Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Liz stiffened and met his gaze. “Correct,” she said clearly. “I deduced it through her body language and expressions. The things she didn’t say.”

The lieutenant looked at his detective again. “Quick, Carla, we just learned a new interrogation technique, write down everything suspects don’t say.”

The woman smirked and Liz stood. “I’m a trained professional. It’s my job to interpret-”

“My job,” he interrupted, following her to her feet, “is to unearth the truth. Not to guess, infer or deduce. I deal in facts. Not feelings. Period.”

“But-”

He cut her off. “You are overwrought, Ms. Ames. Understandably so. Go home, let us do our job.”

Liz took another stab. “Take a look at this. Someone slipped it under my door while I was in my last session with Tara.” She retrieved the note from her purse and held it out.

He took it from her, read it and handed it back. “So?”

“It’s a threat.”

“Or a joke.”

“It’s not a joke!” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I received this while in session with Tara. Less than twelve hours later the girl was murdered. Why don’t you get it?”

The man’s expression softened with compassion. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Ames. You’ve been through…something awful. First your sister’s disappearance, now this.” He glanced at the other detective. “I tell you what, I’ll keep an open mind about this. I’ll have Carla check out your story, see if we can discover who left you that note. Will that help?”

“Yes,” she murmured, relief flowing over her. “Yes, that will help.”

Saturday, November 10

4:30 p.m.

The medical examiner for the keys was an old friend of Rick’s. They had played ball together for the Key West High School Fighting Conchs. Rick had been the second-string quarterback, Daniel Carson a second-string receiver. Their sophomore year, the Conchs had won the state championship. Consequently, they had spent a lot of time on the bench together while the first string strutted their stuff. Later, when their paths had crossed professionally, they’d discovered they got along as well as men as they had as boys.

Rick knew Daniel would be much less discreet than Val. It helped that Val and Daniel had never particularly liked each other-Daniel would be inclined to share the information just for the opportunity to piss Val off.

“Daniel, Rick Wells.”

“Rick.” The other man laughed, his deep voice sandpapery from years of smoking. He had given up the habit the day his father died from lung cancer, but he hadn’t lost the smoker’s gravel. “How the hell are you?”

“Can’t complain,” Rick murmured. “How’re Vicki and the kids?”

“Doing great. Danny’s playing junior-high ball. Made first string, right off.”

The pride in the other man’s voice made Rick ache. Sam would have been nine this year. A fourth-grader. Playing ball. Beginning to think girls weren’t the enemy.

For a split second, Rick couldn’t think, let alone respond. In that moment he missed his child with a ferocity that made him want to weep.

“Shit, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t think, I-”

“It’s okay,” Rick managed to say, finding his voice, fighting his way back from despair. “He a receiver like his old man?”

“You bet. He’s got better hands, though. He’s faster.”

“Smarter, too, I hope,” Rick teased, working to chase away the ghosts of the past.

“Without a doubt. Hold on a second.” Rick heard the sound of someone in the background and Dan’s reply. A moment later, he returned to Rick. “So, buddy, you call to shoot the breeze?”

“No. I need a favor.”

“Thought so.” Daniel’s tone held no condemnation. “Does this favor have anything to do with the Mancuso murder?”

“You do an autopsy yet?”

“Finished an hour or so ago.” He paused a moment. “I’d never seen anything like it before. Gang killings, suicides, overdoses. But this…” His voice thickened. “Made me want to give this job up, open up a nice family practice. Live with a few of my illusions intact.”

“It’s too late for that now,” Rick said grimly. “What did you find?”

“You know that’s confidential information. You’re not on the force anymore, Rick.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Why so interested?”

“I’ve got a feeling about this one, Dan. Val’s shut me out.”

“You recognized the killing style.”

“Yes.”

The other man hesitated, then sighed. “You on a land line or a cell?”

“Land.”

“Hold on a moment.” His friend laid down the phone. Rick heard footsteps, then a door shutting. A moment later he was back. He confirmed what Rick had suspected: she had been attacked from behind, the injury to her neck had killed her, she had not been sexually assaulted and the carvings on her body had, indeed, been done postmortem.

Then he said something that took Rick by surprise.

“She was pregnant. No more than three months along.”

“Oh, man.”

“It gets worse, my friend. The killer cut open her womb and took the fetus.”

Saturday, November 10

5:00 p.m.

Liz climbed the steps to Paradise Christian’s closed doors. She kept her gaze focused on them, afraid to look left, toward the garden. She had promised herself she wouldn’t. Seeing the crime-scene tape stretched across the garden door would bring the events of the night before rushing back.

The call of that vivid slash of yellow proved too powerful, and she glanced to her left. And as she feared, the image of Tara filled her head: her face screwed into a death howl, of the blood…everywhere, of her wide, lifeless eyes. Staring up at her in accusation.

She should have been able to prevent this. Should have done something to stop it.

Liz whimpered and jerked her gaze away. She hurried up the remaining steps and crossed to the doors. And found them locked. Confused, she tried a second door with the same results.

Of course the doors were locked. A girl had been murdered here not even twenty-four hours ago. Her killer still roamed free.

Liz searched for the bell, found it and rang. Several minutes later she saw Pastor Tim’s face at the window. A moment later the door opened.

He looked as if he had aged five years since the last time she’d seen him. That she had expected-the accusation in his eyes she hadn’t. She took a step back, wondering what she had done wrong. “Pastor Tim?” she murmured. “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Today has been difficult,” he responded stiffly. “How can I help you?”

Difficult. An understatement, she was certain. “I wanted to check on Tara ’s parents. Have you spoken with them?”

“Of course I have. What kind of spiritual leader would I be if I hadn’t?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, taken aback, “I didn’t mean to offend you. Sometimes people in pain turn away from those who can help most.”

“The Mancusos are people of great faith, Ms. Ames. Their belief in their Lord and Savior will carry them through even this.”

Liz recalled the fanatical light in Tara ’s eyes when she spoke of God, heaven and hell. “Do the Mancusos have any strange beliefs?”

“Excuse me?”

“That came out wrong,” she said, cheeks burning. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just that Tara said some things about her Christian religion I found strange. I thought maybe she-”

“The child is dead now, Ms. Ames. Let her rest in peace.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You might be surprised how much I do understand.” He took a step back from the door. “I have to go now.”