The Perfect Murder

Fourteen

The pressure Jane felt to work fast made their day at the casinos seem interminable. She knew from what she’d witnessed at TLS that real investigations weren’t like what she saw in the movies. They could be tedious. But this was her first experience feeling such intense personal responsibility to see that the case moved faster.

“We’re getting nowhere,” she complained to Jonathan after they’d spent several hours asking dealers and waitresses at each casino about the picture Sebastian had given her. Some said they’d never seen the man, others said they couldn’t be positive-too many people passed through a casino to remember them all.

“You ready to give up?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what to do.” She stood amid the flashing lights and clattering slot machines of Thunder Valley, gazing down at the photograph. “Maybe Sebastian’s Wesley Boss isn’t my Wesley Boss. Maybe I’m using the wrong man’s photograph.”

“Or maybe we’re asking the wrong dealers.”

“You think we should wait until later?”

“We don’t know when he gambles. If it’s at night, it makes sense to ask the dealers who work that shift.”

She’d already thought of that, but waiting meant they’d lose even more time. Marcie had been alive when she called. Was she still alive? What about Latisha? “If I need to come back, Kate will have to stay at my in-laws’ again,” she mused.

“I’d offer to make the rounds for you but I promised Zoë I wouldn’t work tonight,” he said. “My hours have been crazy lately.”

“I can do it,” she told him. “Kate loves it at the Burkes’.”

A security guard gave them a funny look, as if he suspected them of trying to do something wrong. What, exactly, that might be, Jane couldn’t figure out. They weren’t even gambling. Maybe he’d seen her flashing that picture around and didn’t like it. She always felt so watched in a casino. It made her uncomfortable. But the fact that they’d caught this guy’s interest gave her an idea.

Stepping around Jonathan, she approached him. “Sir, could you help me?”

Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows like those of an old-time sea captain jerked together above murky gray eyes. “With what?”

After introducing herself and Jonathan, she explained their purpose. “Have you seen this man?” she asked once he understood.

He studied the photograph, but ultimately shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Is there any way we could view the security tapes to see if he’s been in?”

“I’m not the one who can give permission for that. I’m guessing you’d need to contact the police and have them get in touch with management.”

“There’s already a detective on the case. I could talk to him, see what he can do,” she said. But this was such a long shot. Would there be probable cause to get a court order, if one was necessary? And was it the best place to spend their time, anyway?

“Although…” Security considered the picture again. “I suppose I could check the tapes myself.”

Jane exchanged a glance with Jonathan. “Would you mind?”

“How far back do you want me to go?”

“Would six weeks be too long?” Jonathan asked.

“Nah.” He clicked his tongue. “But I’d have to do this on my own time, so it could take a while.”

More discouraging news. Maybe David could shorten that time frame by gaining access to the tapes, but he’d have to work it out with the tribal council. Jane assumed they had jurisdiction. “We’d appreciate whatever you can do.” At least it was a start.

“No problem.”

She handed him the picture, along with her business card. “You can reach me here if you find anything.”

“Will do.”

Jane’s cell phone rang as they walked out of the casino. “It’s Skye,” she told Jonathan in disbelief.

He seemed just as surprised as she was. “Calling from South America?”

“Must be.”

When she hesitated instead of answering, he stopped. “Aren’t you going to take it?”

Jane wasn’t sure she wanted to. So much had changed since her friend and boss had left. She was searching for two kidnap victims, had made love with someone she’d just met-and she might be pregnant. She didn’t want Skye to know about these things, did she? How much could she tell her?

“Jane?” Jonathan prompted.

“Of course.” She punched the talk button before the call could transfer to voice mail. “Hello?”

“How’s it going?” Skye asked.

Jane tried to put a smile in her voice. “Fine. What about you?”

“Could be better. We still haven’t found the child we’ve been looking for. It’s so difficult when you don’t speak much of the language.”

To escape the noise, Jane stepped away from the automatic doors but remained under the overhang to avoid the rain. The worst of the storm had passed, but it continued to drizzle. “How much longer do you think it will take?”

“Who knows. We’ve got some good leads, some extended family members who are sympathetic and asking around on our behalf, but there’s no way to tell for sure. I’m hoping it won’t be more than a week. I really miss David and the kids.”

“They miss you, too.”

“I hope I never have to take another job like this.”

“You didn’t have to take this one,” Jane reminded her.

“Yes, I did. We need the money. Besides, someone’s got to help out in situations like this. It’s more of a problem than people realize.”

Someone spoke in the background.

“Was that Ava?” Jane asked.

“Yes, she said these are tough cases.”

There were plenty of tough cases at home. Jane was working on one-not that Ava would be happy to hear it. “No kidding.”

“What’s been happening at the office?”

Biting her lip, she turned away from Jonathan. She didn’t want to see his reaction when she lied. “Nothing much, why?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were managing okay without us. It must be weird being the only one there.”

