Joanna Wayne - As Darkness Fell

The chief of police took the mike next. His explanation of the murder was brief. Sally had been a waitress at the Catfish Shack and was last seen alive at about 10:30 p.m. when she’d left work alone. Her car was found in the parking lot of her apartment complex, her handbag in the passenger seat, apparently untouched. There was no sign of a struggle. Like the mayor, the chief declined to answer questions. He’d leave that to the lead detective, Sam Turner.

“Which means we’ll learn absolutely nothing,” a reporter standing next to Caroline muttered. “Turner considers reporters disgusting parasites that exist merely to plague him.”

Still, hands shot into the air as Sam joined the chief at the front of the room. He was no longer dressed in the faded jeans and T-shirt, but a pair of gray slacks and a light blue sports shirt, open at the neck. He cleaned up real good.

SAM LOOKED over the crowd and felt an annoying dryness in the back of his throat and a tightening of his muscles. As far as he was concerned, news conferences were a waste of time and a damn nuisance. He should be out in the field tracking down the murderer, not standing here trying to appease a bunch of clueless reporters.

“Do you think this was a crime of passion?”

“I don’t stick labels on murders. I leave that to you guys.”

“Do you think the killer knew the victim?”

“It’s possible.”

“Do you think this is connected to some kind of cult or devil worship?”

“We don’t have any information to indicate that.” Sam pointed at a skinny guy in the back of the room.

“If it’s not some kind of cult murder, how do you account for the marking on the victim’s chest?”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions and I’m not ruling out anything at this point.”

“But you do think it could be some kind of ritualistic killing?”

“Anything’s possible.” How many ways was he going to have to say that before this was over? He glared at the waving hands, then pointed to the woman who’d thrown up in the bushes last night.

“Do you think the killer will kill again?”

Not the question he wanted. Not that he didn’t know the answer. The guy was a walking time bomb armed with a hunting knife. And if Sam said that out loud, he’d send the town into total panic and give the mayor a heart attack.

“I think people should stay alert until this man’s behind bars.”

All the hands were flying now. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes before he could cut and run. Five more minutes that the killer was walking free.

SAM TURNER was the first to leave the room when the conference was over. Caroline was the last. There was no reason for her to rush to the office and put a story together from the skimpy details that had been provided. The Prentice Times didn’t run a Sunday edition.

She took the side exit, the one closest to her car. That side of the building was deserted, and for a second she had the weird feeling that someone was watching her. She turned and looked behind her. No one was there.

Still, she locked the car doors the second she got in, realizing that this was the first time she’d done that since she’d moved here from Atlanta. Instead of starting the engine, she took out her notebook and scribbled down her thoughts, not in reporter framework, but just in the order they flew into her mind.

A young woman had her throat slashed and blood smeared over her breasts. What would cause a person to do such a hideous thing? Anger? Passion gone berserk? Or had something in the killer’s mind just slipped off center? And would he strike again?

Caroline’s cell phone rang, startling her so that she jumped and bumped her elbow on the steering wheel. She checked the number. It was Becky. She took a deep, steadying breath before she answered, trying to dispel the dark mood that had come over her.

“Okay, I’m a louse,” she said. “I should have called and explained my sudden departure just when the party was starting to get fun.”

“No need. We figured you’d rushed off to a story. Was it the woman whose body was found in Freedom Park?”

“Yeah.”

“I was afraid of that. That must have been totally gruesome.”

“Pretty bad.”

“We’ll have a beer later. You can tell me all about it.”

“You’ll need more than a beer if I do.”

“You sound upset.”

“A little. Actually more than a little,” Caroline admitted reluctantly.

“Maybe you should ask your boss to put you back in your old assignment.”

“Just wimp out?”

“Hey, if it involves murder, I would,” Becky said. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Fine. How did the rest of the party go?”

“Not a lot happened after you left. We danced awhile. The party started breaking up about midnight.”

“So how does it feel to be the ripe old age of twenty-six?”

“Not bad. I checked for new wrinkles this morning, but didn’t find any. Of course, it could be that my eyes are going.”

“No. I’m already twenty-seven, and I can still read the very small letters they print my name in when they bother to add it to my copy,” Caroline said.

“Tell them to make it bigger or you’ll quit.”

“And who would pay my rent?”

“I’ll lend you money. I have plenty.”

Which was quite true. Not only were Becky’s parents well-off, but her grandmother had left Becky a trust fund that ran somewhere in the millions. Caroline wasn’t even sure Becky knew what she was worth. And not only was she rich, she was fun, petite and cute, with baby blue eyes and bouncy blond curls that danced about her tanned cheeks.

“I’ll just keep working,” Caroline said. “It keeps me out of trouble.”

“It won’t if you keep wearing that red dress you had on last night. You were hot!”

“Do you think it’s appropriate for shopping at flea markets? That’s about the only place I go these days, except for work.”

Caroline stuck the key in the ignition as she talked, then noticed a yellow square of paper stuck under her windshield. Not a parking ticket, but some kind of note.

“Let me get back to you, Becky. I’ve got some business to take care of.”

“Okay, but first, what did you think of Jack?”

“Do I know a Jack?”

“He was at the party last night. Cute guy. Blond hair. I saw you talking to him before he left.”

“Oh, yeah. He seemed nice enough. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

And probably wanted to fix her friend up with him. But the guy obviously wasn’t interested, or he wouldn’t have cut out early.

They said their goodbyes and she opened the door and retrieved the note. It was about three inches square with a sticky strip across the back. She might have spoken too soon about how acute her vision was. This time she had to squint to read the tiny, but very neat, print:

I saw you last night in the park. You look good in red. Come to my next party. I’ll be looking for you.

She read the note again, but this time her blood ran cold. My party. Surely this couldn’t be from the deranged bastard who’d killed and cut up the woman in the park. Yet…

She sat there, shaking, holding the note and staring at it until her fingers grew numb. Finally she turned the key and the engine purred to life. She yanked the car into gear, then waited for a black sedan to pass.

Driving the sedan was none other than Sam Turner, talking into a cell phone without even a glance her way. She pulled out quickly and stayed close behind him, not sure that following him was a smart thing, but thinking she should show him the note.

Two blocks later he pulled into the parking lot of the Prentice Bar and Grille. She lingered in the car, giving him time to go in and be seated while she pulled herself together. Her first murder assignment. And now the killer wanted her for a pen pal. It was the stuff of horror movies.