Читать книгу No Escape - Meredith Fletcher - Страница 8

You’re some piece of work, Sawyer.

Sighing in self-disgust, Heath Sawyer slipped out of the white lab coat as he strode down the hallway from the morgue. His long legs ate up the distance, but he couldn’t get out of the building fast enough.

He’d wanted to see the dead woman’s body himself, to get a feel for her and how she’d died. Whenever he was working a case, he wanted to know as much as he could about the victims. Seeing them at the crime scene or the morgue helped, but the trade-off was demanding. That kind of intimacy was a lodestone for nightmares. Years later, he could still remember the faces of the first case he’d investigated. He hadn’t planned on running into the sister on this one.

But that didn’t stop you from taking advantage of the situation when it presented itself, did it?

A wave of guilt assailed him, but he pushed it away. He’d learned to do that on the job, and he was on the job now, even out of his jurisdiction. Hell, he was out of his country.

Memory of the woman’s perfume teased at his mind. Lauren Cooper was holding herself together better than a lot of grieving relatives Heath had dealt with over the years. In fact, she was holding it together better than he had when he’d found out about Janet.

He dropped the lab coat onto the counter where an older woman talked on the phone and entered data on a computer that had seen better days. A Bob Marley poster hung on the wall beside a calendar that said, Welcome to Jamaica. Have a Nice Day.

The woman narrowed her eyes, and her face pinched into a frown as she watched Heath. “Hey. Hey, you. You come back here and put that where it goes. I’m not your maid.” Her island accent was thick.

Heath ignored her and headed for the stairs because they were faster than taking the elevator. He couldn’t wait to be outside again where he could breathe. The island temperature was cooler than it currently was back in Atlanta, but the humidity was worse. He fished his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slid them into place.

The area was dangerous, and that woman—Lauren Cooper—didn’t look like someone used to dealing with dangerous situations. She had no business being at the hospital. The State Department should have taken care of the arrangements for getting her sister’s body back to Chicago.

That image of her standing there beside her dead sister was going to haunt him. He felt guilty for having noticed how pretty she was. He didn’t know what it was, but there was some indefinable quality about Lauren Cooper that had caught his attention.

Heath forced himself to keep moving. The woman wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t his responsibility. She couldn’t help him because she didn’t know what had happened to her sister. He was here looking for a murderer.

The man who had killed Janet.

As the pain and loss took him, Heath closed his eyes and tried to push it away. He had work to do, and he’d taken a leave of absence from the P.D. to get it done, to clear the ghosts from his head.

And he knew who his target was. Finally, in the picture of Megan Taylor, he had another link in the chain he intended to hang around Gibson’s neck before he dropped the man into the ocean.

Let’s see him magic his way out of that.

A trio of young nurses came down the stairs. They chattered in English and a smattering of other languages Heath couldn’t identify. And they laughed as they talked about the party they’d gone to last night. He gave way before them and pulled to one side of the narrow stairwell. He nodded a silent greeting.

Then someone’s hand dropped onto his elbow and yanked him around. He almost slipped on the narrow stairs, but his left arm came around, hand turning and curling over his assailant’s wrist. The move broke the grip at once.

His right hand curled into a fist at his side, and his weight shifted on his knees as he prepared to throw a punch. The response was automatic, drummed into him from years spent on Peachtree and other violent streets in Atlanta while he learned his tradecraft in law enforcement. Mostly, he’d learned how to stay alive. And truth to tell, some of that willingness to hit came out of his Waycross, Georgia, roots, as well.

The identity of the person who had grabbed him surprised him.

Lauren Cooper no longer looked vulnerable and confused. Her dark eyes blazed with fury. Her black hair was cut close and followed the shape of her head down to her jawline and stopped just short of touching her shoulders. He remembered the style was called a bob, something he’d had to learn while taking witness statements.

She was beautiful. He’d noticed that when he’d talked to her in the morgue. Her sleeveless navy blue dress hugged every curve. Tiny silver hoops glinted at her ears, and a small silver cat pendant hung on the slope of just a hint of cleavage. Her mouth was generous, full-lipped, and her chin was strong and fierce. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but there was a small spatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She wore short, black leather boots with buckles, and she looked as if she wanted to plant one of those boots where it would hurt.

As soon as that thought struck him, Heath turned sideways just a little, enough to hopefully allow him to block anything she might throw at him. He held up his hands in surrender. In his rumpled suit, one of the charcoal pinstriped numbers he wore on the job, he felt overdressed for the coming fight, but it had been enough to get him through the morgue staff.

