To her dismay, her mother burst into tears, but she controlled them almost immediately. By that time, though, Sarah was on her feet in alarm. "Mom?"
"I wasn't going to call any of you just yet, but your father had some chest pains last night. We spent the night in the ER; they did some tests and they said he didn't have a heart attack-"
Sarah's breath whooshed out of her, and she sat back down. "Then what's wrong with him?"
"We don't know. He's still hurting a little, though you know him, he still has that Marine mentality that he's going to tough this out. I've made him an appointment with an internist for later this afternoon for a physical and to schedule some more tests." Her mother took a deep breath. "I suppose I wouldn't be so scared if he hadn't always been so healthy. I've never seen him in pain the way he was last night."
"I can be there on an afternoon flight-" Sarah began, then stopped, wondering if she could leave. What had Cahill told her before, after Judge Roberts was murdered? Don't leave town. But she'd been cleared, so there shouldn't be a problem. Then she remembered Mr. Densmore and groaned; she was supposed to begin the job there.
"No, don't be silly," her mother said, her voice more brisk now. "It wasn't a heart attack; all the enzymes or whatever were normal. There's no point in flying down here for what may be nothing more than a severe case of heartburn. If the doctor seems at all concerned this afternoon, I'll call you."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Now, enough about that. How are things going with your new job?"
Sarah had been aching to cry on her mother's shoulder, figuratively speaking, but no way was she going to add to her mother's worries right now. "It didn't work out," she said. "Actually, I have a new position already, and I wanted you to have the phone number."
"I thought you really liked the new people, the Lankfords."
She had. Her throat tightened, and she had to swallow. "It wasn't that. Something unexpected came up and they had to relocate." She wished she had been able to think of some other lie, because that one was too horribly true; it wasn't a lie at all.
"These things happen." As a military wife, her mother was a past master at relocating. "Okay, I have a pen. What's the new telephone number?"
Sarah had written it down the night before. She got out her little notebook and flipped to the correct page, then read off the number. "And there's always my cell phone, but I wanted to let you know the new developments."
"You concentrate on settling in. I'm sure he'll be okay, he's feeling better and already making growling noises about not needing a doctor. I'll have to twist his arm to get him to the doctor's office this afternoon."
"Call me, okay? If there's the least thing wrong."
"I will."
Sarah hung up and sat there for a long time, trying to come to grips with this added worry. There was nothing she could do, at least not right now; she needed to take care of herself so she would be in shape to act if she was needed.
She searched for the aspirin among her scattered effects, found the bottle, and took two. Then she fell back into bed, and was asleep in minutes.
It was almost two o'clock when the phone rang. She rolled over and blinked at the clock in disbelief, then fumbled for the phone.
"I'm bringing your truck over," Cahill said. "I had a patrolman drop me off at the Lankfords to pick it up, so you'll have to take me back to the station."
She blinked sleepily. "Okay." Her voice sounded fuzzy even to herself.
"Did I wake you up?" he asked suspiciously.
"Yeah. I had a rough night," she said, and let him make of that what he wanted.
"I'll be there in ten minutes or so," he said, and hung up.
She hauled herself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. All her clothes were packed in suitcases, so they were wrinkled. She herself looked like the Wicked Witch of the West on a bad day. Cahill could just wait until she put herself to rights.
He did, but not patiently. She refused to let him into the room, so he went back down to the lobby. When she was ready and started to leave the room, she discovered why she hadn't been awakened by housekeeping: the DO NOT DISTURB sign was out. Cahill must have put it out when he left. She left the sign where it was and took the elevator down to the lobby.
"Have you found out anything new today?" she asked during the drive to the police station.
"Nothing except the same weapon was used to kill all four people. Have you watched any news today, or read the newspaper?"
"No, why?"
"I wondered if you could remember ever seeing Jacob Wanetta anywhere."
"He's the fourth victim?"
"Yeah."
"The name isn't familiar."
A moment later he stopped at a service station and stuck some change in a newspaper vending machine, pulling out the last remaining copy of the morning paper. Getting back behind the wheel, he tossed the paper onto her lap.
