Kitabı oxu: «Dead Wrong»

Will tried to remember how well Gilly and Amy knew each other

They hadn’t been friends—nothing like that, but Amy was part of the crowd he’d introduced Gilly to. They had looked a little bit alike. Both five-eight or nine, leggy, boyishly slim, naturally blond. Neither blue-eyed. Gillian had had pale, almost sea-green eyes, Amy… He couldn’t quite picture them. Brown? No, not brown. Flecks of yellow and green.

Dead. Because, like Gillian, she was tall and blond and willowy? But their killers weren’t the same man. Couldn’t be the same man. Mendoza was guilty, guilty, guilty. A scum who had no business hitting on Will’s girlfriend in the bar, becoming enraged because she’d rejected him, raping, murdering, taunting.

Had Amy been chosen precisely because she looked like Gillian? A copycat crime required a copycat victim. But who in hell would imitate something like this? Could Elk Springs really have spawned two monsters?

It made no sense. Gilly’s murder by a man who’d hot-wired cars and fenced stolen goods but never committed a violent crime. This one now, six years later. Why Amy? Why now? A stranger, killed like Gillian, would have been bad enough, but Amy! Less than a week after they met again, talked about old times, flirted a little.

He went cold. Was that why she’d been chosen? Because he’d flirted with her? Because she’d once meant something to him?

Dead Wrong
Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

When Harlequin asked me to do a Signature Select Saga story, possibly linked to one of my previous Superromance trilogies, of course it was PATTON’S DAUGHTERS that leaped to mind. I have other favorites among my books, but for some reason the characters in this trilogy and in Jack Murray, Sheriff, which followed, are more real to me than any others I’ve created. The sisters had such distinct voices, self-images and self-doubts. Writing those books, I sometimes felt as if I was channeling their stories, not making them up! In the back of my mind, I’ve always meant to revisit them. And what an opportunity…

Now if only I hadn’t made Meg Patton’s son, Will, such a well-adjusted young man. Note to self: plan ahead. However, even well-adjusted people get a little skewed when tragedy rends the fabric of their lives. Especially when they’re left with a heavy load of guilt. Poor Will! Things have now gone very wrong since you last met him as a nice college student who was close to his mother and father.

I’d been contemplating a book about a serial killer for a while, too. So, here’s hoping you enjoy meeting the Pattons again, or for the first time, and that this particular serial killer keeps you awake a little too late tonight!

Best,

Janice

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

BONUS FEATURES

CHAPTER ONE

GETTING THERE five minutes quicker wouldn’t make any difference. They weren’t racing to the rescue. They were going to view a corpse. Nonetheless, Meg Patton drove fast, with fierce concentration. If Detective Giallombardo said anything, Meg didn’t hear.

This wouldn’t turn out to be anything like the other murder, she kept assuring herself. The detail the kid who called 911 had blurted out would be an aside, something dropped at the scene, not a deliberate choice of murder weapon and staging. She’d feel like an idiot for tearing out here when she was supposed to supervise detectives, not respond to calls. She had already seen the way heads swiveled when she’d stood abruptly and said, “I’ll take this one.”

She’d garnered more surprise when she’d glanced around, choosing young Giallombardo almost randomly. Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. “Are you tied up? Then come with me.” Everyone in the squad room had stared after them.

Butte Road ran yardstick straight for miles between rusting barbed wire fences holding back brown heaps of tumbleweed before terminating at a small volcanic cinder cone. The pavement turned to gravel not much beyond the Elk Springs city limits. Most of the year, their SUV would have raised a red cloud of cinder dust to trail them like a tail. Today, the hard-packed surface was frozen solid.

She drove this road every few weeks. Her sister Renee, the Elk Springs chief of police, lived out here on the Triple B Ranch with her husband, Daniel, and her two young children. Meg barely spared a glance for their gate when she tore by it. Renee would want to hear about the murder, even if it was outside her jurisdiction. Cops didn’t like brutal murders happening in their own backyards. Even if, in this case, that backyard was a whole heck of a lot of empty country.

One of a half dozen in the immediate vicinity of Elk Springs, this lava cone, no more than a couple hundred feet high, wasn’t even dignified with a name, as far as Meg knew. The county had once contemplated using its cinders for road construction, until Matt Barnard of the Triple B made a stink about having trucks roaring up and down his road all day long. After that, it was left in peace, except for Friday-night beer parties and fornicating teenagers.

A lone pickup truck sat in the turnaround at the end of the road. Two heads in it, real close together. Kids, cuddling against the horror they had suddenly understood walked their world.

Meg was careful to pull in right behind them, so as not to further damage any visible tire prints.

Uh-huh, her inner voice jeered. On frozen cinders.

She killed the engine and got out, slamming the door and then pausing for just a minute to take in the surroundings. The bitter cold stung her skin.

Funny how a dead body could give a familiar landscape a surreal look. The view out here was spectacular, with high country desert stretching to the horizon in one direction, brown and stark in winter. The jagged peaks of the Sisters sliced the sky to the west, while Juanita Butte seemed to float to the north like a perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream. A few thin patches of snow clung to the cinder cone and the red-brown soil between tumbleweeds. The sky was a cold, crystal blue, the stillness absolute.

Until Detective Giallombardo also slammed her door and crunched around the rear of the Explorer to join Meg.

In silence, the two women walked forward, both staring at the woman’s naked body sprawled low on the slope of the cinder cone. Head uphill, resting on the pillow of a patch of snow.

