"Upstairs. She'll be down in a minute. You said you wanted to talk to both of us?"
"Yes. Thank you for seeing me tonight. I won't take up much of your time." Sonny still didn't see the ludicrousness of that statement.
"Nonsense, it's a pleasure. Would you like something to drink? We have hard, soft, and everything in between." Sonny led the way into the den; thank God he hadn't taken him into that horrible room with the gargantuan television. There was a television in the den, of course, but it was normal-sized.
"A glass of wine would be nice." He had no intention of drinking it, but the pretense of accepting his hospitality would keep Sonny relaxed.
They made small talk, and still Merilyn didn't appear. He began to get a little concerned. He didn't want to spend a lot of time here; the longer he waited, the more likely it was someone would notice the car, as bland as it was, or the phone would ring and Sonny-or Merilyn-would say, sorry, we can't talk, our banker is visiting. Wouldn't that be just lovely.
He glanced at his watch, and Sonny said, "I don't know what's keeping Merilyn. I'll go check-"
"No, don't bother," he said, getting to his feet. In a smooth motion he reached behind his back, took out the pistol, and pointed it at Sonny's head. He was so close that Sonny could have reached out and swatted it away-if he'd had time, but he was slow to react. Pity.
Calmly he pulled the trigger.
The bullet entered Sonny's head just above his left eyebrow, angling back and to the right, taking out both hemispheres of his brain. He was always amazed at how small and neat the entry wound was; when the bullet exited, however, it had flattened, and it took a huge chunk of skull and brain with it. Amazing.
The sound of the shot was just a little cough; it wouldn't even have been heard in the next room.
He turned to go in search of Merilyn, and froze. She stood just outside the doorway, her face drained of color, her eyes wide and horrified. He lifted the pistol once more, and she ran.
He didn't have time to get off another shot. Grimly he ran after her; he couldn't afford to let her escape, even briefly. She might run screaming from the house, which would attract attention. But, no, the dear ran into another room and slammed the door; he heard the lock click.
He shook his head and put a bullet in the lock; the door swung uselessly open. Merilyn whirled, the phone in her hand. He shook his head again. "Bad girl," he said softly, and pulled the trigger.
She slumped to the carpet, eyes popped out from the force of the bullet that had entered right between them. He stepped over to her and removed the cordless phone from her hand. He listened, but there was no one on the line; either she hadn't had time to dial 911 or she'd been too flustered to think. He calmly wiped the phone with his handkerchief and replaced it on the charger.
Merilyn's hand lay outstretched, as if she were reaching for him. The canary diamond glittered at him, and he had an idea-a brilliant one, if he did say so himself. If he took the ring, it would look as if a burglary had occurred. The ring had to be worth a small fortune; he had investigated the cost of jewelry more closely today and discovered that a good stone was hideously expensive. This ring, for instance, had probably set Sonny back close to a quarter of a million dollars. Really.
He was embarrassed that he'd given Sarah such a small token in comparison. This was a particularly fine stone, and the color would look wonderful on her, with her warm skin tones. Not in this setting, of course; she wouldn't like such gaudiness. But after a certain amount of time had passed, when the police weren't actively looking for a large yellow diamond ring, he could remove the stone from the setting and take it to a jeweler in, say, Atlanta, and have a wonderful piece fashioned for her, with the canary diamond as the center stone. Yes, he could just see it now.
He leaned down and tugged the ring from Merilyn's finger. It was a tight fit; the dear must have gained a little weight. He'd saved her from having to have the ring resized.
Pleased with himself, he carefully retraced his steps through the house and wiped everything he might have touched. After he let himself out the front door, he wiped the door handle and the doorbell button. As he drove away, he smiled.
That had gone very nicely.
Chapter 22.
ON MONDAY MORNING AFTER CAHILL WENT TO WORK, SARAH worked out, booked herself a manicure and pedicure for that afternoon, then spent a few blissful hours doing absolutely nothing. After visiting the salon to get her nails done, she bought groceries and cooked a spaghetti supper. Cahill had just eaten his third slice of butter-dripping garlic bread when his phone rang. He squinted at the number in the little window, and sighed.
"Yeah. Cahill." He listened for a minute, then said, "I'm on my way."
He sighed as he got up. He was still wearing his holster, so all he had to do was knot his tie and slip on his jacket. "I gotta go," he said unnecessarily.
"I know." She got up and kissed him. "Is it something that you can finish fast, or will it take a while?"
He sighed again. "I'll probably be a few hours, maybe longer."
"Okay. I'll be here when you get back."
He looked down at her, blue eyes heavy-lidded and sensual. "I like hearing that," he said, bending down to give her a long, slow kiss that made her heart begin pounding. Damn, the man knew how to kiss.
After he left, she cleaned up the kitchen, then watched television for a while. An ad for a fast-food joint showed a picture-perfect banana split, and her saliva buds started working overtime. She didn't need a banana split; it was something like six weeks worth of calories. She'd have to run a hundred miles to work it off.
