The Perfect Murder

Two

Sebastian Costas held the slip of paper the ATM had just spit out closer to his face. This wasn’t a pleasant way to start the week. Was the damn machine running out of ink? Because the figure he saw had to be missing a zero. He knew he was getting low on funds. It’d been more than a year since he’d worked. In addition to the payments on his Manhattan flat and vehicles-not to mention parking for those vehicles-he’d spent a fortune on private investigators, skip tracers, airfare, hotels and rental cars. But…

“Shit, I must’ve thought the money would last forever.” Apparently, he’d gotten too used to being able to buy whatever he wanted.

What now? he asked himself. He couldn’t keep on like this.

“Excuse me. Are you finished?”

A woman stood behind him, waiting to use the ATM. He hadn’t heard her approach, hadn’t sensed her presence. He’d been too absorbed in considering what the paltry figure on that receipt signified.

Muttering an apology, he crumpled the paper and tossed it in the garbage on his way to the car. Nearing the end of his money meant he was almost out of time. He had a month, max. Then he’d be absolutely broke and the effort he’d put into his search would be wasted because all progress would grind to a halt.

He couldn’t let that happen. He was closer now than he’d ever been.

His cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Constance, the woman he’d been dating when he left New York two months ago. They’d been together since before Emily and Colton were killed. But she was growing impatient with his lengthy absence and the intensity of his preoccupation.

He almost silenced the ringer and let it go to voice mail. He didn’t want to talk to her right now. But ignoring her call could very easily mean the end of their relationship. He was already hanging on to her by a very thin thread. Did he want his life to be in total ruins after the nightmare he’d been living was over?

No. He needed to fight for her, fight for what was left of his former existence. “Hello?”

She didn’t bother with a greeting. “Have you thought about it?” she demanded.

“Thought about what?” He knew exactly what she meant, but he was stalling for time. Although he’d had all morning to think about it, he wasn’t any closer to making a decision now than when she’d delivered her ultimatum late last night.

“About coming home! Will you give up this…this obsession, Sebastian?”

Obsession? Was that what it’d become? He supposed so. A man didn’t abandon the kind of life he’d led for less. He’d been making more than half a million a year as one of the best investment bankers in NYC-until his ex-wife and son were murdered. After that, all he’d cared about was finding the man responsible.

Of course, given what the market had done since he’d taken leave from his job, he probably wouldn’t have continued to make that amount even if he’d kept on working.

He unlocked the Lexus he’d rented. “Why the sudden rush, Constance?”

“Rush?” she echoed with incredulity. “I’ve waited eighteen months for our lives to return to normal.”

“I’ve only been gone two.”

“Are you kidding me? In the past year and a half, you’ve traveled all over the country, talking to various people, researching leads. Even when you were home, you shut yourself up in your condo and worked like some kind of mad scientist. This case is all you’ve been able to think about since the night it happened. We haven’t made love in four months, haven’t had a decent conversation since you turned into Dick Tracy.”

He’d loved her, would’ve married her if murder hadn’t disrupted his whole world. But what used to be didn’t matter. Colton and Emily were dead and Emily’s money was gone. Why? He couldn’t give up the quest to uncover the truth. He was Emily and Colton ’s last hope-the only person, besides his own mother perhaps, who truly believed Malcolm Turner was still alive.

“I can’t blame you for being disappointed.” He slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. A Sacramento winter wasn’t nearly as cold as a New York winter, but it was chilly enough to require a heater.

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

She was far more direct now than she’d been before, which made him assume she might’ve met someone else. He’d expected it to happen a lot sooner, couldn’t blame her for being ready to move on. A model-turned-stock-analyst, she was intelligent, successful, beautiful.

And yet, every day he widened the chasm between them. He couldn’t promise to fly back to New York because he knew he’d break that promise. When he and other family members had gone through the house and boxed up Colton ’s and Emily’s belongings, they hadn’t found several things they should have. One was evidence of where the money had gone, money Emily had mentioned to him a week before her death. She’d said there was a safety-deposit box containing the five-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance settlement she’d received for being hit by a drunk driver. She’d said she was keeping it liquid, saving it for a new life, one without Malcolm in it, and showed him where he could find the key in case something should ever happen to her.

Planning to donate it to NYU-where Colton had hoped to go to school-Sebastian had attempted to claim it. The key was there. But the box was empty. And there was no indication of where the money had been moved.

Malcolm had not only killed Emily and Colton, he’d profited from it. Sebastian was sure of that.

“Malcolm didn’t die in the crash, Constance.”

“Oh, God, here we go again!”