In life, she had been long-legged and shapely. In death, she was bluish-white against the rust-red cinders, with the dark stain of bruises discoloring her flesh. Even before they closed the distance, Meg could see that her left breast had been mangled. Torn by an animal after death, maybe, although Meg thought that unlikely.

But the detail that riveted her was the jockstrap. The elastic of the waistband sliced into the victim’s neck. The cup had been twisted to cover her face.

A message, or a gesture of contempt for the victim. Maybe for all women. Meg never had known. The man who had killed in exactly this way, who had left the body posed just as this one was posed, had insisted he was innocent. Was still protesting his innocence from the state penitentiary, where he was serving a life sentence.

Feeling sick, she said, “I’ll talk to the kids. You call for a crime scene crew. We need pictures.”

Giallombardo nodded and went back to the Explorer.

Meg knocked on the window of the pickup and then opened the driver side door.

“Chris Singer?”

The girl, a waif with a blotchy face and red, swollen eyes, nodded.

“And you are?” Meg asked the boy.

“Colin Glaser.” He was trying to sound manly. The squeak at the end undermined his effort. He gazed through the windshield toward the ghastly sight. “That woman… She’s, like, dead.”

“Yes, I’m afraid she is.” Meg heard the grimness in her own voice.

He shuddered.

Meg looked at both of them. “Can you tell me when you arrived? Did you get out of the pickup? Touch anything?”

In unison, their heads shook violently. “We never got out,” the boy said. “I wanted to get the hell—the heck out of here, but when I started to back up Chris said we should call 911. And wait until the cops got here. So we locked the doors and that’s what we did.”

“We were only here like a minute before we phoned,” the girl said.

They’d been cutting school, Meg learned, because they had been having a relationship crisis. Despite the boy’s comforting arm around the girl, Meg guessed the relationship was dead now. Chris had called her dad, who was on his way out here. He wasn’t going to be a happy man.

She thanked them for being responsible, then left them to wait for the girl’s father.

“Let’s take a closer look,” Meg said to Detective Giallombardo, who obediently followed her. Both slipped on the slope of red cinders as they scrambled the eight or ten feet up, then edged toward the body.

Unless bloodstains provided a trail—and they were going to be a bitch to spot on volcanic cinders this color—it was going to be impossible to tell where the UNSUB parked, whether he dragged or carried the body, etc. How much Luminol did it take to spot blood in a landscape this vast? Footprints and ruts didn’t last in loose cinders, which tended to rattle downslope to fill any hole even when there was still a foot in it. Meg knew, because she’d climbed up to the crater several times as a teenager.

She crouched beside the victim, Giallombardo standing right above her.

Legs splayed in a grotesquely inviting gesture of sexual come-on. The savage bite marks on the breast were made by human teeth, if Meg was any judge. Maybe they’d get lucky and at least get a decent bite impression to match up with a suspect later. Arms spread to each side. The victim had been allowed no dignity in death.

And then there was the jockstrap. To appearances, it had been used to strangle the woman. It looked brand-new. Bought for the purpose.

This wasn’t chance. The staging was identical to the murder six years ago that had cost Meg her son in every meaningful way, though he still dutifully arrived at her door for family holidays.

She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Giallombardo said, “Identical to what?”

Meg froze, her instinct to keep family history private until such time as there was no option. But when it came down to it, she’d been a cop too long to hide evidence.

“The crew’s coming,” she said, glad of an excuse to put off the moment of truth.

“And Dad,” the young female cop observed.

A red SUV was gaining fast on the official convoy. It fishtailed once but didn’t even slow. As a parent, Meg understood.

She and Giallombardo scrambled and slid their way back down to the foot of the lava cone. Crime scene techs bundled up as they climbed out of vehicles—as afternoon fell, the air became icier. Meg estimated the day hadn’t reached ten degrees Fahrenheit when the sun was at its height, and the temp had probably already dropped to six or eight degrees with sub-zero to come tonight. Her cheeks and nose were numb.

She directed the crew to get them started, some spreading out to search for evidence, the photographer beginning to snap pictures, the coroner waiting to get to the body. The girl’s dad erupted from his SUV almost before it skidded to a stop, and she flung herself right over her boyfriend into Daddy’s arms.

Meg introduced herself, explained the situation and asked if he’d drive both kids back to town. “We’ve got his pickup boxed in.” To the boy, she said, “Colin, can you get someone to bring you out here tomorrow after school to get your pickup?”

He nodded.

To his credit, the father squeezed the boy’s shoulder and said, “Come on, son. Your mom home from work yet?” He led the two away and was soon backing out.

Meg leaned against the fender of her black Explorer. The young cop who’d been promoted to detective all of a month ago waited with a patience Meg admired.

Trina Giallombardo had risen fast in the ranks. She was only twenty-six, twenty-seven. A local girl who had gone to Oregon State to college, then come home. As a cop, she was smart, steady, mature beyond her years and dedicated. When Meg had interviewed her for the promotion, she’d claimed to have always wanted to be a detective.

She wore her thick, shiny dark hair drawn tightly into a bun. Big brown eyes dominated an olive-complected face that gave an impression of stubbornness and intelligence rather than beauty.

Meg would have given anything to have Ben Shea, her longtime partner and brother-in-law, here instead. But Ben had broken his idiot leg—thank God not his neck—trying to keep up with Abby on the ski hill. His leg was still in traction.

But why did I have to bring a novice? Meg asked herself. Instinct? She didn’t have a clue.

Gaze on the crew, spread out like giant ants below their hill, she finally answered Giallombardo’s question. “Six years ago, we had a murder that looked just like this one.”

