Brenda Novak - The Perfect Murder

“Our offices are on Watt Avenue, not far from El Camino. Can you come there?”

“Give me an hour.”

“See you at nine-thirty.” She provided the address and hung up. Mr. Costas was articulate. And direct. She wondered if he could somehow be right about Malcolm Turner.

After a glance at her wall clock, she picked up her pace. Time was getting away from her.

Grabbing her phone, she dialed Gloria’s number on her way out. “We have the name of the man who owns the cell your sister used last night,” she announced as soon as Gloria answered.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Wesley Boss. Have you heard of him?”

“Never.”

“We’re working on getting his address and we’ll check him out. I just wanted to give you an update.” Her car chirped as she pressed the button on her key chain to unlock it.

“Luther came by las’ night and put a note on my door,” Gloria told her. “I found it when I lef’ for work this mornin’.”

Jane tossed her briefcase on the passenger seat. “What did it say?”

“‘You think that skinny white bitch who came to see me cares any more than the cops do what happens to people like us? You should’ve come to me. I’ll find Latisha. Lucifer.’”

Skinny white bitch? Jane knew she should be offended, but she’d worked so hard to lose weight that the skinny part was almost a compliment. “I thought Lucifer was a name you only used behind his back,” she said.

“He musta heard it. I guess he ain’t offended. I guess he likes it.”

Yikes. Anyone who purposely adopted a name like that had to be dangerous. “He’s wrong, you know. We do care. We’re doing all we can.” She didn’t add that David had to deal with a homicide today. She figured the realities of police work would appear to support Luther’s side of the argument. Those waiting for news of a loved one didn’t want to face the fact that police officers had a lot of different cases, a lot of people to help, and that they also had to eat and sleep and look after their own families.

“I appreciate that you’re tryin’,” Gloria said.

It would’ve been difficult to miss the reticence in those words. “But…”

“If Latisha’s dad can finally do somethin’ for the poor chil’, I’m grateful for that, too.”

Oh, hell. Now they had a three-hundred-pound pimp with killer pit bulls on the case. “Gloria, don’t share any of the information I give you with Luther, okay?”

“Why not?” she asked.

Because Jane had no idea what he might do with it. “His methods could be a little sketchy.”

“He mean business.”

“It’s the way he does business that worries me. He could hurt somebody. He might even hurt the wrong somebody. You need to trust the police. And me,” she said, hoping it wasn’t quite so apparent than she had little faith in herself.

“I jus’ want my sisters back.”

Jane opened her mouth to try and convince her to give them more time before allowing Luther to get involved. But she knew it wouldn’t help. It was too late. Gloria saw Luther as power. She wanted action, results, not more talk. Despite a concerted effort, the police hadn’t been able to offer her even a hint of relief in three weeks. At this point, she’d take any shortcut. And Jane couldn’t blame her. She knew she’d probably do the same thing if she were in Gloria’s shoes. “You won’t listen to me, will you.”

“Like I said, I jus’ want my sisters back.”

“Then heaven help Wesley Boss if Luther gets to him before we do,” she said and disconnected.

The man who walked into Jane’s office at precisely nine-thirty stood over six feet and weighed about two hundred and fifteen pounds. Somewhere in his mid-forties, he was wearing expensive jeans, a rugby shirt and a brown leather bomber jacket, but even dressed so casually he looked like a yacht owner or executive on holiday. Maybe it was his autocratic bearing-or his staggering good looks. He had an abundance of dark hair, currently on the long side, an olive complexion, brown eyes with thick sweeping lashes and the kind of muscular build that would’ve made the stylists in Jane’s last salon drool.

Hoping he hadn’t noticed her jaw hit the floor, she struggled to ignore his physical assets so she could concentrate on the purpose of his visit. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Costas.” She put out her hand and experienced a firm grip as his warm, dry palm met hers.

“Ms. Burke.”

Lisa, the volunteer who’d let him in, hadn’t left. She stood behind him, mouthing, “Oh my God!” while fanning herself.

“That will be all, Lisa,” Jane said, her smile pointed.

Blushing when he turned to look at her, Lisa ducked her head and moved on.

Jane motioned to the chair she’d placed across from her desk for Gloria yesterday and stepped back. She felt as if she was acting again, pretending to be a professional victims’ advocate instead of a mere trainee. But she instinctively knew Costas was the type of man who’d assume she didn’t deserve his respect if she didn’t demand it. “Please, have a seat.”

His lithe movements graceful yet extremely masculine, he did as she directed.

Jane cleared her throat. “Thanks for coming.”

“Hopefully, we’ll both be glad of this meeting,” he said. “What do you have on Wesley Boss?”

Jane didn’t sit down. She felt more in control standing. “Not much. Yet.”

“You said you have an address?”

“I have a P.O. box. Detective Willis is working on a street address.”

“Have you met Boss? Can you tell me what he looks like?”

“No. At this point, he’s only a name to me.”

He studied her so intently she felt the blood rush to her face. “How did he come up in connection with the two missing African-American girls?”

“One of them made a call last night using a cell phone that corresponds to his name.”

Costas folded his hands in his lap. “Interesting.”

“We think so, too.” Jane realized that standing might make her seem nervous, so she took her seat and tried to appear more at ease. “Tell me what you know about Boss.”

“As I explained to Willis, he’s really Malcolm Turner, the man who killed my ex-wife and son in New Jersey, then faked his own death.”

“Was he married to your ex-wife at the time of the murders?”

“Yes.”

Jane couldn’t help sympathizing. She also couldn’t help wondering if he’d remarried. She didn’t think so; he wasn’t wearing a ring. “I’m sorry. I know that must’ve been hard for you.” She could tell it was hard for him even now. “But what makes you believe Wesley is Malcolm?”

“In a roundabout way, I’ve been in touch with him via the Internet for nearly three months.”

“You…chat with him?”

“After setting up his new life, he sent an instant message to Mary McCoy, a former girlfriend who lives here in town. He claimed to be Wesley Boss, but some of the things he said reminded her of Malcolm, so she gave me a call. They’ve been e-mailing, with me sort of listening in, ever since.”

“How did she know to contact you?”

“After the murders, I spent months visiting every friend, family member and acquaintance Malcolm Turner’s ever had. They all know to contact me if they hear from him.”

“I see.” She straightened the objects on her desk. “You’re very thorough.”

“I’m determined to achieve justice for Emily and Colton,” he said.

“So you’ve made contact with Mr. Boss but don’t know where he lives?”

“Not yet. He’s getting more and more interested in Mary, though, and he has her address. That’s why I’ve got to find him, fast.”

“You think he might go to her house? That he might hurt her?”