Brenda Novak - The Perfect Murder

“Mom?”

Jane gasped. She could breathe. It wasn’t real. Oliver was dead. The noise that’d awakened her had been Kate. Her daughter was standing in the doorway. “Wh-what?” she said, willing her heart to slow its pounding.

Kate came to the side of the bed. “Didn’t you hear me? Someone’s on the phone for you. And she sounds like she’s crying.”

Who would call her in the middle of the night crying? Sheridan? Skye? Had there been an accident?

Alarmed, she threw off the covers and sat up. Then the memory of the day’s events snapped into place, along with the news snippet she’d watched before bed, and she realized that her caller could be someone else.

“Thanks, babe.” The time on her clock radio indicated it wasn’t the middle of the night as Jane had thought. It was only ten-thirty. She’d been asleep for half an hour. “Go back to bed,” she told Kate, but her daughter didn’t leave. Understandably curious-they didn’t receive many calls like this-she sat on the edge of the bed as Jane brought the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. Burke-Jane?”

It wasn’t Skye or Sheridan. It was Gloria, as she’d suspected. “Yes?”

“They jus’ called me,” she blurted, so breathless she could hardly speak.

Jane cleared her throat to eliminate the rasp of sleep. “Who just called you? Latisha and Marcie?”

“Marcie, I think. I couldn’t tell for sure. She was talkin’ so low I could barely hear her.”

The mind-numbing fatigue fell away like a cast-off shirt. “What’d she say?”

“She say, ‘Gloria, you gotta help us.’ I say, ‘Where are you? Tell me where you’re at an’ I’ll be there.’ An’ she say, ‘I don’t know.’ So I told her to hang up and call 9-1-1. But she say she already tried that an’ they put her on hold while they sent a cruiser.”

“A cruiser’s good.”

“I know, but she was so terrified she panicked. She hung up and called me. I told her, ‘Give me some clue, baby. Help me find you.’ But she was cryin’ so hard she couldn’t talk. All she could say is, ‘Oh, God, he’s here!’ Then the line went dead.”

Jane’s blood seemed to freeze in her veins. The girls were alive. But where? In what condition? And who had them?

“Someone has ’em both,” Gloria was saying. “She said us. I heard that much. They’re alive, but I don’t know for how long. We gotta find ’em!”

Jane clutched the phone tighter. If they were alive, they needed someone better than her. Just hearing about Marcie’s call-Oh, God, he’s here-made Jane’s own past rush up on her like a wave surging from behind. She tried to beat back the fear, but with little success. She’d already broken into a cold sweat.

“Hello?” Gloria cried when she didn’t speak.

Drawing a deep breath, Jane forced a calm she didn’t feel. She had to pretend she was everything Gloria thought she was, had to act as if she knew what she was doing or she’d be letting her client down. What good would it do to add to the poor woman’s panic? “Have you contacted Detective Willis?” she asked.

“I called the number on his card, but it went straight to voice mail.”

Of course it did. Jane hadn’t been thinking when she’d asked that question. Detectives were basically on call twenty-four hours a day, but that didn’t make them available to the general public. “I can reach him at home,” she said. “Did your phone show the number Marcie called from?”

“It did. It wasn’t blocked. I got it right here, on my list of incoming calls. But I already dialed it at least a dozen times, and I can’t get anyone to pick up. A recording comes on, saying the voice-mail box hasn’t been set up yet.”

Jane wished Gloria hadn’t done that. The ring might’ve alerted Marcie’s captor to the fact that she’d made a call. But she didn’t want to make Gloria feel bad for doing what anyone would want to do under the circumstances. “Give me the number. If we’re lucky, I can find the owner via a reverse directory. Or maybe David can get the information from the phone company.”

Gloria’s voice shook as she dictated each digit, but she was careful to enunciate.

“I’ll call David and get back to you,” Jane promised.