“Jonathan’s been in and out. And there are the volunteers to keep me company.”

“So you’re okay.”

The smell of someone’s cigarette wafted toward Jane, making her crave a smoke. “Of course. I’m fine.”

“Good. Thanks for looking after TLS while we’re gone.”

She glanced around to find the person who was smoking, spotted the security guard and smiled enviously. She knew she’d never light up again, but that didn’t always stem the desire. “Anytime. Be safe, and I hope to see you soon,” she told Skye.

Jonathan frowned when she hung up. “Don’t you think you should’ve told her?”

“Why? It’s over already. I’m not going to sleep with him again.”

A crooked smile curved his lips. “I was talking about the case.”

Sebastian was at the gym when his mother called. He fished his BlackBerry out of the pouch of his sweatshirt, which he’d tossed on the floor beside him, and relaxed on the seat of the bench press he’d been using.

“I’ve got Malcolm’s signature on stacks and stacks of checks. Will that work?” she said the moment he answered.

“No, a signature isn’t what we need. It doesn’t include enough letters. And signatures can be different from regular writing.” He mopped the sweat on his forehead with the towel draped around his neck. “We have to have a letter of some kind. The more writing, the better.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to find it. Most men don’t write letters anymore, Sebastian, at least not very often. If they do, it’s on a computer.”

“What about a greeting card?”

“You and I both know that Malcolm wasn’t the type to give Emily cards.”

“There could be more practical things.”

“Like to-do lists and grocery lists? They get thrown away. Why would anyone keep them? If I had to provide a sample of your handwriting, I’m not sure I’d have any more luck, unless I could use some of your old schoolwork.”

She had a point. He tended to call her or e-mail her. He didn’t write letters-or lists-unless it was on his computer or BlackBerry. But that wasn’t the answer he wanted. “You’ve gone through every box?”

“Not every box. There are a lot here. Some are stacked too high or they’re buried behind the furniture and are difficult to reach. But I’ve gone through the ones that I can get to without tearing the whole place apart.” A change in tone indicated tears. “I found Emily’s journal. Seeing that, reading parts of it…was heartbreaking. And I’m finding plenty of Colton ’s schoolwork. The poor kid…” she said on a sob.

Sebastian steeled himself against a similar onslaught of emotion. “Nothing from Malcolm?”

She sniffed. “Nothing from Malcolm.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, Sebastian hung his head. This couldn’t be easy on his mother. He didn’t think he’d be able to go through that stuff himself. Even after all these months, the pain was too raw. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I want to help you,” she said. “I want to see Malcolm behind bars as much as you do. I’d like it if you could come home and live a normal life. But I doubt we’ll get the handwriting samples you need. Not from this collection of miscellaneous odds and ends.”

Sebastian closed his eyes. There had to be some of Malcolm’s writing somewhere. Maybe Colton ’s stepfather hadn’t kept a journal or written any letters that were with Emily’s stuff, but surely the Turner family would have something.

Question was…did he have the nerve to ask them to look? They weren’t too happy with his views on the suicide. They didn’t want to face the possibility that Malcolm might’ve turned his back on them.

Suddenly it occurred to him. He had a sample of Malcolm’s writing at his condo in New York. It was a sheet of spiteful complaints Malcolm had left on the windshield of the Porsche Sebastian had owned back then. One day, Sebastian, Constance and Colton had been out in the BMW; Colton had sustained a sports injury, and they’d taken him to the hospital, but Malcolm didn’t get the word. He’d gone to pick up Colton without taking his cell phone. Then he’d been furious that the misunderstanding might make him late for his weekly poker game.

Sebastian had kept the hateful note in case he ever decided to sue for custody. He wanted to be able to prove that Colton ’s stepdad had a dark side-a temper disproportionate to whatever trigger set it off.

If only he’d known how dark Malcolm could be…

“Mom, forget about the storage,” he said.

“You want me to stop searching?” She sounded relieved.

“Yes. I know where we can find what we need.” In that note, Malcolm had used almost every foul word in the book. But now Sebastian was glad Emily’s husband had put his thoughts on paper.

“Where?” she asked.

He told his mother where to look; then he smiled as he hung up. “You won’t get away with it,” he said to an imaginary Malcolm, setting his phone aside so he could finish lifting weights. He needed to get back to the motel and call the florist. It wasn’t likely that they’d have an address other than the P.O. box Malcolm put on everything else.

But Sebastian planned to check, just in case.

Malcolm admired Latisha as she moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. She made a damn pretty sight wearing nothing but his T-shirt. He would never have guessed he could be so attracted to a black woman. He’d purposely kidnapped these girls because he thought they’d pose less of a temptation sexually. But now that he was being a little more open-minded, he had to acknowledge that Latisha was as fine as any young woman he’d ever seen.