It was beginning to rain. The windshield wipers came on automatically-a minor luxury he wouldn’t be able to afford much longer. Considering his financial situation, he’d have to get a cheaper rental car.

“And what evidence do you have?” she went on. “That insurance settlement you’re always talking about? You told me yourself Malcolm liked to gamble on football games, basketball games, any kind of sporting event. Did it ever occur to you that he paid off his debts with that money?”

“If he paid off his debts, why didn’t he pay off his credit cards, some of which were at almost thirty-percent interest?” Sebastian had seen the bills when he cleaned out the house. Emily’s parents had died in a plane crash just after he and Emily had divorced, so even her stuff had fallen to him.

“Maybe they weren’t as good at financial planning as you are. Or maybe they paid off things you know nothing about,” Constance responded. “Maybe they helped a family member who was about to lose his house. You weren’t still married to Emily, Sebastian. Malcolm was her husband. For all you know, they invested it and lost everything.”

He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “There would’ve been proof of any investments.”

“You want to talk proof?” she nearly shouted. “The police have DNA evidence! Do you know what DNA evidence means? It’s irrefutable. It means the body found in that car was Malcolm Turner’s!”

Clenching his jaw, Sebastian struggled to control the urge to lash out. These days she always seemed to get under his skin. “It wasn’t much of a body. It was mostly ashes. And he wouldn’t kill himself, Connie.”

“He would if prison was his only other alternative. You know what they do to cops in prison.”

Sebastian pictured the man he’d been chasing for a year. The buzzed red hair; the freckles that covered his face and arms; the blue eyes and long, effeminate gold eyelashes; the stubborn jaw; the short but stocky-bordering-on-overweight build. “He was too arrogant to give up that easily.”

“Arrogant,” she repeated in disgust. “That’s what has you turning over every rock between here and the Pacific? Sebastian, we’ve been through this dozens of times. It’s no secret that Emily and Malcolm were having problems. Emily told several people she wanted a divorce. She probably tried to act on it and, being the control freak he was, Malcolm snapped and killed her and Colton. Then he realized what he’d done and killed himself.”

“Maybe that scenario would be easier to accept if it was your son and not mine,” he said.

She didn’t have any children, but it was still a cheap shot. The pain he felt at Colton ’s loss ate at him like acid, made him act in ways he’d never guessed he would. Some of that was because he felt partially responsible for Emily’s helplessness. She’d had no family to rely on. He should’ve done more to help her.

“Screw you,” she said. “I’m tired of being sensitive. I’ve done all I can to support you. And now-”

“And now that I’m really finding something, you’re giving up. Malcolm’s in Sacramento. He tracked down his high-school girlfriend and moved here to be close to her. And he’s living on the money he stole from Emily.”

“Or you’re more involved with his ex-girlfriend than you want to admit,” she said.

He rolled his eyes. There’d never been anything between him and the woman who’d placed the call that had brought him to the west coast. They’d only met face-to-face twice, and that was in a coffee shop. “We’re friends, Constance. I’m here because Malcolm’s here. You’ve seen the transcripts of their chats. I’ve faxed them to you.”

“Who’s Your Daddy could be anyone! He claims to be someone named Wesley Boss who lives in L.A., and for all we know that’s true.”

“It’s Turner, Connie. Mary should know. She dated him for two years.”

“Why’d she have to call you?” she muttered.

Because he’d tracked her down first, her and anyone else Malcolm had ever known, and asked them to call if they ever heard from him. He’d also told them why. “Are you kidding? She was an angel to do it. Judging by some of the things this Wesley Boss has said, he’s far more familiar with Northern California than Southern California. I don’t believe he’s in L.A. I believe he’s right here in Sacramento.”

“That’s it,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore. I now realize I’ve been hanging on to a dream, to the memory of a man who no longer exists.”

Closing his eyes, Sebastian let his head fall back. She’d just accused him of being interested in someone else, but it was probably the other way around. “What’s his name?” he asked.

No answer.

“ Constance?”

“Stop it. This isn’t about another man. This is about me being unable to cope with the person you’ve become. It’s over between us,” she snapped and hung up.

Panic, caused by the finality in her voice, tempted Sebastian to call her back. But he didn’t. They’d never agree. Besides, she was better off without him. All he could think about was finding answers to the questions that’d been burning inside him since that hot summer day last year. That was when Emily’s neighbor had gone over to see why Emily hadn’t shown up to carpool for basketball practice and stumbled upon two bodies. They’d been murdered the night before.