Throughout the conversation, Gloria had held up admirably, but now she broke into tears, as she had in Jane’s office. “Can you find ’em? You gotta find ’em. Right away. I can’t live without ’em. They all I got.”

And you’re counting on me? Jane was hoping that aborted call to 9-1-1 had been more helpful than it appeared. Maybe it was just a matter of time before they heard from the police. Maybe the cruiser dispatched by the emergency operator had arrived…

Maybe she’d be able to believe that if whoever had taken Marcie and her sister hadn’t appeared while Marcie was using the phone.

“I know. I’ll talk to you in a few minutes,” she said, and hung up.

Movement from across the bed startled her. She’d become so engrossed in the conversation, she’d forgotten her daughter was in the room.

“What is it, Mommy?” Kate asked, creeping closer.

“Someone needs help.” Jane took her daughter’s hand. As usual, having Kate beside her made her grateful that they were alive and together. The situation five years ago could’ve ended very differently. But after Gloria’s call, even Kate’s reassuring presence couldn’t keep the doubt that plagued Jane from striking deep.

Maybe Ava’s right about me. Maybe Oliver put me through too much, and now I don’t have the nerve to do this job. She felt physically ill at the thought of what might be happening to Latisha and Marcie. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Skye or Sheridan or Ava taking it this personally. They all seemed to face every challenge with cool resolve.

Kate snuggled closer. “Those girls who ran away? Are they the ones who need help?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t run away?”

“No.”

“Are you going to rescue them?”

Jane rubbed the back of her daughter’s hand against her cheek. “Do you think I’m capable of rescuing someone?”

Kate reached up to kiss her cheek. “You saved me, didn’t you?” she said. “You can do anything.”

A lump rose in Jane’s throat. “I’ll do my best,” she said. Then she sent her daughter off to bed and called David.

Hey, you there? He wrote me again tonight. Around dinnertime. But I had to rush off to a meeting for a school fundraiser and this is my first chance to get back online.

Hello?

You said to let you know.

Sebastian had just stepped out of the shower when he spotted Mary McCoy’s instant messages on his laptop. According to the time indicated on those messages, she’d tried to reach him twenty minutes ago, right after he’d gone into the bathroom.

Had she already signed off?

Afraid he was too late, he sat down wearing a towel and typed a quick response.

I’m here. What’d he say?

There was no immediate reply. A single mom, Mary was often up late. She’d told him it was the only time she could carve out of the day for herself. But-he glanced at the radio alarm by the bed-it was nearly midnight, and she had to go to the hospital where she worked bright and early in the morning. Maybe she’d gone to bed.

“Come on, come on.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. She’d given him her phone number, but he couldn’t call her at this hour, and he couldn’t drive over there, either. He stayed away from her place in case Malcolm was closer than they thought. Letting Malcolm see him would blow everything.

Mary? he typed, as if he was speaking and not merely sending another message.

Nothing. Damn. He’d missed her.

Shoving his wet hair out of his face to keep it from dripping into his eyes, he slumped in his chair, momentarily distracted by his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. God, he hardly recognized himself anymore. His hair, as thick and black as that of his Greek ancestors, was getting so long it curled around his ears and nape. His coal-black eyes were hollow and slightly sunken, so the sharp angles of his cheekbones protruded in an exaggerated fashion. Dark stubble covered a jaw and chin that, like his cheekbones, now seemed more pronounced. He’d once been so meticulous about his appearance and grooming. A haircut at Lucio’s every six weeks, standing appointment. A close shave twice a day to combat an unrelenting five-o’clock shadow. Italian shoes. Designer suits. Gold cuff links. A Rolex watch. Now he wore mostly jeans and T-shirts and a brown leather bomber jacket, rarely cut his hair and shaved every three days. The only personal maintenance he hadn’t abandoned besides regular hygiene was a stringent fitness routine. He pushed himself to lift and run more each day, but not because he gave a damn about improving his physique. It was all about coping with his frustration-and being ready to exact retribution.