“Who do you think you are?” Lauren reached out and grabbed him with both hands.

Pain ripped through Heath as he realized she’d grabbed shirt and chest hair, and he was pretty sure that was what she’d intended to do. “Hey, take it easy.”

“Don’t you tell me to take it easy. You just lied to me back there. Do you get off on doing that?”

Heath grabbed her wrists and tried to disengage her. “Look, I’m sorry. You don’t know what’s going on here.”

“No. And you’re going to tell me.” Lauren set herself and shook him. It wasn’t hard to do. On the stairs he was off-balance, and there was the added problem of him not wanting to hurt her.

Heath scrambled to keep his balance, but one foot slid off the step, and he had to shift quickly to stop himself from falling. The woman was prepared for that. As soon as he moved, she yanked again, pulling him into her and backing into the stairwell railing. He knew her next move was to set herself again, twist and shove him down the steps. It was what he would have done. If he’d allowed himself to get in so close to a perp.

So he did the only thing he could do under the circumstances: he let go of her wrists and wrapped his arms around her, holding on tight. Her muscular body tensed against him, and he was surprised at her strength. She was five feet eight inches tall without the boots, and the low heels pushed her up another couple inches. She smelled sweet, a hint of vanilla and something else, some kind of berry. He was pretty sure of that, but his senses were swimming.

“Hey. Hey. Hold on.”

“No.” She pushed against him, but he held on tightly. She tried to knee him, but he turned the blow aside with his thigh.

He put on his cop voice. “Miss Cooper, you need to calm down.”

“I am calm.” She pushed against him, harder. Her short-cropped hair flicked in his face as she struggled. An inarticulate scream ripped from her throat. Then she lifted her boot and drove the heel down his shin and into the top of his foot.

Pain burned the length of Heath’s shin, but he held on to her, afraid that she was going to fall down the staircase and get hurt.

Two heavyset orderlies in hospital scrubs raced down the hallway. The woman at the desk urged them on, speaking in French or Chinese for all Heath knew. He was pretty sure it wasn’t Spanish. He knew Spanish and Spanglish from the streets.

One of the orderlies grabbed Heath by the shoulders. “Let go of the woman, mon. Let her go now or I’m gonna mess you up.”

The other man grabbed Lauren Cooper and pulled her back.

Heath released the woman, then shifted his arm under the arm of the man holding him and forced the man’s grip over his head. The guy scrambled and tried for a new hold, but Heath spun around behind him, caught the guy’s hand, and twisted it into an armlock behind the man’s back. He held the orderly between him and Lauren like a shield. Pain drove the man up onto his toes.

“Okay.” Heath made himself breathe normally. “We’re all just going to take a step back. Take a minute. Think this through a little. Before somebody gets hurt.” The man he held on to tried to break free. Heath moved the arm up just enough to let his captive know he could break it if he had to.

The other orderly hesitated, standing there looking uneasy.

Lauren wrapped her arms around herself and glared at him. She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “What were you trying to do in there? Why were you asking me all those questions? How could you do that to me?”

“Miss Cooper, those are all very good questions, and I respectfully decline to answer them. In a few more minutes, members of the Jamaica Constabulary Force are going to be here, and I don’t feel like talking to them. It would be better if we could just agree that our meeting—timing and all—was a mistake.”

“A mistake? I’m the only one who didn’t know what was going on in there.”

“Yes, and for that I’m truly sorry. I wish I could have made that easier, but I couldn’t.” Heath tried to think of something to add, but Hallmark didn’t make a card for what he’d done to her. And trying to explain why he’d done what he’d done was just too involved. She didn’t need to think about what he knew.

Besides, she needed to pick up her sister and get back home. She’d be safe there.

At least, Heath hoped she’d be safe. Gibson was still out there prowling, and the man was a predator. Heath was the only one who was convinced of that. Given the man’s resources, he could disappear and strike anywhere he wanted to, then disappear again.

Losing Janet was proof of that.

Heath leaned close to his captive’s ear and spoke softly. “I’m going to let you go now, partner. You just make sure that woman doesn’t come after me. And if you come after me, I’m going to hurt you. Understand?”

Reluctantly, the man nodded.

“Good.” Heath released the orderly and backed away. Three steps later, when there was no pursuit, Heath turned and fled up the stairs. The woman didn’t come after him, and he was a little surprised at that. She didn’t seem like the type to give up.