“Six years…” Giallombardo frowned. “I was away at college. Wait. Not Will’s girlfriend?”

“You know my son?”

“Only by sight.” Did red tinge her cheeks? Hard to tell, with both their faces damn near frostbitten. “I was two years behind him in school. But I saw him play basketball. And since he was president of the student body…”

Meg nodded. “His girlfriend was raped and murdered when she came home with him for spring break from college. She was strangled with a jockstrap, and the cup was pulled over her face. She was posed just like that.”

“Oh.” The young cop exhaled the single, soft word.

They stood in silence while she processed the implications. “Isn’t that your brother-in-law’s ranch up the road?”

The fact that this body had been dumped so close to her sister’s home was already bothering Meg. Their family had been targeted once before. Surely not again. Surely this had nothing to do with the Pattons. It was happenstance that the previous victim had been Will’s girlfriend. She’d gone to a bar on her own and left with the killer. She’d probably never even mentioned her boyfriend or the fight they’d just had.

Giallombardo interrupted her thoughts. “Did you catch the killer?”

Meg nodded. “He’s supposed to be serving life.”

They both glanced involuntarily toward the body.

“Paroled?”

“We’ll find out.”

The photographer signaled the coroner, and the two women joined him. Sanchez, an elected official, had run unopposed for as long as Meg had been with the Butte County Sheriff’s Department. Unlike some elected coroners or medical examiners, he was good.

“Don’t see any surprises,” he said after a minute. “Looks like strangulation. See how deep the elastic has cut into her throat?”

They saw.

“Time of death?”

He hemmed and hawed. This cold made it harder to tell. It was like putting a body in deep freeze. “You find any ID?”

“So far, we haven’t even found her panties.”

He nodded. “I’m thinking last night,” he finally concluded. “Maybe twelve hours ago. You might look for a young woman who waited bar, say, and didn’t make it home.”

“Okay.” Meg was trying to take notes. She hoped they were readable. Either she wore gloves, or her fingers went numb. She alternated.

“Let’s take a look at the face,” the coroner suggested. “Then roll her.”

Meg struggled to pull a latex glove onto her right hand, then reached out and tugged the jockstrap to one side.

The victim’s mouth was frozen open as if in a scream, the grotesquely swollen tongue protruding.

“Was he hiding her face?” Giallombardo whispered. “If anything would shock you…” Before Meg could comment, the young detective was already shaking her head. “No. He posed her. He didn’t kill her out here. She would have been scraped by cinders when she struggled. And if he, uh, penetrated her, he’d have had to expose his penis.”

The coroner actually hunched, as if the very idea of baring himself to the sub-freezing air was so hideous he couldn’t prevent a physical reaction.

“Plus he’d have had to kneel on the cinders… No.”

Meg agreed. “She was already dead when he carried her here. A man horrified by his crime flees. He doesn’t lay out the victim so carefully.”

“He has to be a local. To know to come out here.”

“That thought has occurred to me.” Meg nodded at the victim. “You’re local. Do you recognize her?”

Giallombardo swallowed. Meg watched as she focused on the face, made herself look past the distended tongue. To study glazed eyes that might have been hazel, the tiny mole on one high cheekbone…

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“You do know her.”

Her breath rattled in her chest and she nodded dumbly.

“Who is she?”

Giallombardo swallowed again. Against nausea, Meg guessed. “Amy Owen. She might not be anymore. I mean, she might have gotten married. But in high school, that was her name.”

Disquiet struck again. “That sounds familiar.”

“I think…” The detective was taking quick, shallow breaths. “I think Will dated her.”

Air hissed from between Meg’s teeth.

“He brought girls out here. Sometimes.”

With quick alarm, she thought, Not Trina Giallombardo. Boy, would that complicate things. “How do you know?” she asked, aware she sounded harsh.

Her deputy didn’t want to meet her eyes. “Not because…” She closed her eyes, obviously struggling to regain her composure. When she spoke again, her voice was devoid of emotion. “I heard girls talk. That’s all.”

Meg’s eyes narrowed. Was there some history here of which she was unaware? Damn it, had the young Trina Giallombardo had a crush on Will? If so, should she be jettisoned from the case?

But they didn’t know that this had anything to do with Will.

Please God.

“I came out here when I was a teenager,” she heard herself say. She was distantly aware that the other two were gaping. “With Will’s father.”

After what she realized was an appalled silence, Giallombardo said, “Um…I suppose almost everyone in Elk Springs has.”

The coroner looked up at Meg with shrewd eyes. “You sure Mendoza is still locked up?”

“We should have been informed if he came up for parole.” Meg stared down at the body. “Let’s roll her.”

Between rigor mortis and freezing, the job wasn’t easy. Despite the cold, Giallombardo looked green by the time they were done.

The backside revealed lividity and more bruising, nothing else.

Meg raised her voice. “Let’s bag her. People, has anyone found anything?”

General shakes of the head. No tracks, no discarded clothing, no convenient cigarette butts that didn’t look as if they’d been left last summer. Truthfully, Meg hadn’t expected anything different. The unknown subject—or UNSUB, to cops—had driven out here with the dead woman likely in his trunk. Maybe at night, maybe this morning. He’d carried her a few feet up the slope of the lava cone, splayed her limbs, adjusted the jockstrap like a man adding a flourish to his signature and left.

How in hell had he known every detail? Had he seen the body? Could there have been two murderers? Had he stumbled on the body before the cops found it? Or, she thought with a jolt, was this killer a cop?

And, whoever he was, why had he waited six years to imitate the previous rape and murder?

“Lieutenant?”