Opening his eyes, he focused on the transcripts in the seat next to him. Whoever sent those instant messages and e-mails to Mary claimed to be someone she’d met in the past, someone named Wesley Boss as Constance said, but Mary didn’t remember a Wesley Boss. Their first contact had come through a Web site she used to sell jewelry she made as a hobby, so it could’ve been anyone. After several months of “talking” to this person online, she’d come to the conclusion that it had to be her high-school sweetheart-Malcolm Turner. He knew too much about her to be anyone else.

Sebastian had flown to Sacramento, hoping that the alias Malcolm was using would be enough to find him, but it hadn’t been so far. He’d managed to track down only four men in California named Wesley Boss, three in L.A. and one in Bakersfield. One was an old priest who didn’t even have a computer, one was happily married with five kids, one was a ten-year-old, and the other, the one from Bakersfield, was dying of cancer. Mary had been trying to get Sebastian an address almost from the moment she’d figured out who she was really dealing with, but Malcolm was too cautious. A man with his background knew how risky it was to contact someone from his former life. That made him traceable, if anyone was bothering to look. And Sebastian was doing more than looking-he was scrutinizing every possibility. He’d even hired a private investigator to see if he could trace through whatever means-legal or not-where the e-mails were coming from. But Malcolm was using a remote server. He’d thought of everything.

Popping the transmission into reverse, he backed out of the parking space. Regardless of the cost, he couldn’t give up. Mary was his conduit to the bastard who’d killed Emily and Colton and, right or wrong, he’d keep the promise he made while bearing their coffins to the grave.

Jane had decided to interview Luther on her way home from work, the first task on her list of actions in the missing-girls case. But Oak Park was the most dangerous neighborhood in Sacramento, and Jane was fully aware of it.

The metal of her gun pressed into her waist as she crossed the weed-infested postage stamp of dirt that comprised Luther’s front yard. In the early months after Oliver’s funeral, she’d learned how to shoot-Skye had seen to that-but this was nothing like a visit to the range. She’d never carried her Glock to someone’s house, never approached anyone with the thought that she might have to use it. Until now. Although she was currently undergoing the months-long application process, she didn’t yet have a license to carry a concealed weapon. She was breaking the law. But she hadn’t been able to reach David, and for the sake of the missing girls she couldn’t wait. She was far less afraid of the police than she was of Luther. She had a daughter at home, a twelve-year-old who’d lost enough already. No way would Jane orphan Kate altogether.

Taking a breath to calm the butterflies swirling in her belly, she raised a hand to knock on a door that looked as if the hounds of hell had attempted to scratch it open. It was barely five o’clock, but darkness seemed to creep up on this part of the city much more quickly than the Watt Avenue area, where she worked.

Expecting to hear dogs the size of horses, she wasn’t surprised by the cacophony of barking that rose to her ears as she stood at the very edge of the concrete stoop.

Ro-of. Thump! Roof! Scratch. Ro-of! Roof! Thump.

Unnerved by the ferocity, Jane decided that perhaps this was something she should put off until tomorrow. Maybe Jonathan, the private investigator who donated so much of his time to TLS, would be available then. Or David. She was about to head back to her car when a man’s voice cut through the racket.

“Shut the hell up!”

The dogs fell silent.

Hands clammy with sweat, Jane watched uncertainly as the knob turned and the door opened.

It was darker inside than out, which made it difficult to see anything except the whites of the man’s eyes. “I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said, “but you don’t belong here.”

Three pit bulls growled at his feet. They weren’t nearly as large as they sounded, but they looked as if they’d tear her limb from limb, given half a chance. Fortunately, they knew better than to attack without permission. They didn’t even push their muzzles into the opening, the way so many dogs did.

The man was definitely in charge. They weren’t about to disobey him…she hoped.

“I’m-” When her voice squeaked, Jane cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m Jane Burke with The Last Stand.”

“Whatever you’re sellin’, I’m not interested,” he said and slammed the door.

The bang almost caused her to fall off the stoop. She glanced longingly at her Toyota Camry, parked at the curb, but the vision of Gloria, crying at the office, prompted her to knock again. She couldn’t fold that easily; her client was counting on her.

One dog dared to bark-but ceased abruptly with a high-pitched whine.

Certain the dog had just been kicked, Jane bolted for her car but forced herself to stop midway when the door reopened.

This time the man stepped out onto the porch, where she could see him. But seeing him didn’t make her feel any safer. At least six feet four inches tall, he weighed close to three hundred and fifty pounds and had the thick neck and huge biceps of a hulking lineman.

“This better be good,” he said. Behind him, the dogs crouched, baring their teeth in a threatening snarl.