Back at the fleabag hotel where he was staying, Heath took the hotel key card from his shirt pocket and swiped it through the reader. The lock made a thunk and the light cycled green. He put his hand on the doorknob and drew the snub-nosed .357 Magnum from a holster at his back. He’d bought the revolver off an eleven-year-old boy shortly after he’d hit Kingston four days ago. Guns were easy to get. It was answers that were hard.

For a moment, he just held on to the door handle and listened. Nothing moved inside the room. That didn’t mean anything. Neither did the electronic lock. The hotel wasn’t a security showcase. That was one of the reasons he’d checked in after he’d found it.

Cautiously, he pushed the door inward and followed it inside the room. The hinges squeaked just a little, but he liked that. Besides the thunk of the lock, he also had the squeak as an early warning system.

A quick sweep of the room revealed that no one was waiting for him. The hair trapped between the second drawer down and the frame of the chest of drawers told him no one had searched the room.

He locked the door behind him, holstered the pistol, and got down to business. He took off his jacket and threw it on the unmade bed. If maid service was available in the hotel on a daily basis, the sign on the door would keep them out. Maybe. He didn’t like leaving anything to chance.

His shin still ached from where Lauren Cooper had scraped him with her boot heel. He cursed softly at the discomfort, but he didn’t hold the action against her. He’d deserved everything he’d gotten and probably more.

In the bathroom, he raised his pant leg and surveyed the long, bruised and bloody scrape down his leg. Lauren hadn’t been messing around. She’d known exactly what she was doing. Good for her.

He returned to his unpacked suitcases and took out a small medical kit. Methodically, he cared for the scrape. On the island, with all the heat and the potential for disease in some of the areas he was traveling in, there was a good chance of infection.

He returned the medical kit to his suitcase and took out a small wireless printer. After plugging the unit in to the wall, he took out his phone and brought up the images of Lauren Cooper he’d taken while she’d been grieving over her dead sister.

At the time he’d taken the pictures, he’d felt like a heel. Now, looking at the woman’s grief-stricken face, he felt even worse. As a police detective, he’d seen more than his share of devastated people, physically and emotionally. He’d been told that in his job as a homicide investigator, he was always meeting people on the worst day of their lives.

Heath sent the pictures over to the printer and took them as soon as they’d come through the unit. The Lauren Cooper he saw in these shots didn’t mesh with the wildcat who had met him full-on there on the stairs. He tried to think of how many women he knew who would have tried something like that. There weren’t many.

Janet would have. She’d fought her killer. But in the end it hadn’t done her any good. He’d killed her just the same. In fact, Gibson had probably enjoyed the struggle.

Realizing the black anger was about to consume him again, Heath pushed it away. He couldn’t let that happen. The anger was raw and vicious, worse than any drug an addict could crave. When the anger was in bloom within him, there wasn’t room for anything more.

He’d learned that as a kid at Fort Benning, Georgia. His father had been a drill instructor for the army, stationed at the post. Heath had had to take a lot of grief as a teenager, and he hadn’t always chosen wisely. For him, the world was black-and-white. That view of things had led him into the military and into the police department later. He loved being a detective, balancing the scales a little every time he broke a case. He’d learned to put away the anger, but since Janet’s death, it was back with a vengeance.

He went to the small closet and reached up for the ceiling. Gently, he pushed and popped out the section he’d cut the first night he’d stayed in the room. In the darkness that filled the closet, the cut he’d made couldn’t be seen.

Reaching up, he took down the roll of canvas he’d bought from an art store on his way to the hotel. Walking over to the wall near the small desk, he unrolled the canvas and tacked it to the irregular surface. The canvas was three feet wide and eight feet long. The dimensions weren’t those of the whiteboard he generally used in the detective bullpen, but the canvas gave him plenty of room to work.

Photographs from crime scenes and printouts from reports were secured to the canvas with double-stick tape. The seven women stared out at him from their pictures. All of those shots were from before Gibson had finished with them. All of them had a photo of a black card with an embossed white rabbit on them. They’d been sent to the various police departments within days of the discovery of the murders.

Below them were crime scene photographs. Some of them were bloody. Sometimes, and the profilers attached to the murders didn’t know why, the killer liked to cut his victims. Other times, like with Megan Taylor, he just killed them.

Muriel Evans, the weather girl in Newark, New Jersey, had been shot through the head.

Tina Farrell, the masseuse in Los Angeles, had had her neck broken in a manner that suggested Special Forces training.

The Taylor woman had been the first to get strangled.