She knew on one level that Sanchez was talking to her, but still she stared down at the body and asked herself the one question she’d been avoiding.

What if Ricky Mendoza’s protestations of innocence were real? What if he didn’t do it?

And what if the real killer had been shocked by what he’d done? What if he’d been able to suppress his sexual perversion for six years—until something triggered his rage?

Something, say, like the fact that Will Patton had just moved back to Elk Springs?

Common sense revolted. No! Damn it, they had Mendoza cold. She’d been sorry, because she liked the kid, but he had to have been the killer. She was letting a mother’s fear intrude, and if she couldn’t think with the cool logic of a cop instead, she’d be the one who had to step back from this investigation.

“Sorry,” she said, forcing herself to look up. “What’s your question?”

“HEARD ANYTHING LAST NIGHT? Or early this morning?” As withered as the winter sagebrush, the old woman stared suspiciously through the six-inch gap between door and frame. Either she was worried about keeping the heat in, or this intruder out.

“Yes, ma’am,” Trina said politely.

“We’re to bed by nine o’clock.”

Trina wouldn’t have minded being invited inside. She was freezing on the doorstep with the sun sinking fast. This was the fourth house she’d stopped at, and at only one had she been asked in and offered coffee. The few swallows she’d managed were a distant, tantalizing memory.

She strove for a conversational tone. “You must not get much traffic out on Butte Road at night.”

The old woman looked at her as if she were simple. “Saturday nights, it’s like living next to Highway 20. All those young hands that work the ranches, they come hootin’ and hollerin’ by, two, three in the morning. Lean on their horns, stereos blasting to shake the windows. They even race sometimes.” Her mouth thinned. “They turn onto our property, we get out the shotgun.”

Trina considered mentioning that the law did not entitle a property owner to shoot someone for turning into his driveway.

Instead, she surreptitiously wriggled her fingers inside her gloves to see if they still functioned and said, “Last night wasn’t Saturday.”

“Some of them get drunk other nights, too.”

Heaven send her patience.

“I’m sure they do.” She shook her head as if scandalized. The old biddy. “Was last night one of those nights? You hear anybody heading home late?”

“Might have.”

“Can you recall what time that was?”

Mrs. Bailey’s lips folded near out of sight, as if it pained her to give a straight answer. Finally she sniffed. “Two-thirty-five. On a Thursday night. Then the fool turned around and went back to town. Bars shouldn’t be open that late.”

Despite her surge of excitement, Trina pointed out, “Someone might have been giving a friend a ride home.”

Silence, followed by a grudging, “Might have been.”

“Are you certain you heard the same vehicle coming and going?”

“Course I am! Wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t meant it.”

Maybe it was perversity that had her suggesting, “One pickup truck sounds an awful lot like another.”

The woman didn’t like explaining herself. After crimping her lips and thinking about it, she said, “This one sounded like my Rufus out there. Don’t bark often, but when he does, you best jump.”

“A deep, powerful engine.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Her own lips were going numb. “Did you notice when the truck came back?”

“Didn’t look at the clock.” She chewed it over. “Twenty minutes. Half hour.”

The timing was just right.

“Mrs. Bailey, do you think you’ve heard this particular engine before?”

“Can’t say.”

“Would you recognize it again?”

“Might.”

Trina gave her most winning smile, which considering she couldn’t feel most of her face might look more like a death mask. “You’ve been a great help, Mrs. Bailey. We may need to speak to you again. In the meantime, I appreciate your cooperation.”

With no “You’re welcome,” or even a “Mind you don’t slip on the steps,” the old lady slammed the door shut in Trina’s face. A dead bolt lock thudded home.

If she wasn’t so darn cold, Trina would have laughed. She hurried to the Explorer she was driving, started it and cranked up the heat. Intermittent shivers wracked her. But at least she’d learned something that might be useful, she thought with a small glow of triumph. Useful enough, maybe, that Lieutenant Patton would let her keep working the case.

She couldn’t believe her luck to have been singled out today, and by Lieutenant Patton, of all people. Trina had become a cop because she wanted to be just like Meg Patton and her two sisters, the one Elk Springs police chief, the other an arson investigator. From the time she was eleven or twelve she’d read about their exploits in the newspaper, and since Will went to the high school people had talked, too. Lieutenant Patton had been the county Youth Officer back when Trina was in high school, so she’d talked at assemblies or in Trina’s classes a couple of times a year. Trina thought she was amazing—beautiful and brave and smart. Everything Trina wanted to be.

In her interview for the promotion to detective Trina had almost blurted out something about how much she’d always admired the lieutenant. Thank goodness she’d been able to stop herself. Even if it was true, it would have sounded like the worst brown-nosing.

Now here she was, hardly a month later, partnered with her. Despite her shivers, Trina still marveled. Junior partner, of course. The lieutenant had gone back to the station to find out whether the killer from six years ago had somehow gotten out of prison and also to try to discover whether other jurisdictions had had murders with this same M.O. Lucky Trina had been assigned one patrol officer to help her canvass the houses along Butte Road.

But it had to be done, and she was pretty excited to have actually learned something. Maybe. Unless the deep-throated pickup or SUV had just been dropping some drunk ranch hand back at the Triple B or the Running Y. Except she’d stopped at the Triple B herself and no ranch hands had admitted to being out late last night. She’d find out from Officer Buttram whether the same was true at the Running Y. Those were the only two working ranches past the Bailey’s place.

An hour and a half later, she hadn’t learned a thing. Buttram and she agreed to meet back at the station.

There, he shook his head. His ruddy face glowed. “Bitch of a night.”