Clasping her trembling hands in front of her, Jane pulled her gaze away from them. “Are you Luther Wilson?”

“That’s none of your damn business.” His eyes narrowed. “But…suppose I was. What would you want?”

She edged a step closer. Standing in the middle of the front yard as if she was afraid to come within reach made her appear weak, and she knew it. “I’m looking for your daughter.”

“She not home.”

“I’m talking about Latisha.”

“Latisha don’t live with me. Never has.”

He pivoted, but now that she’d gotten this far Jane couldn’t leave, not without the information she needed. What kind of caseworker would that make her? A coward of a caseworker-certainly no one Skye or Sheridan could trust. Ava didn’t think she had what the job required and hadn’t agreed with hiring her in the first place. If she walked away now, she’d only prove Ava right.

She hurried to speak before Luther could close the door. “She’s gone missing, Mr. Wilson. So has Marcie. It’s been three weeks since anyone’s seen them. The police are investigating. Gloria’s frantic.”

At her rapid-fire explanation, he swung around to face her. “What’re you sayin’? Someone kidnapped Latisha? Someone kidnapped her and Marcie?”

“We don’t know. But it’s possible. It’s also possible they’ve run away, or been injured and are lost.” The pervasive chill of deepening dusk in mid-January seemed to seep into her bones. “Murder is, of course, another possibility.”

Although he didn’t actually speak, his eyes revealed plenty. He hadn’t known his daughter was gone. He wasn’t sure how to react to the information, but he wasn’t as shocked as a lot of men would be. Living in this neighborhood, he’d probably seen too much to gasp at the word murder. “Why would anyone wanna kill her?” he asked at length. “She a good kid.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. You haven’t seen or heard from her in the past three weeks, have you?” she asked.

“No. But I never hear from her. She’s a straight-A student, too damn good for her father.” His wide shoulders seemed to hunch forward. “But maybe that’s ’cause I ain’t been much of a father.”

Jane made an effort to conceal her surprise at his honesty and regret. “Do you know if she had any involvement with gangs or-”

“I told you. She a good kid. She’s no gangbanger.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “What does Gloria say?”

“That she and Marcie are gone. That’s all. Even the police can’t locate them.”

Stepping back, he looked her up and down. “If you ain’t with the police, who are you? Gloria ain’t got money for no P.I.”

TLS was well-known in some circles. Skye and the others who’d founded the charity had solved several high-profile cases. As a result, they’d been popular with the media. But there was no doubt a large segment of Sacramento ’s one million residents had never heard of them or hadn’t paid more than passing attention. “I’m a victims’ advocate. I work for a charity that’s been operating in the area for about seven years. Gloria came to ask for my help.”

He fingered his clean-shaven chin. “So you came down here out of the goodness of your heart?”

She ignored his skepticism. “I make a nominal salary, if that’s what you mean.”

“Whatever they payin’ you ain’t enough,” he said. “You have no business in this neighborhood. I suggest you don’t come back.” Eager to gain its freedom, or rip out her throat, one pit bull crawled forward. His toenails clicked on the metal weather stripping across the opening, but Luther growled a quick “Get inside,” and the dog did exactly that-with its tail between its legs.

“I’ll ask around,” he said to her, “see what I can find out about Latisha and give you a call.”

She fumbled in her purse for a card. He must’ve recognized the shape of the gun handle beneath her sweater as her coat parted because he made a tsking sound and shook his head. “Don’t ever bring a weapon to a man’s house unless you’re prepared to use it.”

He thought she was a joke, the gun some sort of accessory-like earrings or fake nails.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“You heard me. That’s askin’ for trouble. Folks ’round here got no respect for poseurs, no matter how fine they look.”

Jane locked eyes with him. Now that she’d met “Lucifer”-now that he was standing directly in front of her-she realized there wasn’t much about him that intimidated her. Not after what she’d been through. Despite his size, he wasn’t half as frightening as Oliver had been. Jane didn’t think anyone could be as frightening as her slight, soft-spoken and coldly calculating spouse.

“My husband was a serial killer, Mr. Wilson. He murdered four people by stabbing them to death and he nearly killed me in the same way.” She raised her chin to reveal the scar where he’d slit her throat. “I survived by the narrowest of margins. But I did survive. And I promise you I’m prepared to shoot anyone who tries to hurt me again.” She smiled and stuck out her card. “Please call me if you come up with anything on Latisha. I’m determined to find her and Marcie.”

The condescending air that’d bothered her so much evaporated, but it wasn’t replaced with anything more positive. “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” he said.