Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“Maybe he wasn’t ready to reveal himself?” she offered. “Maybe he panicked? There could be a hundred explanations for why Rachel’s…”

She let the words trail off; his expression softened. “The KWPD is working in conjunction with the sheriff’s department and the Florida Crime Bureau in an attempt to locate the killer. Perhaps Tara was a member of a group called the Horned Flower, but I hardly think a bunch of pampered teenagers is capable of butchering one of their friends. And trust me, Tara was butchered.”

“Please help me,” she whispered. “I have nowhere else to turn. No one else to turn to. Mark said you’d know what to do.”

“I’m sorry. Go home, get some sleep. In the morning-”

“In the morning Mark might be dead. Are you sure you can live with that?”

Sunday, November 18

2:45 a.m.

“I can take it from here, Margo,” Rick murmured, zipping then locking the deposit bag. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

“Are you sure?” She ran a damp cloth over the seat of a chair, then set it upside down on the table. “I don’t mind staying.”

Rick smiled at the newest member of his staff. He had been lucky to find her. Not only was she personable, reliable and attractive, she could flat-out hustle drinks. “What, no love connection tonight?”

“Nope. I’ve nothing better to do than sleep. How about you?”

“When you get to be my age, sleep’s a good thing.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “You’re what? Thirty?”

“Try thirty-six, Margo.”

“Only ten years older than I am. Not that much.”

Only a decade, Rick thought, amused.

“I could pour myself a glass of wine and keep you company.”

He would have to be deaf and blind to miss the invitation in her question. He pretended to be both. The day after Mark disappeared, she’d walked in looking for a job. Considering Libby’s reliability and Mark’s sudden departure, he had all but fallen to his knees in thanksgiving. The last thing he was going to do was muck that up by getting involved with her. Besides, he believed some lines shouldn’t be crossed. This was one of them.

“Help yourself to the wine, but don’t stay on my account.” He lifted his gaze to hers and smiled, hoping to take the sting out of his next words. “I’m alone a lot, Margo. It suits me.”

Disappointment crossed her features and she quickly looked away. “That’s cool.” She grabbed her purse from under the register and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “Considering I’ve got to open tomorrow, I think I’ll pass on that drink.”

She crossed to the door, then stopped and glanced back at him. “So, who was that chick who stopped in to see you? Your girlfriend?”

“No such luck, Margo. Just a friend of a friend.”

Where had that come from? he wondered as his employee left. The words had sprung so easily from his tongue, as if the meaning behind them had just been sitting there waiting impatiently to be uttered. Not in this lifetime. Even though he found Liz Ames attractive, he had no plans of becoming involved with her. Or anyone else for that matter.

With a small shake of his head, he returned his attention to closing out the bar. Or rather, he thought, a small percentage of his attention-just enough not to totally screw up the mindless jobs he had performed a million times before. The rest of his attention turned to the reason for Liz’s visit tonight.

He had to go to Val. Mark had been Tara ’s boyfriend. Tara had been pregnant with his child. He’d been in the garden that night. The first to the scene, according to Liz. He had left that scene without reporting it and was now AWOL.

That made him a suspect. A prime suspect.

Rick frowned, thinking about the money Mark had lifted from his register and the IOU he’d left in return. Maybe Mark had needed the money to pay Tara off? Or to make her and their “problem” disappear? Maybe she had refused to abort the baby and he’d killed her? Could she have been blackmailing him? Threatening to make trouble for him?

But to whom? And blackmail him for what? Mark’s wages barely kept a roof over his head. It wasn’t like Mark was a married man or someone who would have a lot to lose should his predicament come out.

Typically a blackmailer used the thing a person valued most against him. Rick thought for a moment, working to pinpoint what that thing was. The Mark Morgan he knew valued his Christian faith above all. So how would Tara have been using that against him?

Rick flipped off all but the security lights, set the alarm, then stepped out into the sticky night, motorcycle helmet under his arm. He glanced up at the inky, star-studded sky. Perhaps Mark and Tara had fought. Perhaps he had discovered the baby wasn’t his. He could have flown into a jealous rage and killed her.

That scenario fit the killing method. Killing with a blade was more personal than killing with a gun. The attacker had to actually touch his victim, physically subdue them as they fought for their life, feel their body spasm in death, their blood stream across their hands or splatter against their face.

Rick swung onto the bike and started it. That took an emotional detachment few possessed. Professional killers. Trained military. The true psychopath. Or it took passion. Hatred. Love. Jealousy.

Rick eased away from the curb, heading south. Problem was, neither of those scenarios explained the Gavin Taft connection. Mark was too young to have been Taft’s accomplice. Therefore, if Mark had killed Tara, he would have had to have studied Taft’s murders before he did the crime. Actually, it would be an ingenious way to throw suspicion in another direction.

But it also placed the murder squarely in the premeditated category.

The light at Truman Avenue changed to red and Rick slowed to a stop, the powerful engine purring beneath him. Premeditated murder? Mark? That would mean Mark had planned Tara ’s killing beforehand. Goodbye, crime of passion. Hello, murder in the first degree. Which, if proven, afforded the maximum sentence the law allowed. Which, in the state of Florida, was the death penalty. A crime as heinous as this one had death penalty written all over it. The prosecutor would go for it, Rick didn’t have a doubt about that.

The light turned green. Rick took a left onto Truman. Could Mark have committed this crime? And why involve Liz Ames? Why create this whole Horned Flower scenario?

As a backup alibi.

Rick sucked in a sharp breath. The pieces clicked into place. Liz would be a perfect choice. Mark had no doubt learned from Tara that she was Pastor Howard’s sister. At the same time, he’d learned that she didn’t believe the official explanation for her sister’s disappearance. And that her sister had claimed to Liz that she had uncovered some sort of evil conspiracy.

Perfect, Rick thought, checking over his left shoulder, then executing an illegal U-turn, heading back in the direction he had come. Mark would have realized that if he contacted Liz with the story, she would not only buy it, but proclaim it to any who would listen.

Mark had used Liz. He had attempted to use Rick.

Mistake, Rick thought grimly. Big mistake.

He made it to Duval Street, passed Paradise Christian and the Hideaway, drawing to a stop in front of Liz Ames’s storefront. He removed his helmet, dragged a hand through his damp hair then lifted his gaze to her second-story apartment.

Despite the hour, her lights were on. He had known they would be.

He swung off the bike and glanced toward her lit windows once more. And found her standing there, gazing down at him. He lifted a hand in greeting, and pointed toward her door. She indicated she understood.