Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“I’m just trying to verify what Mrs. Hahn told me,” Blazevich said.

“Well, I’m verifying it,” Molly said edgily. “And if Mrs. Hahn told you that Angela and I really didn’t like each other, I’ll verify that, too.”

“What is this anyway?” Jeff asked hotly. “Is my wife a suspect or something? Do you think she’s in cahoots with the Cul-de-sac Killer?”

Chet Blazevich shook his head. “No, Mr. Dennehy. I’m just trying to cover all the bases here. I didn’t mean to upset you folks, especially after what you’ve been through today. I just have one more question, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Go ahead,” Molly said with a sigh.

He looked at Jeff. “Where were you when you got the news about your ex-wife?”

Jeff hesitated.

Molly impatiently chimed in: “He’s been in Washington, D.C., since Monday. He was staying at the Capital Hilton. I already told that to the two policemen I spoke with this afternoon.”

Nodding, the handsome cop quickly got to his feet. “Well, thank you, Mr. Dennehy. . Mrs. Dennehy. Once again, I’m sorry to have intruded on you during this difficult time.” He stuffed his pen and notebook inside his jacket pocket.

Molly walked him to the door. “It sounds crazy, but should I be worried? Do the police really think I had anything to do with—”

“No, not at all,” he assured her. “Like I say, I’m just following up on things.”

Molly nodded, and opened the door for him. “Well, I apologize if I got a little snippy. It’s been a long, tough day, and I’m a bit on edge. You’re just doing your job.”

“You shouldn’t apologize,” Blazevich said with a kind smile.

“You’re damn right she shouldn’t apologize,” Jeff said, standing behind her.

Chet Blazevich nodded at him sheepishly. Then he turned and retreated down the walkway.

The November night air was chilly, but Molly remained in the doorway with her arms folded. Behind her, Jeff put his hands on her shoulders. She reached up and took hold of his hand. “You know, his last question reminded me of something,” she said. “It’s weird, but this morning, when you didn’t pick up on your cell right away, I phoned the Capital Hilton. The operator said you weren’t registered there.”

“Oh, I should have let you know, this thing was at the other Hilton,” Jeff said.

“Well, I’ve told the police you were at the Capital Hilton. You better let them know I had it wrong.” She sighed. “That’s all we need, one more thing to make us look suspicious.”

Jeff gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Like Blazevich said, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. C’mon, let’s get inside. You’ll catch your death standing here.”

“In a minute,” Molly murmured. She lingered in the doorway while Jeff headed toward the kitchen.

A cool breeze whipped through her, and she shuddered. Rubbing her arms, Molly watched the cop walk down the darkened cul-de-sac to his Toyota Camry. It was parked in front of Lynette’s house.

There was room for only one car in his two-car garage. Every time he opened the big, automatic door, his neighbors probably caught a glimpse of the storage unit he’d built in there. One half of his garage had been boarded up from floor to ceiling. The reinforced, unpainted thick sheets of wood created another room — accessible through a thick door that had a padlock on it.

He’d made the most of the small space, creating a maze of closets and cabinets — most of them with padlocks on the doors. In one closet, he had jumpsuits and uniforms of every kind: janitor, paramedic, cable service, pest-control service, UPS delivery, and mailman — to name a few. There was also a cabinet exclusively dedicated to holding coils of rope, and duct tape — though lately, he’d come to rely on torn-up bedsheets in lieu of rope. Watching people rip apart the sheets from their linen closets to make their own restraints had become an important part of the ritual for him.

One door, which looked as if it led to another closet, merely opened up to a wooden wall. On the wall he’d displayed several NO OUTLET and DEAD END signs. He’d hammered nails into that wooden wall, carefully spacing them like brackets so they held up the signs. He didn’t want any glue or tape compromising the integrity of his trophies. Beneath each sign, he’d written in black laundry marker the dead-end street from which he’d taken it, the cul-de-sac where he’d cleaned a house , as he liked to think of it. He knew it was risky to hold on to such hard evidence, but he was sentimental.

Beneath the most recent NO OUTLET sign, he’d printed in block letters: LAUREL LANE.

He didn’t have a dead-end sign from Alder Court in Bellevue.

That was because he’d never set foot on Alder Court in Bellevue. He didn’t kill those people. It was staged to look like one of his killings. The person who had killed Angela Dennehy, Larry Keegan, and his daughter Taylor may have slit their throats, stuffed each body into a closet, left all the lights on, and stolen the NO OUTLET sign at the end of Alder Court. But it wasn’t a cul-de-sac killing. The murderer of those three people had another agenda.

Could it be he’d had a personal or professional grudge against one of his victims?

According to all the early news stories, Larry Keegan had been divorced for four years, and his ex-wife, who had since remarried, was devastated by the news. His business associates spoke very highly of him, too.

That left Angela Dennehy. He couldn’t help thinking that someone wanted her dead, and then made it look like a cul-de-sac killing. Perhaps Larry and Taylor were just collateral damage.

The hinges squeaked as he closed the door to his makeshift trophy case.

As far as he could tell, the police hadn’t yet figured out that the Alder Court murders were the work of a copycat. Right now, he was the only one who knew — along with the real murderer, of course.

Frowning, he put the padlock back on the door to his trophy case. He wasn’t happy someone had decided to imitate him.

He’d have to do something about that.

Something hit the side of her car, and Molly flinched. She was driving back from the doctor’s office, and about to turn onto Willow Tree Court. Thwack! It happened again, this time on her car door. “Good God, what is that?” she asked no one in particular.

She almost stepped on the brake, but a BMW was on her tail, and it was sure to rear-end her. So she kept moving, turning left onto the cul-de-sac. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some movement in the vacant lot at the corner. It was Carson and Dakota Hahn — along with Jill’s son, Darren. The little brats were throwing dirt balls at passing cars. Molly wanted to roll down her window and scream at them, but she was afraid she’d end up with a mouthful of dirt. So she just kept driving.

The doctor had agreed to squeeze her in for an appointment this afternoon. She’d gone on the sly while Jeff and the kids visited Trish to make funeral plans for Angela.

The latest cul-de-sac killings had been the top news story since yesterday. So the receptionist at the doctor’s office had taken pity on Molly and not charged her for missing yesterday’s appointment. The doctor had recommended an ob-gyn, with whom Molly now had an appointment in a month.

That seemed like such a long time away. Molly figured she’d wait until after Angela’s funeral to tell Jeff about the baby.

As she turned into her driveway, she spotted a woman at her front stoop. A pretty brunette in her mid-thirties, she held a pie in her hands. Her jeans and the clingy waffle-pattern pale blue top showed off her trim, aerobicized figure. She came down the front walkway to meet her.