She didn't read the story, didn't let herself focus on the headlines. Instead she focused on the grainy black-and-white photo of a dark-haired, heavy-jawed man who gave the impression of bull-like strength. Nothing about him was familiar. "I've never seen him before that I can remember," she said, laying the paper aside. She couldn't help feeling relieved; at least she had no connection with this killing.
He stopped before they reached city hall and the police department, pulling into a parking lot and turning off the ignition. "Reporters have been hanging around," he said. "I'll walk the rest of the way, so they don't see you." He half turned in the seat, the back of his right hand brushing her cheek. "I'll call you tonight. I'll try to see you, but we're working our asses off and I don't know what time we'll call it a night."
"You don't have to check on me. I'm okay." She was lying, right now, but she would be okay in the future. She needed to regroup, get a lot of sleep, and let time put a little more distance between her and the murders. She needed a little distance between herself and Cahill, too, some time in which she didn't have to deal with him. She didn't want to think things over; she didn't want to think at all.
"It's for my peace of mind, okay?" he muttered. "I know things aren't straight between us, not yet, so I need to see you every so often to make sure you're still here."
"I'm not running, Cahill," she said, stung that he thought she might. "If I leave, you'll know beforehand. And I've already accepted the job with Mr. Densmore, remember?"
He grunted. Even with everything that was going on, he'd made the time to run a check on Trevor Densmore. "For what it's worth, he doesn't have any type of record."
"I didn't think he would have. I might as well call him and arrange a time to move over there."
He gave her a worried glance. 'Why don't you give it another day? You still look exhausted."
She knew how she looked: chalky white, with dark circles under her eyes. She felt exhausted, even after all the hours of sleep. Physical tiredness wasn't her problem; it was the overload of stress that was doing her in.
"Maybe I'd feel better if I had something to do. It can't hurt."
The move into Mr. Densmore's house was accomplished in little time and with little effort. House wasn't the right term, though; it was an estate, a fortress, five acres of prime real estate protected by a high gray stone wall. The entrance was guarded by huge wrought-iron gates that operated automatically and were watched over by cameras positioned at regular intervals.
The house itself was three stories high, made of the same gray stone, which gave it a medieval look. Inside the walls, the grounds were carefully manicured, not a shrub or a leaf out of place, not a blade of grass poking a little higher than the blades around it.
Inside was more of the same. Either shy Mr. Densmore liked a monochromatic color scheme, or his decorator was frigid and lacked imagination. It was more gray, everywhere. The marble in the sleek bathrooms was gray. The plush carpeting was a pale, icy gray. The furniture all seemed to be gray and white, with darker grays thrown in for contrast. The effect was of being in an ice cave.
But he was proud of his home, almost boyish in his eagerness to show it to her, so she had to acquit the decorator. He truly loved the sterile atmosphere that surrounded him. She made appropriate noises of admiration, wondering why he cared what she thought. She was a butler, not a prospective buyer.
She was glad she had been up front with him about it being a temporary position, because she didn't like her accommodations at all. She preferred separate quarters, a small oasis that was hers and gave her a life beyond the job. The room he escorted her to was large and lavishly appointed, like a pricey hotel room. The room was too large, making it seem cavernous. There was a king-size four-poster bed and a sitting area, and the furniture didn't begin to fill up the space. She felt cold just looking at the room. The attached bathroom was sleek, dark gray marble, almost black, with polished chrome faucets and handles. Even the thick towels were dark gray. She hated it on sight.
He was almost pink with excitement. "I'll make us some tea," he said, rubbing his hands together as if he couldn't contain himself. "We can have it while we go over your duties."
She hoped there were a lot of duties, something to keep her busy. A place this large should have a staff; the Judge's house hadn't been half this big, but it had seemed to pulse with life. This stone mausoleum felt empty.
She carried in her suitcases, but didn't start unpacking. He instructed her to park her TrailBlazer in the four-car attached garage, in the empty bay next to a surprisingly nondescript dark blue Ford. The white Jaguar that sat in the bay closest to the house seemed much more Mr. Densmore's type, or the white S(lass Mercedes parked beside it. When she came through into the kitchen-more dark gray marble, and stainless steel appliances-he was just pouring hot tea into two cups sitting side by side.
"There," he said, fussing with the sugar bowl and tiny pitcher of cream as if he were an aged spinster entertaining a suitor. It struck her that he might be lonely, here in this huge house by himself, and that made her uneasy.