Damned if he’d admit that to another white person, though.

The image of his father, his face contorted with disgust, appeared in Malcolm’s mind, but he quickly shut it out. He no longer had to worry about pleasing that racist asshole. Warren Turner didn’t even know that his youngest son was alive.

Latisha must’ve felt him watching her because she sent him a tentative smile.

Maybe kidnapping her hadn’t been a mistake. Besides making life more enjoyable in other respects, she’d been cooking and cleaning all day.

But her sister. God, Marcie was a different story. When he’d gone into the bedroom to tell her he hadn’t hurt Latisha one tiny bit, she’d called him a rapist devil and spit in his face. If she ever got free, she’d be dangerous. She was the type who might come after him. He should kill her and get it over with, but he couldn’t do it quite yet. It hardly seemed fair to go back on his word so soon after Latisha had made him happy.

“I’m not a rapist,” he said aloud.

Latisha stood at the stove. “What?”

“I said I’m not a rapist. I didn’t force you. You offered, I accepted, and you enjoyed yourself as much as I did, right?” Heck, she was the one who’d asked for more.

The answer came so softly, he could hardly hear it. “Right.”

“What?”

After clearing her throat, she spoke louder. “I said ‘right.’”

“You need to tell your sister because no matter what she says, I’m nothing like the men I used to put behind bars. I’ve met them. I’ve seen the crime-scene photos. I know what they’re like. You don’t have a single bruise on you.”

“I’ll tell her.” Her voice was low again, but at least he could make out her words.

“Good. Otherwise, I might have to kill her.”

Latisha whipped around, wearing a stricken expression. “You promised me you wouldn’t! You promised me you wouldn’t hurt either one of us!”

“I won’t put up with her bullshit. I just want you to know that.”

“You promised,” she said again.

He scowled. “I don’t want to hurt you or anyone else, but…you’d better tell her not to provoke me. Okay?”

With a curt nod, she went back to cooking, and he fantasized about how peaceful and pleasant it would be if he had Latisha all to himself and didn’t have to worry about her nasty sister. It wasn’t as if he could marry Latisha-how would that look? He had some pride. But, for the time being, she was better than nothing.

He thought of Mary McCoy. His ex-girlfriend was the woman he really wanted. But that relationship was riddled with risk. If they were going to have a chance, he’d have to convince her to cut all ties with her past. If he could make her believe a friendlier version of what had happened the night Emily and Colton died, it was possible. He could say Colton was playing with his gun, accidentally killed his mother and then freaked out and shot himself. He could claim to have staged the crash because he knew the authorities would look at him before anyone else, and he didn’t have an alibi.

But even if she bought that, letting go of her family and friends wouldn’t be easy. He should know-it’d been difficult even for him. And after what Pam Wartle had told him, he was beginning to wonder if he could trust Mary. Whenever he brought up his real name, she didn’t indicate that she’d heard about the deaths of his wife and stepson. Yet Pam had told him that his nemesis had dogged anyone and everyone he’d ever known.

Had Sebastian contacted Mary? If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it during their discussion of Malcolm Turner? It was natural that she would, wasn’t it? Anyone would…

Opening his laptop, he logged on and checked his buddy list. Mary wasn’t online. But she’d sent him an e-mail.

You on for this weekend? I can’t wait.

I have a surprise for you. A sample of what you can look forward to. I want to overnight it so you get it immediately. Where should I send it?

Love, Mary

“‘Where should I send it?’” he muttered.

“What?” Latisha asked.

He waved her off. Mary’s question seemed innocuous. But was it really? Why would she be so interested in couriering him a package if she was planning to see him this weekend?

What is it? he wrote, then deleted the message before sending it and sat there brooding. How could he determine whether or not she was telling him the truth, whether or not she was trustworthy? There had to be a way…

He chewed his fingernails while he tried to think. He could call her work, ask the nurses if she’d ever mentioned Sebastian. But he doubted they’d open up to a total stranger. He could call the house and pretend to be Sebastian, see how she reacted, but she might recognize his voice…

Then, Malcolm had it-the perfect plan. He’d send her an e-mail from Sebastian, see if they’d been in touch. He knew Sebastian’s e-mail address, didn’t he? They’d exchanged a few messages when Emily and Colton were alive. He couldn’t use that exact account because he didn’t have the password, but lots of people had more than one e-mail address. After dinner, he’d create a new account using a variant of Sebastian’s name-with the same server, if possible-and send her a message as if they’d already spoken. Something like, “Hey, any word from Malcolm?” That generic a question could mean today, yesterday, in the many months since contact had first been made. In this situation, less was definitely more.

If she wrote back demanding to know who he was and how he knew Malcolm, he’d trust her. And if she didn’t, if she wrote back and said, “I haven’t heard since asking for his address,” Malcolm would set up the meeting she’d been angling for-and kill them both.