Kay Hooper - Sense Of Evil

“We’ve got people checking area banks today.”

“Maybe they’ll at least find evidence of those secret accounts. But I don’t think they’ll find the box. I think Jamie was planning to leave this place, or at least go on a long vacation somewhere until Hope’s body turned up and she could determine whether she was going to be suspected of murder.”

“And spent the final days of her life trying to erase or hide all the secrets,” Rafe said.

“Exactly. I think she found or created a place to bury the Mistress for Hire. The box of photos went there right away, especially since she must have suspected Emily of snooping. The stuff in her playhouse would have followed, but the killer got to her first.”

“Okay,” Rafe said. “I’ll buy the theory. But how do we find out where this hiding place is? We’ve tapped every source we have, short of going door to door and asking every soul in Hastings. What else can we do?”

Isabel drew a deep breath. “We ask the one soul who knows.”

The heavens took their own time in opening up. By three that afternoon, it was twilight, with a hot wind blowing gustily and thunder rolling as though it had miles and miles to go. Flashes of lightning provided eerie strobelike images of very little traffic on Main Street, and clusters of media camped all around the town hall across from the police station. Print media, at any rate; most of those with electronics to consider had, as Isabel predicted, wisely chosen to remain indoors.

“You can feel the nerves,” Mallory said, gazing out the window of the conference room. “Even the reporters. I don’t have any extra senses, and I can feel it.”

“Extra senses make it worse,” Hollis told her. She was sitting at the conference table, both elbows propped on it and her hands cupping her face. “My head is throbbing in the weirdest way.” She yawned as if to clear her ears. “And I feel like I’m going up in a plane.”

“Not the best time to try a séance, I guess.”

“God, don’t call it that.”

“Isn’t that what it is? Technically, I mean.”

“I don’t know, but I can’t help feeling a stormy afternoon spent summoning the dead just can’t be a good plan.”

“We’re not doing it in a haunted house.”

“Oh, goodie, one for the plus column.” Hollis sighed.

Mallory turned her back on the window and half sat on the sill, smiling faintly. “You two are unconventional investigators, I’ll give you that much. But, then, this hasn’t exactly been a conventional series of murders. If there is such a thing.”

Before Hollis could respond, Travis rapped on the open door and said, “Hey, Mallory, Alan Moore is here. He says it’s important, and since the chief and Agent Adams are out in the garage with T.J.-”

“Send him in. Thanks, Travis.”

Since the bulletin boards were already covered, neither woman had to move, and Mallory remained at the window as Alan came in. She said, “The chief of police has no comment for the media. Didn’t you hear him on the front steps a couple of hours ago, Alan?”

“I did,” he replied imperturbably. “Which is why I went back to my office. Where I received two bits of news I thought I’d be gracious enough to share with the police.”

“I think he rehearsed that,” Hollis said to Mallory.

“Probably.” Mallory frowned at him. “The news?”

“First, Kate Murphy called a friend who happens to work at the paper. Seems she left town in a hurry-and on a bus-because she got a threatening call from an ex-lover and panicked. Especially with blondes getting killed in Hastings.”

Mallory said, “We haven’t found a sign of a lover in her past, and we’ve looked.”

“Yeah, but this is about ten years ex. Even she admits the panic was somewhat extreme.”

“Sounds like it,” Hollis murmured. “Not that I can really blame her.”

“Anyway, she’s safe,” Alan said. “She claims she left a note for her store’s assistant manager but hadn’t had a chance to call until today. I think she’s about four states away, but she refused to say where.”

Mallory shook her head. “One less on the list, thank God. And thank you for sharing. What’s your other bit of news?”

“This.” He produced a folded paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the conference table. “Probably no prints other than mine, since there weren’t any on the last one.”

“Envelope?” Mallory asked.

He pulled that out of a different pocket. “I figured it’d be worthless for prints, too, considering how many people handled it. The postmark is Hastings. Mailed Saturday.”

Hollis leaned a bit sideways to read the note, brows lifting. “Well, well.”

Mallory joined them at the table to study the message. Like the previous note to Alan, it was block-printed yet virtually scrawled in a bold, dark hand on the unlined paper.

THEY WERE GOING TO TELL.

HE KNEW THEY WERE GOING TO TELL.

THEY WEREN’T WORTHY OF OUR TRUST.

NEITHER IS SHE.

NEITHER IS ISABEL.

DUSTIN FOUND IT,” T.J. reported. “He knows cars better than I do. Since it’s a guy thing and all.”

Rafe said, “So the cruise control was engaged. McBrayer was drunk; he could have done it accidentally.”

“Dustin says he couldn’t have. Something about the way the cruise button is on the wheel. Of course, the wheel is mangled as hell right now, but he swears it’s a safety issue or something.”

Isabel straightened after looking into what was left of Hank McBrayer’s car, and said, “Dustin thinks somebody else set the cruise control?”

T.J. shrugged. “I admit I thought it was pretty far out. But we checked the rear end of the car, which is mostly intact, and found signs of a jack. Lift the rear wheels off the ground, put it in gear and push the accelerate button on the wheel, set the cruise control, and, when you’re ready, shove the car off the jack. The marks on the car are consistent.”

“There would have been tread marks on the road at the point it came off the jack,” Rafe said.

“Dustin’s out now, backtracking from the scene of the so-called accident. We also found a bit of rope on the front floorboard. I’m thinking it was used to tie off the steering wheel to keep the car going in a straight line. And if that’s not enough, I’m pretty sure the headlights were off.” She shook her head. “A nice, neat little way to kill somebody. With McBrayer reeking of alcohol and enough in his blood to knock out a squad of marines, who would suspect it was anything but an accident?”

“Good work,” Rafe told her. “You and Dustin.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell him you said so. And I’ll send up the report when he gets back and I finish up with the car.”

As they left the basement garage of the police station and headed upstairs to the offices, Isabel said, “A diversion. That accident happened only a couple of miles from the Brower house; the patrol on watch outside would have been the closest squad car.”

“I wonder if he aimed McBrayer’s car at one he could see coming or just trusted to luck he’d hit something or someone eventually?”

“I don’t think our boy trusts much to luck,” she said. “Finds a dark, straight stretch of road in a little-frequented area, sets up the car with McBrayer passed out inside. And waits until he sees headlights. By the time the other driver even saw the car coming at her, it was too late.”

“The pay phone he called Emily from was only a few blocks from the scene of the-accident. He probably waited for the patrol car to pass him, then called her.”

“I have the feeling that killing two more people just so he could lure Emily out was another of his taunts: Look at me, look how clever I am .”