Читать книгу It Started That Night - Virna DePaul - Страница 9

It was barely past dawn when John strode up to the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Satellite Office. Despite the prominent flagpole with the state and national flags in front, the squat tan building looked like a strip-mall dental office. Still, he loved working here, only about an hour north from where he’d grown up. The South Lake Tahoe scenery was idyllic—lush green trees, sparkling water, and snow-capped mountains. The pace was slow. The people relatively peaceful. It was a constant challenge that so many acted immune to the dangers of larger cities.

The murder of local girl Sandy LaMonte and the others before her proved they weren’t.

Going through the police reports in Tina Cantrell’s case hadn’t weakened his belief in Hardesty’s guilt. As Thorn kept telling him, the evidence against Hardesty was solid. But John also couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something having to do with Lily’s hostility yesterday—even as understandable as it was—as well as her father’s subsequent refusal to talk to him.

He hesitated before entering his office and thought about Lily. It didn’t take long before his erection strained against the fly of his pants. John took a shaky breath.

It had been the same reaction he’d had yesterday. It was like he was twenty years old again and he couldn’t keep his body from wanting her no matter how unwise the response. Back then, he’d pushed her away when she’d come to him. And now? Now he expected her and her family to … what? Forgive him? Understand? Cooperate?

He snorted. Right. What a mess.

With a sigh, he finally went inside. He greeted the receptionist and then went into the back office that he shared with the office’s three deputies.

“Hi, John.” Deputy Tom Murdoch appeared in the doorway just as John sat down behind his desk.

He motioned Murdoch inside. “Hey. Anything helpful from LaMonte’s parents?”

Murdock shook his head. “She had a habit of hitchhiking from their home in Incline Village. Who knows where he picked her up. Here are their statements.”

John took the folder and opened it. Yesterday, sitting in his car outside Lily’s house, he’d studied a close-up photo of LaMonte’s face. This photo focused on her stab wounds. On film, LaMonte’s injuries seemed even more severe than they had in person at the crime scene, which was the opposite of what one would expect. But without her face as a distraction, without the nerves and adrenaline and compassion that had rattled through him at the crime scene, all John had to focus on were her torn flesh and blood.

The photos themselves seemed inhumane. Cold. As cold as the man who’d done this. He set the file aside. Hopefully, the guy had left plenty of evidence behind.

“What about the jacket we found?”

“Doesn’t look like it belonged to her, but it’s being tested along with the evidence collected from her body. The coroner found a credit card she’d tucked into her sweater pocket.”

John remembered the thin gold chain around LaMonte’s neck and the small earrings in her ears. Was it ethics or simply disinterest that had kept her killer from taking them and the credit card? He hadn’t taken anything from his other victims either, even though Diane Lopez had at least fifty bucks still on her and Shannon Petersen had half-carat diamonds in her ears.

“The coroner confirmed sexual assault,” Murdoch said. “Took a vaginal swab and other evidence from the body.”

“It’ll match the others.” John sighed. “So we’re back to square one. We’ve got his DNA, but no one to connect it to.”

“What about DNA evidence from the Tina Cantrell case?”

“Never done. Back then, it wasn’t required and Hardesty confessed so why waste the time or money.”

“Is having the evidence tested the next step?”

“For some reason, the defense hasn’t asked for it. And the prosecution’s position is it’s not needed, so Thorn’s certainly not going to.” In fact, Thorn had been adamant on that point. As he’d pointed out, “It’s costly, unwarranted, and could potentially just complicate things. If another person’s DNA is found on her body, it doesn’t prove Hardesty didn’t kill her. It just gives the defense another opportunity to delay the execution while they talk about a phantom suspect.”

But he’d left out one crucial fact, one he was smart enough to know. Another person’s DNA could show Hardesty hadn’t been working alone. He might have had an accomplice. An accomplice who was at this very moment on the loose—the man they’d dubbed The Razor. Soon, John was going to talk to Chris Hardesty about that possibility.

“Right now,” John continued, “Thorn just wants me to look over the evidence we already have and explore any possible holes. To appease the governor so the execution goes forward as planned.”

“And what if Hardesty’s telling the truth? What if The Razor really killed Tina Cantrell?”

John stared at Murdoch but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

If it turned out the same man killed Sandy LaMonte, the two other girls, and Tina Cantrell, then the media would have a field day. He could see the headlines now:

Innocent Death Row Inmate Barely Escapes With His Life.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” John said. “Listen, Murdoch. I appreciate you working the extra hours on this. As soon as we eliminate the theory that the same man killed Tina Cantrell and Sandy LaMonte, Hardesty’s claims of innocence are going to have zero credibility. But I trust you to keep focus on what’s important. No matter what happens with the Cantrell case, we still have to find the animal who’s killing these girls.”

“Sure,” Murdoch said, then hesitated. “How young do you think the next one’s going to be?”

Grimly, John opened the file and flipped through the photos until he found one depicting LaMonte’s face. He knew Murdoch was thinking of his own teenage girls. “I don’t know.” The Razor’s first victim had been twenty-five. His second, twenty. LaMonte, eighteen. Were their decreasing ages significant? Was Tina’s? She’d been forty when she’d been killed.

Murdoch paused on his way out. “Oh, the A.G. stopped by about ten minutes ago looking for you. Something about Tina’s daughter slapping a guy at the murder scene fifteen years ago. He wants to talk to you about it right away.”

John closed his eyes and raked his hand through his hair. “Great,” he drawled.

When he opened his eyes, Murdoch stared at him. “I take it this isn’t good news?”

John laughed humorously. “No. It isn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the guy she slapped.”

August 29

12:45 a.m.

Sacramento, CA

John’s little apartment was trashed. The smell of pizza and beer and other things made him dizzy, and all he wanted was for the last few stragglers to leave. Especially his ex-girlfriend, Stacy.