She told herself all that. Usually she was very good about resisting cravings, because usually she didn't have cravings. She ate a healthy, well-balanced diet, and didn't think about food all that much. It was almost time for her period, though-and when it was that time of the month, she craved ice cream.
She resisted the craving for over an hour, then surrendered.
She got up and looked in the freezer section of the refrigerator. Aha! There was a half-gallon carton of Breyers Natural Vanilla with flecks of real vanilla bean. She reached in to get it, and her heart sank. The carton was way too light. She pried off the top and groaned; there was barely a tablespoon of ice cream left. Why on earth hadn't he eaten that last tablespoon and thrown the carton away? Or better yet, remembered to buy more?
Growling to herself, she got her purse and drove back to the supermarket. If she had known she was going to start craving ice cream, she could have bought it while she was there earlier.
She decided that if she was going to indulge, she might as well do it right and make the mother of all banana splits. Then the craving would be gone, and she could return to eating nice, sensible, healthy foods. Besides, when you added the bananas, that made the ice cream more healthy, right?
She did it right. She picked out the best-looking bananas she could find. She bought maraschino cherries. She bought pineapple sauce. Chocolate syrup. Chopped pecans in caramel sauce, and, while she was at it, caramel sauce. She bought vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate ice cream, because a real banana split had all three flavors. What else? Oh, yeah, whipped cream. And vanilla wafers to hold it all together.
Man, she could hardly wait.
To her surprise, Cahill was home when she got back. She carried in her haul. 'What are you doing back so soon? I thought you wouldn't be back until ten or later."
He shrugged. "Things just went faster than I thought. Where have you been?"
"The grocery store. I would have left a note, but I didn't think you'd be here to read it, so there didn't seem much point."
He leaned against the cabinet and watched as she unloaded the bags. 'What's going on? Are we having an ice cream party?"
"Banana split. I saw one on television and my mouth started watering. You didn't even have any ice cream," she said accusingly.
"I did, too."
"One spoonful that's almost dehydrated does not count as having ice cream."
He eyed the three cartons. 'Well, I certainly have ice cream now."
"You certainly do."
He waited a minute. "May I have some, too?"
"You want in on this banana split lovefest?"
"You betcha. If it's a lovefest, I'm interested. I bet I can think of more things to do with this chocolate syrup than you can."
"You can keep your hands off my chocolate syrup. I have plans for it."
"All of it?"
She winked at him. "Maybe not."
She got two shallow bowls from the cabinet, lined up all her ingredients, and set to work peeling and slicing the bananas lengthwise. She put the slices in the bowls, and shored them up with vanilla wafers. Next came the ice cream.
"Just vanilla in mine," Cahill said, watching in fascination. "I don't get fancy with my ice cream."
"You're missing out on a great culinary experience."
"I'll taste you afterward."
Three scoops of vanilla for him, one each of the vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate for her. "Pineapple and pecans?" she asked, holding out the little jars, and he nodded. She added liberal helpings to both bowls. Next came the caramel sauce, then the chocolate syrup. She topped the growing mound with generous globs of whipped cream, and crowned it all with maraschino cherries. She put two cherries on hers, just because she liked them.
"Holy shit," Cahill said when he took the bowl. "This weighs at least two pounds."
"Enjoy," she said, taking hers to the table and digging in.
"My God," he groaned half an hour later. Y can't believe you ate all of that."
"You ate all of yours," she replied, looking pointedly at his empty bowl.
"I'm bigger than you. And I'm stuffed."
"So am I," she admitted. "But it was good, and that took care of my craving." She carried the bowls to the sink and rinsed them out, then put them in the dishwasher. She was so full she thought she might burst, and she didn't want to see ice cream again for another millennium . . . or at least another month.
"Now," he said. "About that chocolate syrup . . ."
"Don't even think it."
He did think it, of course, and say it as well. What's more, after a couple of hours, they ended up trying it. Chocolate syrup on her, chocolate syrup on him . . . It was a shame she'd wasted so much on the banana splits. It boggled her mind, what they could have done with a full bottle.
She was still smiling early the next morning when she drove back to the Lankford house. It was not quite six o'clock, but she wanted to be there bright and early and get started on the day. She stopped at the gate and retrieved the morning newspaper from the box, then keyed in the code, and the gates swung smoothly open. She drove in and parked as usual beside the little bungalow. After carrying in her things, she hurriedly changed clothes and walked across the courtyard to the main house, letting herself in with her key.
She turned to punch in the code on the security panel and stopped when she realized it wasn't beeping the little warning that a door had been opened while the alarm was set. Frowning, she examined the lights. No wonder it hadn't beeped; the alarm wasn't set. Merilyn must have forgotten it. She and Sonny both were a bit lax about the house's security system, since the property was walled and gated. They figured if the outside property was secure, so was the house.
She went into the kitchen and started the coffee, then carried the newspaper through the tangle of halls and rooms to Sonny's den, where he liked to read it while he caught the morning news. He didn't like to hurry, so he was usually awake and downstairs by six-thirty, giving him plenty of time for the newspaper and breakfast before he left for the office at eight-forty.