“I would have traded my right arm for a thermos of coffee.”

“With a dash of whiskey.” He took off his sheepskin-lined gloves. “Nobody heard nothing.”

“I found somebody who did. A Mrs. Bailey.”

Her sense of triumph dimmed at the sight of his face.

“There’s a nasty one.”

“She calls in complaints?”

“Once a month or so.” He shook his head. “Hates the neighbors, hates teenagers, doesn’t much like cows. You believe her, somebody is always being noisy or trespassing.”

Noisy? “I don’t remember a house near hers.”

“She has damn fine hearing.”

Trina quizzed him about who he’d talked to at the Running Y, then went to Lieutenant Patton’s office.

Through the glass inset, she saw the lieutenant lift her head at the sound of the knock. She waved Trina in.

“You look cold.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her superior scowled. “Quit ma’aming me.”

“Sir…”

“That isn’t any better. You make me feel old.”

“Lieutenant.”

“A slight improvement.” She sighed. “I suppose that was an exercise in futility?”

“Actually, I did get one report of unusual traffic.”

Brows rose. “Really?”

Trina repeated what Mrs. Bailey said. “I understand she’s something of a crank….”

“She?”

“Mrs. Bailey?”

“Not Luella Bailey! She’s a thorn in the side of anyone who has dealings with her. Daniel—my brother-in-law—counts his blessings daily that his place isn’t beside hers. Pete Hardesty of the Running Y gets hell every time a steer finds a fence break.”

Crushed and trying to hide it, Trina asked, “Does that mean she’s not reliable?”

“Hmm.” Meg Patton rubbed her chin as she thought. “Well, she’s not delusional. When she says a steer is eating her dahlias, by God there it is. Kids do drag race out on Butte Road. So…no. She might actually be a good witness. Most folks out there wouldn’t pay any mind to a passing vehicle. Luella, though, lives to find grievances.” Her gaze sharpened. “Tell me again what she said.”

Trina did.

“Twenty minutes to half an hour. That would be about right.”

Trina nodded at the phone. “Did you learn anything?”

“Ricky Mendoza is right where he should be. That lets him out. No sign of Amy’s Kia. I sent someone to check her apartment complex and the lots outside the brewhouses and restaurants that seem like the most obvious choices. Otherwise, I’ve put out calls. Any kind of match through VICAP will take time.” The federal database was a godsend to local law enforcement. Unfortunately, it had limitations; many small jurisdictions didn’t input crimes.

Trina nodded.

“I’ve already talked to Amy Owen’s parents. They still live here, only a few blocks from where I grew up in the old town.”

“She hadn’t married, then?”

“Married and divorced. The ex is next on my list.”

“He’s around?”

The lieutenant consulted her notes. “Doug Jennings. He’s a ski bum, according to the parents. Amy wanted to think about buying a house, starting a family. He wasn’t interested.”

“So the divorce wasn’t ugly?” From what she’d read, Trina was willing to bet this killer and Amy had been strangers, anyway, but you had to consider all possibilities.

“Not according to them. They say he’ll be broken up to hear about her murder. I went by his place and he wasn’t home.” Meg Patton rose. “What say we go talk to him now, then take a look at her apartment.”

“Am I going to stay on the case, then?” Trina asked, rising, too.

The lieutenant looked surprised. “I tagged you, didn’t I?”

This didn’t seem the moment to ask why. “Thank you, ma…um, Lieutenant.”

Exhilaration wiped out her weariness. Her mind buzzed. She’d want to read the file on the six-year-old murder. Look for details that were the same—and ones that were different. Talk to whoever found that body. The cops who worked the murder. If this one was as similar as Lieutenant Patton claimed, this killer had to be close in some way to the previous crime. Copycats had a motive. What was this one’s?

Wow, she thought, feeling giddy. I’m a detective. A real detective.

Not even missing the cup of coffee she hadn’t yet poured, she followed Lieutenant Patton out.

CHAPTER TWO

WILL’S RESOLVE to move home to Elk Springs wavered from time to time. Pretty well daily, in fact. Tonight was a definite plunge in the Mood-O-Meter.

He was staying at his father’s while he looked for a place to live. Their relationship was pleasant but cool, thanks to Will’s long-held belief that his parents in their professional capacities were responsible for the scum who’d killed Gillian being out on the street and therefore free to rape and mutilate. If they’d done their jobs…

But they hadn’t, for reasons he understood intellectually if not emotionally. Now, six years later, he also understood that his anger had mostly been misplaced. But things once said couldn’t be taken back, and much as he regretted the fact, Will knew he couldn’t have back what he’d lost that night.

This week, his father was away at a conference for sheriffs and police chiefs. With him gone, Will was able to relax a little. He got along well with Beth, his dad’s wife, and with her kids.

Stephanie was a senior in high school this year, a really smart girl who had applied to private colleges like Whitman and even Vassar back east. Pretty, with her mother’s dark hair and blue eyes, she was the same serious kid she’d been when her mother married Jack Murray, Sheriff of Butte County.

Redheaded Lauren, fourteen, was in contrast currently grounded because she’d been caught cutting classes. She was a cheerleader and, according to her mother, a social butterfly who was a teenager with a capital T. Will could see what she meant. Lauren was all giggles and glow one minute, sulky the next. He sympathized, since he remembered his own teenage angst when his mom and he moved to Elk Springs so he could finally get to know his father. One minute, he’d believed he could clear Juanita Butte in a single bound, and the next he’d been sure his mother was trying to ruin his life.

So far, both girls seemed pleased to have their stepbrother around.

