Brenda Novak - The Perfect Murder

“David asked me to help you out with this case. He and another detective are canvassing the neighborhood where the car was found, trying for the second or third time to find someone who saw something that morning, but he’s worried about the lack of leads. I just wrapped up a case for one of my own clients, so I’ve got some time. I was coming down your street when I saw you pull out of the driveway.”

“So you followed me.”

“When you didn’t turn toward the office, I was curious.”

“I went to the Raleigh Pete to get a picture of the man we’re searching for.” Knowing it was a bit late for this, she shoved the picture toward him. “See?”

He glanced at it. “This is all you got?”

Her cheeks blazed. “What, you weren’t listening through the door?”

“Actually, I wanted you to be able to get that, er, picture in peace, so I went out for breakfast while I waited.”

She glared at him. Then, with a sigh, she gave up the charade. What was the point? She’d already told him about last night. “If you tell Skye-”

“It’s your business, like you said.” He took a seat across from her. “But I wish all my cases were as easy to figure out as what you’ve been up to this morning.”

“Quit teasing me,” she said with a scowl. “We have what could be a long day ahead of us. We should get going.”

He bent his head, imitating a subservient bow. “I’m properly caffeinated and at your service.”

She ripped off the piece of paper she’d been writing on and handed it to him.

“Damn, there must be thirteen casinos here,” he said as he studied it. “I never dreamed there were so many in this area.”

“They’re pretty spread out. But I used MapQuest to determine the distances between them so we could chart the best route. I was numbering them when you came in.” Grateful his attention had finally turned elsewhere, she got her purse. “We’ll start with Cache Creek.”

“Why not Thunder Valley? It’s closer.”

“Because we discovered handwritten directions to Cache Creek at Wesley Boss’s last known address.”

“This guy’s a gambler?”

“He’s a gambler, all right. And from what I’ve learned so far, no stakes are too high.”

Jonathan sobered as he slipped the paper in his pocket. “We’ll find these girls, Jane.”

The conversation she’d just had with Gloria came back to her.

So you’re meetin’ him this weekend?

We hope so.

You can’t make it sooner?

We can’t tip him off.

But by then it might be too late!

Gloria was right.

“We have to do more than find them, Jon. We’ve got to find them alive,” she said and walked out ahead of him.

The Internet provided an extensive list of handwriting experts. It took Sebastian some time to vet them, but there was a woman named Ritchie Lymond whose online biography impressed him. She’d done a lot of work for the FBI and other police agencies.

He clicked on the link, which took him to a Web site with her contact information.

Thinking he might be able to reach her more quickly by phone, he called the number listed on the site. The phone hadn’t even started ringing on his end when he heard a woman say hello.

“Ms. Lymond?”

“Yes?”

He explained who he was and what he wanted.

“I sympathize with what you’re trying to do, Mr. Costas,” she said. “But I hate to see you throw any more money at this. Even if I could determine that the handwriting sample was written by the man who murdered your son, there’s no way it could overturn DNA evidence. Handwriting analysis is ultimately subjective. It’s becoming more widely accepted now that we can scan it into a computer and digitize the comparison process, but…it’s not foolproof.”

“I understand that. I just…I need to know what you think.”

There was a long pause. “What do you have by way of exemplars?”

“Exemplars?”

“Samples to compare his writing to.”

Sebastian had the entire contents of Emily’s house in a series of storage units. He had that shoebox containing Mary’s old letters, but if Malcolm had written back, he hadn’t reclaimed those letters and Mary hadn’t kept them. They’d already discussed the fact that she’d disposed of everything he’d ever given her when she got engaged to her husband. Sebastian also had a journal and some letters he’d found when packing up the Turners’ home office, but all of that was primarily Emily’s. Would he have enough of Malcolm’s? Malcolm’s own family had come for his things. The storage unit would yield only the scraps from the storage area above the garage or drawers Malcolm’s family had overlooked. “I’m hoping I can get several. What would you like to see?”

“Letters, contracts, lists. The more you have the better. Are the directions to the casino written in both lower- and uppercase?”

“Yes.”

“Then get something that has both. I can’t compare lowercase letters against uppercase.”

Before he’d called Ms. Lymond, he’d contacted his mother and asked her to go to the storage place to see what she could come up with. “If I can get what you need, I’ll overnight it tomorrow or the next day.”

“Okay, but even if you get the exemplars, don’t set your hopes too high, Mr. Costas. I’ll do what I can, but it’s a long, tedious process, and there are a lot of variables.”

If he could get the damn exemplars, what else stood in their way? “Like…”

“Someone who’s been taking drugs, who’s exhausted or ill or emotionally distraught, may write differently when in that state.”

After what he’d seen on various forensic shows, he’d thought it would be easier. But ever since Colton and Emily had died, he’d realized that nothing about police work was easy. “I understand.”

He hung up-and immediately started thinking about Jane again. How was she doing with the various Indian casinos? She hadn’t called, but she hadn’t been gone that long, either.

Should he act on her suggestion to tell Malcolm that Mary wanted to send him a package? Maybe if it came from Mary’s work e-mail, it would lend him even more credibility. It would certainly build a more believable picture. And if he had Mary tell Malcolm she was shipping it via FedEx, they might be able to get an address out of him. Most people knew that FedEx and other couriers couldn’t deliver to a P.O. box.

“You like to gamble, Malcolm? Let’s roll the dice,” he said and called to see if he could get hold of Mary.

It wasn’t her first time. Marcie had been wrong about that. Latisha was on the pill. She’d been sleeping with a waiter she’d met at the restaurant. She just hadn’t told her sister or anyone else. Although sex with Wesley Boss had been very different-merely physical, mechanical, an act of panic and desperation, not mutual attraction-Latisha couldn’t regret it. She and her sister would both be dead if she hadn’t done what she’d done.

As Wesley curled around her and began to doze off, she stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out how well she’d survived the experience. She certainly hadn’t enjoyed herself, but it hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected. She’d merely separated her mind from her body, closed her eyes and imagined she was swimming in a deep pool, submerged under water, where she could see only murky shapes and hear only muted sounds.

In less than fifteen minutes he was finished. And he hadn’t been cruel or particularly rough. She would’ve been grateful for that, except she was pretty sure his “normal” approach was what had her so confused. This was rape, or a form of it, yet there’d been no violence. She’d always associated rape with brute force.

Movement in the next room told her Marcie was as agitated now as she’d been when she fought to keep Latisha from going with Wesley. Because her sister had received a quick kick to the face for her efforts, Marcie was more badly hurt than Latisha. But Latisha knew the physical injuries Marcie had sustained-so far-would heal. She was more worried about the psychological damage. Her sister was already so angry at the world. Their mother, her father, certain schoolteachers and various peers had let her down so terribly. Marcie didn’t need another reason to hate…