right into a man who felt more like a wall than flesh and bone. Her gaze darted up as she uttered an apology.
Her words halted before they were uttered. “I know you.”
“From group.” He wore a dark turtleneck, a blazer, and jeans. He’d chosen a relaxed style, and yet his aura possessed a formality better suited for a military uniform.
She’d never run into anyone from group before, and it unnerved her a little bit to have that world collide with this one. “Hey.”
“Angie, right?” He held out his hand, and she hesitated before taking it.
“Right.” Warm, strong fingers wrapped around her hand, igniting a jolt of energy. She pulled her hand free. “Good to see you.”
He nodded to the paper. “Hear about that woman they found?”
“It’s in the paper?”
“On the radio this morning. Weird, isn’t it? Another chick reduced to bones.”
Her senses tensed. “Why would you bring that up?”
He shrugged. “Just making conversation. News reports say you were her attorney.”
She shoved out a breath. “I’ve got to go.”
He followed. “Do you work in this area?”
She stopped and stared at him. “Who are you?”
“I’m Robert. From group.”
Angie shook her head, studying his face. “What do you really want?”
“How about that cup of coffee?”
“Sorry, no time.”
The last thing she wanted was to spend more time with him. She just wanted to keep moving. No reason not to like this guy, but she didn’t.
“Maybe I’ll see you around. Seeing as we work in the same area.”
“Yeah. Sure.” She glanced past him to her car. A police car was making its way down the block. “I’ve got to go.”
He looked frustrated. “Yeah, sure.”
Angie didn’t look back as she ran to her car, but she sensed that he stared at her.
Dr. Dixon had to work quickly. After the visit from his partner he needed to act soon if he was going to save Angie. He slumped low in a parked car in the darkened parking garage, sipping coffee, watching her empty parking space. He’d been following Angie for months, standing in the shadows learning all her habits.
One thing he had learned was that her boss, Charlotte Wellington, had a thing for security, so getting a hold of Angie in her offices would be hard. Not impossible, but hard.
Her black BMW pulled into her spot, and she burst from her car, briefcase in hand. Long legs carried her across the deck to the elevator. Quickly, she punched the button.
He rubbed his hands on the steering wheel, anticipating what it would feel like to touch her bare flesh. He couldn’t wait for the day.
Dixon would have to work quickly. His partner would not appreciate him changing their arrangement. But as soon as Dixon had Angie, he’d have her out of the country in less than an hour, and then they’d have a lifetime together.
The elevator doors opened, and she vanished into the car.
His body hardened at the prospect of having her. A restless energy stirred. The raw sexual energy inside him was so powerful it made his skin crawl. He had to exorcise the demons clawing at his insides.
He shouldn’t be out in public now trolling the streets for a whore, but he needed the release or he’d never be able to concentrate on taking Angie.
“I found whores before him and didn’t get caught. I’ll do fine without him.” He’d learned his lesson when Garrison had arrested him. Have your fun, pay your money, but just don’t get too rough.
Holding back would be hard—he so enjoyed a woman when she cried and begged him to stop—but he would find a way not to be too rough. A little pain would have to suffice.
He put his car in drive and headed toward his favorite street corner.