The White Rabbit Killer didn’t seem like a disorganized killer. He was too methodical, too good at what he did. But an organized killer often used the same weapon. Like the knife.

Janet had been tied up and thrown into a hotel room shower, then had a naked electrical cord dropped in after her. Her death hadn’t been easy. Heath still smelled her burned flesh in his nightmares.

So far, the White Rabbit Killer hadn’t killed the same kind of victim or in the same city. Not even in the same state. The serial killer was a traveler, but he took some kind of pride or satisfaction in his kills because he always left a calling card behind: a black card embossed with a white rabbit.

At first, no one in the media or in the homicide squads that were investigating the murders knew what the white rabbit meant. Janet had been the first detective to match the white rabbit to the magician Gibson. She’d been the one who’d discovered Gibson had been in all of the cities of the victims during the time they were killed.

But there was no evidence linking Gibson to the murders. And now, even with Janet among the victims, there was still no evidence.

The killer’s pace was picking up, though. Only two weeks had passed since he’d killed Janet. His timetable was picking up speed. Either he was growing more confident, or whatever he got from murdering women wasn’t lasting as long as it had.

Heath took the pistol out and placed it on the desk. He reached into the small refrigerator near the desk and took out a beer. The air-conditioning in the room was weak and he was already sweating.

In the center of the canvas, Gibson stared out with those malevolent eyes and that mocking smile.

Heath sipped his beer and considered his next move. Gibson was on the island. He stayed locked away somewhere up in the hills. No one Heath had met knew for certain where, and the local police force wasn’t being overly helpful in finding the man. They had no reason to interfere with the man’s privacy. Or maybe they didn’t know.

Gibson wasn’t wanted in Jamaica, and he wasn’t wanted by anyone in the United States, either. At least, not yet.

Heath’s cell phone buzzed for attention. He took it from his pocket and glared at it. The unit was a throwaway he’d gotten in Atlanta before leaving the city and didn’t have caller ID, but he knew who it was. Only one person had the number.

Cursing, Heath took the call. “Yeah.”

“How’s it going down there?” Jackson Portman sounded totally relaxed, but then he always did. An ex-football player and African-American, Jackson’s build and don’t-cross-me demeanor made him look more like a movie heavy than a homicide detective.

“It’s too hot.”

“Can’t be no hotter than ‘Lanta.”

“Did you call for a reason? Or are we just gonna talk about the weather?”

“You busting any heads yet?”

“No. Why?”

“Got a call about you.”

“From the locals?”

“Nope. I already talked to them. Inspector Myton don’t look like he’s gonna be a fan of your work anytime soon. Said you had no business bein’ up in their business.”

“I’ve heard Myton talk. He doesn’t sound like that.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m paraphrasing.”

Heath took another sip of his beer. “If it wasn’t Myton that called, who was it?”

“A woman. When I first heard her voice a little while ago, I was hopin’ maybe you met somebody.”

“Overnight?”

“I ever tell you how I met my first missus?”

“Too many times.” Heath sat up straighter and looked at Lauren Cooper’s picture. “Let me guess who the woman was.”

“Sure.”

“Lauren Cooper.”

“Shocks me how you know that, bro. I mean, you should be a detective.”

“I’m working on it. Myton must have told her about me.” Heath took another sip of beer. Or the coroner told her. He hadn’t cared for Heath, either.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“She knows too much about you. Stuff Myton wouldn’t know.”

Heath stared at the pretty woman in the picture. He’d missed something about her. “Like what?”

“Where you lived. About your sister and her kids. About your gym membership. About me. A lot more than I know about you, actually. That’s why I thought maybe you’d hooked up with someone down there and just didn’t tell me. Then I realized it was you I was talking about, and I thought maybe I’d call you, check that out. Now you sound like you ain’t any too happy to hear from her.”

For a second, Heath felt a faint tickle of fear. His sister and his two nephews lived not far from him in Atlanta. He’d been helping out with them when he could since her husband had left her. “I’m not.”

Jackson waited a beat. “You want to tell me how Lauren Cooper knows so much about you? Especially if you ain’t all chummy and everything?”

There was a knock at the door.

“I’ll call you back.” Heath picked up the .357 and got up. He walked to the door and avoided the peephole. Quietly, he slid the cell phone into his shirt pocket, then dropped a hand onto the door handle and popped it open just enough to see out into the hallway.

Lauren Cooper stood there with her arms folded. “We need to talk, Detective Sawyer. Now.”