John Miller - Too Far Gone

Gary West didn’t know the real Casey, the child who had cried on Grace’s shoulder a thousand times, and who had professed her undying forever love for Grace when they were both mere children. Casey hadn’t said it since, but Grace knew it was still true. No matter what Casey told Gary, she had never loved him. She had only ever loved Grace.

She wet her index finger and massaged herself slowly, imagining it was Casey’s wet tongue. Soon it would be more than an imaginary Casey who was making love to her. Soon they would be lying together in Casey’s large bed, exploring each other’s bodies while listening for Deana’s waking cries. It would be Grace who made Casey forget she’d ever slept with any man, and Deana that she had ever had a father.

She had enough money, both to get to Spain to wait for the firestorm to go away and for her to become another person. She would have reconstructive surgery to give her a new and sculpted face worthy of Casey LePointe, have those additional ounces removed, her buttocks lifted, and wait patiently in Madrid for Casey’s grieving period to end. Then she would be-in a far more acceptable and worthy form-the woman Casey deserved.

After the bath was drawn, Grace closed the door and eased slowly, inch by inch, into the hot water. She reached out and lifted the wine bottle to pour more into the glass, leaning back so she could see the picture of Casey and herself as teenagers that hung on the wall over the toilet.

The past weeks had been difficult. Watching Gary, knowing he was thinking he was about to be a very wealthy man. Whether he admitted it or not, the money would have changed him. And it wasn’t his money, it was Casey’s and hers. Yes, it had been hard, but, as her father always said, nothing worthwhile was easy.

Grace held her glass up to Casey’s beautiful face, toasted the future, and the death of Gary West.

“The bloody print from the cigar box was too smudged to be worth much, but there are three points that could be used to compare for a match if we have a set to compare to. Not enough to hold up in court, but evidence is cumulative. The blood type is RH negative, which is a match to our nurse,” Manseur said.

“Any personal papers?” Alexa said.

“All we found were household bills. No Christmas cards, no letters from friends or family. No computer for e-mails. Just the pictures you saw. Looks like she didn’t have much of a life outside her work.”

“She took her work home. I think her house was sanitized,” Alexa added. “Somebody went through and removed things that would lead us somewhere.”

“Maybe the perps? I imagine there is more than one person involved.”

“Makes sense. Or maybe it wasn’t Sibby at the house today. Maybe one of them returned today to make sure the place was really clean-that they hadn’t left anything to tie them to the house. They weren’t expecting me to show up. When I called just before I went inside, the answering machine picked up, and they knew time was short, and they were already at work. The machine was taping when I called, so the message tape was in the machine then. When I was in the kitchen, the tapes had been removed.”

“Doesn’t seem like something Sibby would do,” Manseur said.

“She might have taken the pill bottles on the bed, but I don’t think so.”

“Those only tied LePointe to Fugate. You think he did it?”

“I’m sure LePointe knew I had been to Fugate’s before I told him. He knew we’d been at the hospital. Maybe Malouf told Decell after she thought it over.”

“She could have decided to play both sides against the middle,” Manseur said.

Alexa put her hand to her forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Manseur asked.

“I just assumed Sibby was in Fugate’s house. Whoever was in Fugate’s house went out the front door. I need to go back there,” Alexa said. “The house across the street. Someone was looking out at me when I drove up. Maybe they saw who went out.”

Manseur picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Manseur,” he said. “Who interviewed the residents in the houses across the street?”

He listened. “Let me speak to him.

“Jimmy Alexander did the canvass,” he told Alexa. “Jimmy, who lives across the street from there?” Pause. “Did she see anything?” Pause. “Okay. Thanks.”

Manseur hung up. “Elderly woman named Cline. She didn’t see anything. She was watching her TV soaps.”

“I have to go talk to her,” Alexa said.

“Why?”

“She’s lying,” Alexa said. “But she won’t admit it to your detective.”

“How you know that?” Manseur asked.

“Because soaps run on weekdays. Plus I’m a woman, and so is she,” she answered, scooping up her purse.

“Let me tie up a couple of things. Take me fifteen minutes-”

“Stay. Get those prints off my mags and the cigarette case going. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Alexa,” Manseur said. “You carry a forty, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

He reached into his pocket and tossed her a full Glock magazine. “Take a spare, just in case. You never know.”

“I usually don’t accept personal gifts from married men,” she said, winking.

A crime-scene van and two Crown Vics were parked on the street in front of the Fugate house. A uniformed patrolman stood on the walkway smoking a cigarette. No crowd had gathered, but a couple walking a dog craned their necks as they strolled past. Of course, most of the residents had probably already left town or were packing to do so. Alexa looked at the neighbor’s house and saw the window curtain fall back into place.

Alexa was assaulted by the heat and humidity as she climbed from the Bucar. Purse over her shoulder, she approached the Cline house. She rang the bell and flashed a warm smile as she gazed through the sheer curtain behind the glass and saw a figure rapidly approaching the door.

An elderly, slightly stooped, and round-faced woman opened the door and stared at her through little reading glasses. The woman wore a rosy-cheeked smile and had a carefully trimmed helmet of white hair. The smell of cookies baking filtered out onto the porch.

“I’m FBI Special Agent Alexa Keen. Ms. Cline, is it?” Alexa held up her badge.

“Rosemary Cline.”

“I’m doing follow-up interviews, Ms. Cline.”

“The detective wouldn’t tell me what’s going on at Miss Fugate’s. But I know enough to know that’s a crime-scene van. If y’all don’t want to tell me what’s happened, that’s fine. I’m sorry, dear, but I’m very busy. My son is coming to get me in two hours to take me to DeRidder for the hurricane. I’ve got more packing to do after the cookies are done.” Rosemary Cline started to close the door.

“I noticed when I drove up earlier that you looked out the window.”

“I occasionally look out my windows,” Ms. Cline said. “That’s the value of having them. We have a neighborhood watch.”

“Did Dorothy Fugate attend watch meetings?”

“Goodness, no! She’s lived in that house for over twenty years now and I’ve spoken to her maybe a dozen times. She isn’t the outgoing type, you could say without telling a lie. She made it known as soon as she moved in that she had no interest in making friends or being involved with the neighbors. She was downright unpleasant, even for a Yankee, if you want to know the truth. Seven days a week, dressed in her uniform, going and coming at all hours. Until last year. She stopped going out in her uniform, moved in a roommate, and we all assumed she’d retired.”

“Can you describe the roommate?”

Ms. Cline smirked slightly. “She has the fairest complexion you’ll ever see and long gray hair. Heavyset, but not obese, by any means. I’ve only seen her a few times on the porch with Miss Fugate at night, getting fresh air, I suppose. Is she all right?”