Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“It might be,” Blazevich said. “We’re now considering the possibility that the Alder Court murders weren’t the work of the Cul-de-sac Killer. . ”

Molly stared at him. “You mean, they think it was some sort of — copycat killing?”

He nodded. “It’s looking more like that, yes.”

“What makes them think so?”

He let out a wary sigh. “Without getting into too many details, Molly, the Cul-de-sac Killer is quite neat and deliberate — methodical. In the houses where he had struck, most of the blood has been inside or around the closets where the bodies were found. With these multiple slayings, it appears he ties up the victims, puts them in their respective closets — and then takes his sweet time with them, one by one.”

Wincing, Molly felt gooseflesh prickling on her arms, and she nervously rubbed them. She’d read an account of the murders that indicated as much. But it was still unsettling to hear someone say it.

“From the looks of things inside the house on Alder Court,” Blazevich continued, “they were all killed very quickly, almost haphazardly. I saw photos of the scene, and it was a mess. There was blood all over the kitchen. They think Taylor Keegan almost got away — or at least, she put up a good fight. Her body was stashed in the kitchen pantry. She hadn’t been tied up at all.” He shook his head. “That’s another thing. The Cul-de-sac Killer rarely kills anyone on the first floor. The only exception — until Taylor — was Kurt Fontaine, who was murdered along with his wife in the Madrona neighborhood. They found his body in a coat closet on the first floor. But all of his other killings have taken place on the upper levels of the victims’ homes. The Cul-de-sac Killer would have tied up Taylor Keegan and put her in her bedroom closet upstairs. He wouldn’t have killed her in the kitchen.”

“Jeff isn’t a suspect, is he?” Molly whispered.

“Not really,” he replied. “But — well, let’s just say that he’ll have to account for where he was that night — for both the police and the press.”

Molly’s eyes searched his, and all at once she realized something. He knew.

The police had to know Jeff was at the Chateau Granville Hotel in Vancouver the night Angela was killed. They’d obviously checked his story about having stayed at the Capital Hilton in D.C., and known it was a lie from the start. All it would have taken was a check of his credit card records — just as she’d done. The police had probably figured out a lot sooner than she had that Jeff had been wining, dining, and screwing some woman in Vancouver the night his ex-wife was butchered. Maybe Jeff had used his connections to get investigators to clam up about his little indiscretion. Or perhaps the cops had decided to do him a favor and not expose him as a lying, cheating scumbag. For a while, there was really no reason for him to get his alibi straight — as long as they knew the truth. But soon the murders of Angela, Larry, and his daughter would no longer be considered another cul-de-sac killing — and Jeff’s lying about where he was that night would become a major issue — and an embarrassment. The press would eat it up.

Molly locked eyes with Chet Blazevich again. She realized he was doing her a favor, bracing her for the potential scandal. “Can I ask you something?” she whispered. “Is this an official police visit or did you come here on your own?”

Blushing, he gave a little shrug. “I came here on my own,” he admitted. “So this visit is very unofficial .”

“You’re looking after me, aren’t you?” she asked. “You don’t want to see me get hurt.”

He nodded. “I think you’ve been hurt enough, Molly. I think you deserve a break. And I think that husband of yours must have rocks in his head.”

Molly reached over and put her hand on his arm. “Thank you, Chet. Thank you, very much.”

Chris stood at the railing by the top of the stairs. He couldn’t see them down in the living room. But he could hear them pretty well — when they weren’t whispering. He’d gotten the gist of their discussion.

Molly and the cop were talking about his dad. He hadn’t been where he said he was the night of the murders. Chris remembered something his mother had said: “Every time he goes out of town, it’s just another opportunity for him to screw whomever he wants. . ” Was that what he’d been doing the night she was killed?

Last night, Molly had stormed out of the house, telling them they could get their own dinner. She’d said something to him before she left, too — something about not being able to get a straight answer from his dad. Chris had thought at the time that she almost sounded like his mom used to.

The cop claimed his dad wasn’t really a suspect, but in all the TV crime shows, the cops always said that about the guy they ended up arresting. Chris knew his dad was capable of a lot of things, but not murder.

Right now, Molly and the cop were whispering back and forth. It was kind of weird the way they called each other by their first names. Their voices got a little louder, and he spotted them downstairs stepping into the foyer from the living room.

Chris quickly stepped back so they wouldn’t see him. He heard the front door click open while they murmured to each other. After a few moments, the door shut, and the lock clicked. He was about to head back into his room, but he hesitated. He heard her crying down there. Chris moved to the top of the stairs. “Are you okay?” he called to her.

She quickly wiped her eyes and glanced up at him. “I’m fine, Chris.”

“What did that guy want?”

“Oh, he’s a policeman,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “He just wanted to follow up on some stuff about the prowler I spotted in the backyard yesterday.”

He couldn’t help frowning at her for lying — again. His dad wasn’t the only one who didn’t give straight answers. The other night, Mrs. Hahn had said everyone’s troubles started when Molly had moved onto the cul-de-sac. She kind of had a point.

Chris wished he could run around the track with Mr. Corson after school tomorrow. Everything in his life was falling apart again, and he missed his counselor.

He turned and headed into his bedroom, leaving the door open a crack. He wanted to hear when his dad came home.

A few minutes later, Erin stomped upstairs and got ready for bed.

While his sister was in the bathroom, he heard Molly coming up the steps. He crept to his door and saw her from behind — going down the hall toward the master bedroom. She was carrying a steak knife. She held it tight against her side — like she was trying to hide it in case he or Erin spotted her.

He watched Molly duck into the master bedroom and close the door.

At 9:05, someone gently knocked on the front door.

Molly jumped up from the sofa in the family room. By now, she was convinced something awful had happened to Jeff. She’d been waiting for the sound of his key in the door.

He wouldn’t have knocked.

Hurrying down the hall, she checked the peephole. Rachel stood on the other side of the door. Molly unlocked the door and flung it open. “Hi,” she said a little breathless.

“Sorry to drop by so late,” she said, wincing. She wore jeans and had a cardigan over her pink T-shirt. “I saw your lights were on, and I — well, I just got another call from that freaky woman.”

“Oh God, come in,” Molly said, stepping aside for her.

“You must think I’m such a baby,” Rachel said. “But after that creepy guy in the backyard yesterday, I’m so jumpy it’s not even funny.”

Molly motioned to her. “Please, come in,” she said again.

Rachel stepped into the foyer. “I’m pretty sure it was the same nutcase,” she said. “The phone rang, and I saw the number was blocked. But I picked it up anyway, and this raspy, weird breathing came on the other end. They didn’t say anything. Like an idiot, I kept asking, ‘Who is this?’ Then they hung up.” She rubbed her forehead. “It’s silly of me to get so scared. I’m sorry to bother you. I hope I didn’t wake anyone up.”