She was trained to run establishments, not provide emotional or physical companionship. Over time she and the Judge had developed a close, caring relationship, but the circumstances had been entirely different. Mr. Densmore wasn't just a banker, he owned a bank, and though she didn't know his age, she guessed him to be no older than his early sixties at the most. He was young enough to be going to an office every day; banking was a complicated business, and even with capable management there would still be a lot to oversee, decisions to be made. She knew he socialized, because she had met him at a party. So this sterile, empty home life was discordant, somehow, as if his business life didn't bleed over into his private life-as if he didn't have a private life. During the tour of the house, she hadn't seen a single family photograph or any of the individual touches that marked a home.
She couldn't work here. She hated to leave him in the lurch, but she didn't think she would be; she felt as if there was no real need for her here, or at least not a need she wanted to consider. Exhaustion and desperation had led her to a bad decision, but it wasn't a permanent one.
"There," he said, bringing the tea tray over to the table and setting it down. He placed a cup and saucer before her. "I hope you like it; it's a blend I get from England. The taste is a bit unusual, but I find it's quite addictive."
She sipped the tea; the taste was unusual, but not unpleasant. It was slightly more bitter than she was accustomed to, so she added a thin slice of lemon to adjust the taste.
He was watching her with an eager, expectant expression, so she said, "It's very good."
He beamed. "I knew you'd like it." He picked up his own cup, and she sipped again as she tried to think of the right words.
After a few moments, she realized there were no right words, just honest ones. "Mr. Densmore, I've made a mistake."
He set down his cup, blinking at her. "How so, my dear?"
"I should never have accepted your offer. I deeply appreciate it, but the decision was too hasty and there were several factors I didn't take into account. I can't tell you how very sorry I am, but I won't be able to take the position."
He blinked a little faster. "But you brought your luggage."
"I know. I'm sorry," she repeated. "If I've inconvenienced you in any way, if you've made plans based on my presence, of course I'11 see that through, and I wouldn't feel right, under these circumstances, accepting any salary for doing so. I haven't been thinking clearly, or I would never have made such a hasty decision."
In silence he drank his tea, his head down. Then he sighed. "You mustn't distress yourself; mistakes happen, and you've handled yourself with dignity. But, yes, I have made plans for the coming weekend, so if you wouldn't mind staying until then?"
"Of course not. Is it a party?"
There was a tiny pause. "Yes, you know the sort, reciprocation for the invitations I've received. Catered, of course. About fifty people."
She could handle that. Since this was already late on Wednesday afternoon, there should be a fair amount of work to keep her busy, getting ready for a party on such short notice. She only hoped he had a regular caterer who would accommodate him, even if it meant bringing in extra staff. If he didn't, she would have to move heaven and earth both to find a caterer at this late date.
"I'll take care of everything," she said.
He sighed. "I really wish things could have worked out differently."
Chapter 28.
HE WAS VERY DISPLEASED WITH SARAH, THOUGH HE supposed he should make allowances for the upset she had suffered, part of which was his fault. He simply hadn't expected her to be so . . . flighty, though perhaps that was the wrong word. Indecisive. Yes, that was a better description.
He couldn't really be angry with her, because it was so obvious she had suffered over the past day and a half, but he could definitely be displeased. Why, how could she even think of leaving here? Couldn't she see how perfect his house was for her, a fit, wonderful setting for her own crisp perfection? She wouldn't be leaving, of course; he couldn't allow that. He had fantasized about her taking care of him, but it was obvious that, for the time being at least, he would have to take care of her.
Hmm. That must be what was wrong. Sarah wasn't herself. She was very pale, and the serene glow that had first attracted him was gone. He would keep her here and take care of her, and when she felt better, she would be more rational.
Luckily he had planned for all exigencies. No, not luck at all: careful planning and attention to detail. That was the key to suc- cess, whether it was in business or in personal matters. He hadn't thought it likely Sarah would be unhappy here, but he had allowed for that remote possibility, and as a result he was now capable of handling it. If he had made any oversight, it was that he hadn't predicted this after seeing yesterday how obviously distraught she was. Soon she would feel much better, and there would be no more foolish talk about leaving.