He’d been okay earlier, watching a TV movie with Steph and explaining to her why the whole trial scene was crap. Lauren had wandered in once, curled her lip, said, “That looks boring,” and gone off to instant message with the friends she was banned from seeing out of school until next Wednesday. “An eternity,” she’d moaned at dinner, after Beth had declined to release her from purgatory.

But after the movie, when Steph disappeared to her room and Beth went to the den to work on orders for her stationery business, Will sat in the empty living room and thought, What am I doing? I must be nuts.

The room, the house, got to him. He’d helped his dad strip these floors and the woodwork and then stain and refinish them. They’d both learned as they went, repairing plaster walls, painting, plumbing, even rewiring. Maybe because he’d been without a father for the first fourteen years of his life, Will had been more eager to spend time with his than most of his buddies were. Now this big old Queen Anne style house made him edgy. Aware of times past, of lost trust and easy affection.

The house was part of his history with Gillian, too. She’d spent weekends and school breaks here with him. They’d had incredible talks right here in the living room, made passionate love upstairs in his bedroom. They’d had that last fight in his bedroom, too, one that had been quiet but intense until she’d walked out on him. He’d run after her and, not caring who heard, stood on the porch and yelled, “Go! I don’t give a shit!”

But he’d given a shit when the cops were on his dad’s doorstep the next morning to inform him that his girlfriend had been found raped and strangled in Deschutes Park. He’d given a shit when they politely and inexorably questioned his whereabouts during the night even as his gut roiled with disbelief and horror and guilt, because he’d let Gilly stalk out without trying to stop her.

From where he sat right now, in a leather club chair, he could see the entry. Empty, but for ghosts. A rangy, carefree version of himself with Dad, scraping thick layers of varnish from the stair banister. He and Gilly, tiptoeing in after going out with some of his high school friends, stifling giggles, pausing to make out just inside the front door, two or three times on the staircase, barely getting the bedroom door shut before shedding their clothes. A slightly older Gillian screaming, “We’re done! Over!” before she flung open the front door to leave. Two officers wearing the familiar Butte County Sheriff’s Department green, saying, “I’m sorry to inform you…”

He groaned and laid his head back, his eyes closed. He didn’t even know why he felt compelled to leave cosmopolitan Portland for this small town that held so many complex memories. He loved Elk Springs, but he hated it, too.

Even for himself, the best explanation he could come up with for accepting the job in the Butte County prosecutor’s office was that he needed answers. Closure. Understanding.

He had an uneasy relationship with both his parents, although Gilly and his accusations had gone un-mentioned on all sides for five years or more. Mad because he’d hurt his mom, his aunt Abby hardly spoke to him, he didn’t know his own half-brother and -sister the way he should, and the stories about his grandfather Patton had begun to seem apocryphal. Had he been anywhere near as bad as they said? Even if he was, did that justify both Meg Patton and Jack Murray being so soft on a troubled young kid that they let him slide out of taking responsibility for one crime after another?

And Gilly… Why hadn’t she just driven back to Salem? Why did she have to go to a bar? Was she getting in her car with the intention of returning here, maybe to say, “I’m sorry,” when a hand closed over her mouth from behind? Had she thought Will might still come after her? Somehow save her?

Still caught in that hazy nexus of past and present, he wondered with a dull ache why he hadn’t gone after her. Her parents grieved to this day. They claimed not to blame him, but they must.

He blamed himself.

The doorbell rang, and he jerked, his eyes opening. Who in hell at this time of night?

Eyes wide with instinctive alarm, Beth emerged from the home office at the back of the house, but Will, who had reached the front hall before her, said, “Let me find out who it is.”

Through the peephole he saw the dark green of sheriff’s department uniforms. His sense of disorientation returned. Gillian?

But when he opened the door, it was his mother he found on the porch, along with another officer. A young woman who appeared vaguely familiar.

“Mom?”

Her face looked drawn, her eyes tired. “Will, I need to talk to you.”

He backed up. Cold air rushed in with them. Or maybe the chill was inside him.

“Hi, Beth.” Mom tried to smile.

“Meg.” Beth pressed a hand to her breast. “Is everything all right? It’s not Jack?”

“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. No, everybody in the family is fine.”

But somebody, Will diagnosed, wasn’t fine. Somebody Will knew, or she wouldn’t be here.

The wife of a cop, Beth knew, too. She looked Will’s mother over with an experienced eye. “Can I get you coffee? Better yet, a bite to eat? I’ll bet you haven’t stopped, have you?”

“I’m fine…” Meg stopped. She gave a faint laugh. “Actually, I’m starved. A snack would be great, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Don’t be silly.” Beth shooed them towards the living room. “Coming right up.”

His mother pulled off her gloves, then began to shrug out of her coat. He took it and the other cop’s, too, and hung them on the tree near the front door.

He took a few steps into the living room, then stopped. “What’s up?”

“Detective Giallombardo, this is my son Will. Will, Trina Giallombardo. You may remember her from school.”

“You look familiar,” he admitted.

“I was a couple of years behind you.”

That would explain it. By his junior and senior years, he and his friends hadn’t been interested in lower classmen. Maybe a really hot girl. This Trina hadn’t been that. So he’d probably passed her in the hall without ever really focusing on her face.

“Detective Giallombardo,” he acknowledged, then faced his mother. “Tell me.”

“A girl you dated in high school was found murdered today.”

A sound escaped him. A profanity, maybe. He reached out and gripped the back of the leather chair.

“Who?”

“Amy Owen.”

He’d expected… He didn’t know who he’d expected. But not Amy.