The low-level lights were on in the hallway, as were the lamps. Come to think of it, the light over the front door had also been on. Sarah frowned, suddenly uneasy. Something was wrong; maybe one of them had gotten sick during the night, because she thought she smelled- The smell.
Panic hit her like a tidal wave, sending her reeling back toward the kitchen. That smell! It couldn't mean what she thought; it was just that she associated the scent with something terrible. Anything similar brought back the nightmare. Either Sonny or Merilyn had a digestive virus, that was all. They had her cell phone number, they should have called, and she'd have come back immediately to handle things.
She swallowed the bile in her throat. "Mr. Lankford?" she called. "Hello?"
There wasn't an answer. The house was silent around her, except for the almost inaudible hum of electricity that said the house was wired and everything was working.
"Hello," she called again.
She didn't have her pistol; it still hadn't been returned to her. Since she wasn't performing any bodyguard function for the Lankfords, she hadn't worried about it. The police department would eventually return it to her. Now, with every tiny hair on her body lifting in alarm, she wished she had it.
She should retreat, maybe call Cahill and get him to come check out the house. But the house felt . . . empty, just as the Judge's house had felt-as if there was no life inside it.
She eased down the hallway, then halted, gagging a little.
The smell. That damn smell.
I can't do this again. The thought burned through her mind. This couldn't be happening. Not again. She was imagining things. Maybe not the smell, but she was letting it panic her. She should find out what was wrong, who was sick. She should be calm, and take charge. That was part of her job, handling whatever crisis arose here.
She took two more steps. The door to the den was maybe three more steps away. She forced herself to take those steps, practically throwing herself forward like someone who had finally worked up enough nerve to leap off a tower bungee-jumping. The odor had an almost oily quality to it, sticking to her throat, coating her tongue. She gagged again, and covered her nose and mouth with her hand as she looked inside the den.
He was sprawled on the floor in a half-sitting position, his head and shoulders supported by the heavy coffee table. His head was bent at an unnatural angle, as if he hadn't had room to lie flat. The wound was . . .
She didn't look for Merilyn. As she had done once before, she backed away, slowly, shaking, little mewling sounds coming from her throat. She was vaguely shocked at herself for making such sounds. They sounded so weak, and she was strong. She had always been strong.
She didn't feel strong now. She wanted to run screaming from this house, find someplace safe and dark and cower inside it, until this horror was gone.
She wanted . . . she wanted Cahill. Yes. When he was here, she wouldn't feel so helpless, so shaken. She had to call Cahill.
She kept backing down the hall, and as she had once before, she found herself standing in the kitchen. She was shaking violently now, and she knew she was on the verge of hysteria.
No. She wouldn't give in to it. Couldn't. There were things to be done, that all-important call to make.
Not Cahill. Not first. The first call had to be 911. She had to do things right. Maybe Merilyn was still alive, maybe the medics could get here in time to save her, if she made the 911 call first.
Her hand was shaking so hard she couldn't hit the right numbers on the keypad. She disconnected and tried again, with the same result. Weeping, cursing, she banged the phone against the counter. 'Work, damn it! Work!"
The phone came apart in her hand, plastic sections flying. She threw what was left of it against the wall. She needed another phone. She needed . . . another . . . damn . . . phone!
She tried to think. Phones were all over this house, but where exactly? She hadn't worked here long enough for the knowledge to be automatic, not now when she could barely form a single coherent thought.
And she couldn't hunt for one. She might find Merilyn instead.
She couldn't think about it, couldn't think of that energetic, cheerful, good-hearted woman lying in a pool of blood somewhere. Concentrate. Find a phone.
The bungalow. She knew where the phone was in there.
She tried to run, but her legs wobbled beneath her and she staggered, falling to one knee on the courtyard pavers. She didn't notice any pain, but bounded up and staggered the rest of the way to the bungalow door.
There was a phone just inside, in the living room. She grabbed it and started to jab at the buttons, but stopped herself and managed to drag in a few deep, shaky breaths. It was hard won, but she found a small measure of calm. She had to get herself under control; she was no good to anyone if she let herself fall apart.
Her hands were still trembling, but she managed to push 911, and she waited.
Cahill couldn't believe it. He fucking couldn't believe it. At first he thought he'd heard wrong, that the report was a hoax, or that the address was wrong. Something. For one murder to occur in Mountain Brook was unusual enough, but a double murder only a matter of weeks after the first one? And discovered by the same woman who had called in the first one? Un-fucking-believable.
He had an icy feeling in the pit of his stomach, a cold hard knot of dread that had nothing to do with Sarah's safety-she'd called the murder in, so she was okay-and everything to do with being a cop. He was a damn good cop, combining experience, intuition, and a talent for analyzing cold hard facts without letting his emotions cloud the issue. Intuition was telling him now that this stretched coincidence way the hell too far.
When he got to the house, the scene made the one at Judge Roberts's house look organized. Squad cars, unmarked cars, vans, medics, and a fire engine clogged the driveway and street, but at least they belonged. The curious, the sightseers, the media vans, the print reporters, all formed a crowd that had brought traffic to a grinding halt. Hell, there was even a helicopter overhead.