The printout from the phone company showed three calls to the Lankfords from that pay phone in the Galleria-on Sunday night. There had been a fourth call on Monday night, at roughly the same time as the murders. It was impossible to pinpoint a time of death without a witness; all they could get was a time frame. But it looked as if the killer had intended to go to the Lankfords' house on Sunday night. According to the youngest Lankford daughter, Merrill, who was in college in Tuscaloosa, her parents had driven down to have dinner with her that night and stayed until almost eleven. That had extended their lives by twenty-four hours, and given their daughter one last opportunity to see them.
Cahill wished to hell they'd had this printout on Tuesday, because Sarah couldn't possibly have made those phone calls; she'd been with him every minute Sunday. He wished a lot of things, number one of which was that he'd never met his ex-wife and let her fuck with his mind. That was the final analysis: he'd let his experience with her affect him. No more. No matter what happened now, he would focus on the person concerned, and not filter everything through his memory of Shannon. He'd been emotionally free of her for two years, but for the first time he felt mentally free. She had no influence on him now.
Those multiple phone calls opened up an avenue of opportunity that hadn't existed before. He'd gone back to the shop in the mall that had the camera with the best angle, and got the tape for Sunday and Monday nights. The angles were still piss-poor and none of the images were good, but it was the same man. Same hair, same body build, same style of dress.
That was the bastard. That was the killer. There was no doubt in his mind now, or in anyone else's in the department.
The problem was, no one seemed to recognize him. Granted, the stills taken from the tape and enlarged were poor quality, grainy, and never really showed his face. But you could get an impression of him, and still no one had said, "Hey, he reminds me of so-and-so." The police needed a break, a stroke of fate, a miracle. They needed someone with an artist's eye who would note the line of the jaw, the way the ear was set, and make the connection to a live human being.
Mrs. Wanetta didn't recognize the man, but she was so tranquilized she might not have known her own mother. None of their three grown children found anything familiar about him, so that eliminated the possibility of his being a friend of the family; same thing with the Lankford daughters. It had to be a business connection, but again, none of Jacob Wanetta's employees recognized the man in the photos.
Somewhere, someone had to know this bastard.
Leif Strickland, the department's resident electronic genius, stuck his head in the door. His eyes were wide with excitement, his hair sticking up where he'd run his hands through it. "Hey, Doc, come listen. I think I've got the son of a bitch on tape!"
Everyone within hearing distance quickly crammed into his electronic lair. "This is from the Lankford answering machine," Leif said. All answering machine tapes were seized as a matter of course; if the machines were digital, the whole thing was taken.
"Don't tell me he left a message," Cahill said.
"No, not quite. See, the phone Mrs. Lankford was trying to use had one of those buttons for instant record, you know, like if who you're talking to starts threatening to kill you, you can, like, press this little button and bingo, it records on your answering machine. Now, she probably wasn't trying to record anything, she was trying to call for help, but she was nervous, right? She's grabbing at the phone, punching buttons she doesn't mean to punch. I listened to all the messages, but there was this one space with a funny noise on it. Not . . . I don't know, it just sounded funny. So I isolated it and ran it through some enhancement programs, and-"
"For God's sake, we don't need to know how," Cahill interrupted. "Let's listen to it."
Leif gave him the wounded look of a true techie dealing with philistines who didn't appreciate the beauty of electronics. "Okay, here it is. It's not very plain, I need to enhance it some more, eliminate static-" He broke off as Cahill glared at him, and silently punched a button.
Static, fumbling, the harsh rasp of panicked breathing. Then there was a soft sound, and a tiny whoosh and pop.
'What was that?"
"The sound at the last was the shot being fired," Leif said matter-of-factly. "Silencer. But listen to it again, listen to what comes right before that."
They all listened again, and to Cahill it sounded like a voice.
"He said something. The bastard said something. What was it? Can you isolate it?"
"I'll work on it. Listen again, and you can make out the words."
There wasn't another sound in the room, not even breathing, as he replayed the tape one more time.
How soft the voice was, how gentle. Cahill narrowed his eyes to slits, concentrating. "Something 'girl.'"
"Give the man a prize!" Leif crowed. "It's 'bad girl."' He played the tape again, and now that they all knew what they were listening for, it was understandable, and chilling.