Marie Ferrarella - Sundays Are for Murder

“No. Just wanted to check something out.” Crouching, he carefully examined the lock on the door and the area around it. “No sign of forced entry.” He rose again. “Looks like she knew her killer.”

“Maybe.” This was a first-floor apartment. Which meant there was possible access through one of the windows. But they all appeared to be locked from the inside from what she could see. “Or maybe she just opened the door.”

Where he came from, people were a lot more cautious. “To a stranger?”

Charley smiled. “Why not? Had an aunt once. She opened the door to anyone who knocked or rang. Thought it rude not to.”

“She get mugged?” he guessed.

“Not so far.” She didn’t add that she’d finally persuaded the woman to put a chain on her door so she could open her door and still have a semblance of protection in place.

According to the police report, Stacy Pembroke’s body had been found in the living room. Nick walked into the bedroom. “You want to come here and look at this?”

“Can’t wait,” Charley murmured under her breath. She stepped away from the small desk and walked into the bedroom.

Nick was squatting over a pile of men’s clothing that had been unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the room. He lifted the jacket that was on top of the heap and examined it.

“Forty-two tall.” He closed the jacket and replaced it on the pile, then rose to his feet again. “You know, maybe we’re dealing with a jilted lover.” He threw a theory out for her to mull over. “Maybe to draw suspicion away from himself, Mr. Forty-two Tall killed her and staged it to look like the Sunday Killer.”

But Charley shook her head. “According to the preliminary findings, the victim had a tiny cross carved on her forehead. That’s a detail we never released to the press.”

He looked at her. Maybe the woman wasn’t quite as sharp as she seemed to believe she was.

“And you think that kept it a secret?” Nick laughed shortly, shaking his head. People talked. Even those with good intentions. It was the nature of the beast. “How many people have been involved in the Sunday Killer case since the beginning? Twenty?” he asked, then doubled the figure. “Forty?” It was still a conservative estimate. If they counted all the peripheral people involved, including forensics, that brought the count up to over a hundred. “Think about it. There have been M.E.s and civilians who’ve stumbled across the bodies. Not to mention the family members who had to bury the killer’s victims. You honestly think no one said anything about that little branding fetish the killer’s got? You think that nobody had a few too many while sharing some quality time with his buddies or his best girl and let that little spine-chilling detail slip without realizing it?”

He had a point. But she had another one. “Okay, maybe that happened. Maybe more than once. But what are the odds that they’d let that slip within the earshot of the possibly ticked-off lover who belongs to that pile of clothes on the floor?”

Nick believed in picking his fights and this one didn’t seem to be important enough to do battle over. So he shrugged and continued working his way through the otherwise neat blue-and-white bedroom. “Guess you’ve got a point.”

She hadn’t finished with the living room. Turning on her heel, she went back. “I always have a point, Special Agent Brannigan.”

Opening up a bureau, Nick discovered the dead woman’s underwear drawer. The garments seemed rather pricey for a woman living on a waitress’s salary. He assumed they were gifts from Mr. Forty-two Tall.

“You know,” he called out to her, “with all these special agents floating around, the label tends to lose some of its specialness, don’t you agree? How about you just call me Brannigan. Or Nick if that’s too much of a mouthful.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Special Agent,” Charley promised.

Nick leaned over to get a better view of the other room and her. He couldn’t make out if she was smiling, but he thought he detected as much in her voice.

One step at a time, Nicky, one step at a time, he counseled silently.

The bottom drawer had negligees and the scent of expensive perfume. He paused a moment to inhale and appreciate, then another moment to mourn the waste of a human being before he gingerly rifled through the soft, filmy garments. And found a prize. A small four-by-six beige leather-bound book.

He took it out and thumbed through it. Delicate handwriting marked every page.

“Found a diary,” he announced, holding it aloft.

“I’ll see your diary and raise you an address book.” Crossing back to him, she displayed the volume she’d unearthed in the desk. “Maybe by reading that and calling some of the people in here, we can reconstruct her week.”

“Week? Don’t you mean day?”

Charley shook her head. “I always say what I mean,” she informed him crisply.

He was feeling her out, she thought. Circling her and looking for a weakness like a new buck entering an established herd. She was accustomed to doing things her own way. Ben had been a mentor and a guide, but he’d always given her her own lead. Early on, he had told her to trust her instincts and then he’d proved it by showing her that he trusted them. She had a strong hunch that Brannigan just wanted to be leader of the pack.

Not gonna work that way, Special Agent.

“This bastard stalks them. One of the victims’ brothers came forward and told us that his sister had confided to him that she thought she was losing her mind because she felt someone was watching her all the time. I don’t doubt that she was right. The Sunday Killer follows them around, gets their routines down, then waits for just the right moment to take them out.”

“As long as it’s on a Sunday.”

“As long as it’s on a Sunday,” she echoed.

“But why?”

There was frustration in Charley’s voice as she said, “That is the million-dollar question, Special Agent Brannigan. We get the answer to that, maybe we can get the son of a bitch.”

A noise in the other room told her that the rookie had returned. She crossed back to the living room. Brannigan was right behind her.

Jack looked eager to share what he’d managed to discover. “One of the neighbors on the floor said she thought she heard yelling coming from this apartment around noon yesterday.”

“What kind of yelling?” Nick asked. “Screams for help? An argument?”

Jack shook his head. “She just said yelling. But she said it was a man. And she thought it was the TV. You know, one of those daytime cable channel crime series that’s always being rerun. The woman said she was just about to go knock on Stacy Pembroke’s door when the yelling stopped.”

Nick exchanged looks with Charley. “Bad luck for Stacy,” he commented.

“Yeah,” Charley agreed sadly—if something as heinous as what had transpired in this apartment could be described with such sanitary words.

CHARLEY PUSHED the key into the lock. Turning it took effort. She felt bushed, really bushed. Worn-out from the inside clear to the outside.

This was probably the way someone with their foot caught in a stirrup felt after they’d been dragged for three miles by a wild horse. Going around in wide, fruitless, unproductive circles always did that to her.

With a sigh almost as big as she was, Charley pushed down on the door handle and walked into her apartment. She was instantly greeted by Dakota, who moments earlier, if the warm spot that met her feet when she kicked off her shoes was any indication, had been lying on the floor directly in front of the door.

Tail wagging like a metronome on caffeine, the German shepherd ran back and forth as if she couldn’t make up her mind what to do or where to go first.