“We only went out three or four times.”

“That’s what Detective Giallombardo thought.”

This woman he didn’t know, who had been two years behind him in school, was suddenly an expert on his life?

“You’re well-informed.”

Her returning gaze was expressionless. “You were the big guy in school. People talked.”

His irritation vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Amy. My God.”

“Sit,” his mother ordered.

“Here’s coffee,” Beth said behind him.

He sank into the chair, soul-sick. On the job, he dealt in murder often, but not the murder of people he knew. Only with Gillian had he experienced firsthand the horror and grief family and friends felt.

Amy Owen, pretty, not smart but sweet.

“I saw her last week,” he said.

“What?” Hand outstretched for a cup of coffee she hadn’t yet picked up from the tray, his mother turned.

“I saw her.” Jeez, he wished he hadn’t. He wished Amy Owen was no more than a hazy memory. “She was at J.R.’s when I went there with Gavin and Travis.” No surprise—the sports bar was a favorite hangout for locals. “She was with Jody Cox. Remember her? And a friend of hers, a newcomer.”

“Another woman?”

He saw what she was getting at. “Yeah, a woman. Karin. Don’t remember the last name. I have her phone number if you want it.”

Will saw a fleeting expression of…something cross Trina Giallombardo’s face. Another time he might have wondered at it. Right now, he was too wrapped up in the image of Amy jumping from the bar stool to wave at him.

“Will! Will! Over here. Wow! Hi!”

He guessed he’d flirted with her a little bit, because she’d been flirting with him, but it was her friend’s phone number he’d quietly asked for before the women announced they were calling it a night.

His mother sat on the couch facing him. “Did she tell you she’s divorced?”

“Yeah. Actually, her ex came in, too. Didn’t look real happy to see her with a bunch of guys.”

“Did he say anything?”

Will shook his head. “That’s just my impression. He came over and she introduced him. He was polite.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“Not that I saw.” His mother was interrogating him, he realized. She’d even flipped her notebook open. The coffee and toasted sandwiches Beth had made sat untouched on the table.

Her gaze was sharp on him. He could see her brain humming. “Did he stay around?”

“Uh…I don’t really know.” He frowned. “Wait. I did see him a little later. Maybe half an hour.” Appalled, he said, “You don’t think…”

“We don’t think anything yet. No, he’s unlikely. This didn’t look like a crime of passion. Someone who’d loved her, however angry he was, would have felt remorse, regret. Treated her body with more respect.”

“Was it a bad one?” Will asked quietly.

His mother looked older than she had since—damn, since he’d aged her with his accusations and wild rage.

“Yeah. Will…”

He wasn’t going to like what was coming. Aware of both women watching him, he braced himself and waited.

“We have a copycat. Will, this looked like Gillian’s murder.”

He lurched to his feet. “What do you mean?”

She rose, too. “I mean it could have been the same killer. The body was left in the same condition.”

An image of Gilly’s body flashed before his eyes. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “Was she raped?”

His mother’s expression was compassionate. “Yes.”

In some part of his mind, he noted that Trina Giallombardo’s dark eyes were only watchful. If she felt pity, suspicion, dislike, sympathy, she didn’t show it.

“Strangled with a jockstrap?”

“Yes.”

He wheeled away to stand with his back to the women. He was panting as if he’d sprinted the last half mile of his daily run. Sweating. Sick. Gilly, oh Gilly. The women’s faces overlay like a double exposure, both blond and fine-boned. Not Gilly, he thought. Not this time. Instead, some sick son of a bitch had raped and tortured pretty, sweet Amy Owen, then left her body as if she were a whore. Garbage.

“Who?” he asked, voice guttural.

His mother sounded grim. “We’ll find out.”

“Was she in the same place?”

“No.” Gillian’s body had been left right in town, among the willow trees in the town park on the bank of the Deschutes River. “Amy was left at the lava cone past the Triple B. A couple of kids found her.”

He turned to face them all of them, Beth in the background. “Why are you here?”

His mother’s expression changed. “What?”

“Is my name going to come up?”

She gaped. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Yeah? Why not? I’d be a logical suspect, wouldn’t I?”

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. He was glad to have disconcerted her for once, put her on the defensive.

Detective Giallombardo said, “Your mother didn’t want you to read about it in the morning paper. She thought the news would be better coming from her.”

Shame flooded him, as she’d intended. Will swore and scraped a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, Mom. God. I’m sorry.”

His mother gave a twisted smile. “It’s okay. Of course you’re upset.”

He saw in her eyes that he’d hurt her. As, he realized, he’d intended. And he didn’t even know why he’d lashed out.

“Mendoza…” He hated the taste of the bastard’s name in his mouth.

“Is still at Salem.” The Oregon State Penitentiary was in Salem, Oregon’s capital.

“A friend of his…”

“That’s a possibility we’ll pursue.”

“But not a very good one.”

She didn’t have to answer. Of course, it was unlikely one of Ricardo Mendoza’s friends would commit a crime this savage, and why? What was the motive?

For the first time, Will was thinking like the attorney and prosecutor he was.

“What’s the point? What’s this scum trying to say?”

“I have no idea,” his mother admitted. “Maybe nothing. Maybe this guy just liked the idea. Thought wiping out her identity, metaphorically, by replacing it with a crude symbol of masculinity was funny.”

“Like he’s saying, ‘In your face’?” Will asked.

She spread her hands. “Maybe he thought a jockstrap sounded like a handy murder weapon. Hard to trace, wouldn’t hold fingerprints well, and, hey, you could carry it around in your pocket without exciting suspicion. You’re on your way to the gym. What’s the big deal?”

“Have you ever before or since read or heard of a woman strangled with a jockstrap?” he asked.

“No,” she conceded.

“Here we are. Small town. Not all that many murders, and ninety-nine percent of those are your garden-variety shoot-the-abusive-husband type. Biker brawls. Not the work of serial killers.”

They’d speculated back then that Gillian’s murder was too “sophisticated” to be a killer’s first. The savagery coupled with the care taken displaying the body, had seemed to be the work of someone who’d done this before. On the other hand, Mendoza had also done unbelievably stupid things: he was seen leaving the bar with Gilly, his skin was beneath her fingernails and his semen was found in her body. Evidence of grandiosity and disorganized thinking, everyone said. He’d felt invincible, never thought he’d be suspected. So what if he’d talked to Gillian in the bar? She’d talked to other men, too. Maybe he hadn’t realized anyone at the bar could name him. It didn’t matter—he’d been convicted on DNA.

“So what are the odds that, just coincidentally, we have a second killer with the same idea?”

She didn’t have to answer.

“Are you going to talk to Mendoza?”

“Maybe. We’ll concentrate on her movements yesterday first.”

“She told me where she worked.” But, damn, he couldn’t remember.

“She was a hairstylist. She had a chair at Mountain High Salon.”

Beth made a sound. They all turned.

“Was she tall and blond? With a mole on her cheek?” She looked from one of them to another. Pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, no! She cut my hair the last time. And Steph’s been going to her. I should have recognized the name! I hate to tell Steph. Oh, that poor girl.”

“I’m sorry,” his mother said, uselessly.

“Does Jack know yet?”

“No. He hasn’t called, and I figured there’s nothing he could do, not tonight. I’ll page him in the morning.”

Will’s mother and Detective Giallombardo ate then, both gobbling as if they couldn’t remember their last meal. He knew from experience that his mother would be lucky to snatch a few hours of sleep tonight. She’d spend tomorrow talking to everyone who’d know anything about Amy’s last day. Meg Patton was dedicated. Just…sometimes soft, in his opinion. Wanting to do the opposite of whatever her bastard of a father would have done. She and Aunt Renee both had seemed to spend their careers trying to bury their father’s legacy as Elk Springs police chief.

The two women left, Will’s mom promising to keep him informed. Then, he and Beth rehashed what they knew, Beth clearly upset.

“That poor, poor girl,” she kept saying. “She was your age?”

“A year younger.”

“Twenty-eight, then. Only twenty-eight.”

He finally persuaded her to go to bed, in part by heading for his own. With the house quiet and dark, only his bedside lamp on, Will sat up against a heap of pillows and tried to read, but kept finishing the same page without remembering a word.

He was tired, but at the same time wide awake. Antsy. Feeling as if he should do something. Fight or flight. Will recognized that he was in shock, reliving the hours after Gilly’s body was found, when a thousand, if onlys and I should haves had run crazily through his mind as if he were on crack. Replay, replay. Change the ending. He’d kept trying, over and over, until he was crazy and slammed his fist into the wall. He hadn’t even noticed he’d broken bones for a while, the pain nothing, nothing, compared to the agony in his chest.

His book fell to the bedcovers, forgotten. He couldn’t shut out the memories, the horror.

Amy, face alight when she saw him, waving in delight. “Will! Over here!” Gilly laughing up at him, staring at him with hate that in his imaginings became terror. Her face, Amy’s face, one and the same.

Pulling himself back from the abyss, Will tried to remember how well Gilly and Amy knew each other. They hadn’t become friends—nothing like that, but Amy was certainly part of the crowd he’d introduced Gilly to. They had looked a little bit alike. Both five-eight or -nine, leggy, boyishly slim, naturally blond. Neither blue-eyed. Gillian had had pale, almost sea-green eyes, Amy… He couldn’t quite picture them. Brown? He flashed on Trina Giallombardo’s brown eyes, assessing, accusing, judging, because he’d lost it with his mother. Angry at her intrusion, he shook his head and returned doggedly to his struggle to see Amy Owen. No. Not brown. Flecks of yellow and green.

Dead. Because, like Gillian, she was tall and blond and willowy? But their killers weren’t the same man. Couldn’t be the same man. Mendoza was guilty, guilty, guilty. Scum who had no business hitting on Will’s girlfriend in the bar, becoming enraged because she’d rejected him, raping, murdering, taunting.

Had Amy been chosen precisely because she looked like Gillian? A copycat crime required a copycat victim. But who in hell would imitate something like this? Could Elk Springs really have spawned two monsters? Copycat monsters?

It made no sense. None of it made sense. Gilly’s murder by a man who’d hot-wired cars and fenced stolen goods but never committed a violent crime. This one now, six years later. Why six years? Why now?

Why two women Will had known? A stranger, killed exactly like Gillian, would have been bad enough, but Amy! Less than a week after they met again, talked about old times, flirted a little.

He went cold. Was that why she’d been chosen? Because he knew her? Because he’d flirted with her? Because, like Gilly, she’d once meant something to him?

But that made no sense either. He’d dated her a few times. Kissed her. Had sex with her once—after they’d both had too much to drink at a party. So what? He’d dated and kissed a dozen girls or more in high school. Slept with several. Had a couple of girlfriends who lasted months. One nearly a year. He knew Nita and Christine both were still around. Why not one of them? Why Amy? Opportunity? Just because in a small town there were only so many look-alike blondes?

Why? God, why? he begged, even as he knew he’d get no answer.