Tormented by the hurt look on Lily’s face before she’d run away from him, John nudged Stacy toward her roommate. “But I don’t wanna go, Johnny. I wanna shtay here with you.”

Patting her arm, he passed her into her roommate’s arms along with twenty bucks. “The cab’s waiting. Here’s enough for the fare and tip.”

“Hey! Where’s the party?”

Three men John vaguely recognized jogged up the walkway. Gritting his teeth, he blocked the doorway. “Sorry,” he said, although his tone telegraphed the opposite sentiment. “Party’s over.”

One of the men punched another in the chest. “I told you we shouldn’t have stopped.”

His friend rubbed his arm. “Like you didn’t want to know why there were cop cars swarming down the block!”

It was unsettling how fast John thought of Lily. He lunged and grabbed the guy’s shirt. “What are you talking about?” Eyes wide, the guy jerked his thumb in the direction of Lily’s street. “We—we saw some cop cars in front of a house. A murder, it sounded like. The neighbors said the Cantrells lived there.”

John released him with a shove and started running. He ran as if his life was in danger. He ran faster than he’d ever run in his life.

Heart pumping, John’s legs wobbled every time his feet hit concrete. He pushed himself to go faster, ignoring the terror stiffening his muscles and hitching his breath.

She’s fine. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. She’s fine.

But when he turned the corner to her street, he knew Lily wasn’t fine. Three police cars were parked haphazardly in front of the house. An ambulance. A white van imprinted with the word Coroner in large, block letters. Yellow tape bordered the front walk, keeping out the crowd that had gathered there.

Guilt flooded through him. If he hadn’t messed with her feelings, she wouldn’t have run off. Had he put her in danger? Had she been hurt because of him? John stumbled, moving forward, pushing through the crowd and shouting Lily’s name.

A uniformed cop grabbed at his arm, but he jerked away and dodged around him.

Relief washed over him when he saw her. She was sitting on the front stoop, her eyes dull and vacant, her body painfully frail under an oversize long-sleeved shirt and sweats. “Lily!”

She didn’t look up at his call, but the cop standing next to her did. He rushed forward and planted himself on the sidewalk, blocking John’s view of Lily.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “but you need to leave.”

John craned his neck and caught sight of Lily’s father standing just inside the doorway. Their eyes locked and John instinctively flinched. Fear. Grief. Anguish. There were no words to describe the other man’s torment. Blood stained the foyer’s white walls.

“Lily!” He tried to push past the cop standing in his way only to be shoved back.

“Knock it off, or I’m going to have to take you in.”

Mindless with worry, John tried to dodge to the left, grunting when the cop got him in a choke hold. “Lily,” he gasped, needing to know. “Is she hurt?”

The cop shook John’s head like a maraca. “She’s not hurt. But she’s in shock. Now ease up, man. You are going to back off. Do we understand each other?”

John’s panic subsided just a hair. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Slowly, the cop loosened his grip. “What’s your name?”

“My name is John Tyler. We’re—we’re friends.”

Before the cop could respond, an EMT jostled by them and guided Lily to her feet. He led her down the walkway toward the ambulance, passing within two feet of John.

Lily walked slowly, almost robotically. She stared straight ahead. Didn’t acknowledge him in any way.

All John could think about was her declaration of love and the way he’d thrown it back at her earlier that evening. “Lily,” he murmured.

She stopped.

John held his breath, waiting for her to speak. Scream. Cry. Anything.

Tentatively, he reached out and touched her face, surprised when the cop didn’t stop him.

“Lily. It’s John. Are you okay?”

He saw a flare of recognition in her eyes just before she reached out and slapped him. Staggering back, John felt someone grab his arm to steady him.

Grief flashed in Lily’s eyes. And then there was nothing.

The EMT walked her to the ambulance and helped her in. Her father quickly followed. John watched the ambulance drive away, then collapsed to his knees. In his peripheral vision, he once more saw blood. Then he threw up.

“John!”

John’s head snapped back at the sound of Murdoch’s raised voice.

“Dude, you can’t just drop a bomb like that and not explain. You were there when Tina Cantrell was killed? And her daughter slapped you? Why?”

It was the last thing John wanted to talk about—hell, he’d just mentally relived it and his heart was aching—but Murdoch was working the investigation, too, and he had a right to know.

“Lily, Tina Cantrell’s daughter, and my sister, Carmen, were best friends growing up. The night of the murder was my last night in town. My ex-girlfriend planned a going-away party for me so I canceled dinner plans I’d made with Lily and Carmen weeks before. It hurt Lily. A lot.”

“And she slugged you.”

Yes, but not because of the canceled dinner. Because she’d defied her mother to come to him and he’d pushed her away.

And because she had blamed him.

Some part of her had blamed him for her mother’s death, just like she blamed herself.

“Did Thorn know—”

“He knows my family and Lily’s family were neighbors. That our parents were friends. As to the fact Lily slapped me that night …” John shrugged. “It was in the police report, which Thorn has. But I never told him myself.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it wasn’t relevant.” He’d thought about it a lot. It was a gray issue, but not a true conflict. Lily, after all, wasn’t a suspect in the case. “Chris Hardesty has already been convicted for Tina’s murder. To the extent he’s challenging that conviction, it’s just a last-ditch effort to stop the execution. I’m only looking into the case to eliminate the notion that someone else killed Tina and is now killing these girls.”

“But what if Hardesty’s exonerated? What if the investigation begins to focus on Lily’s father? Or Lily herself?”

Laughing, John shook his head. “You can’t be serious. The father, maybe. Even though he was a cop, he and Tina were estranged, so he’s still a P.O.I. in my opinion. Lily? Ridiculous. If you saw her, you’d see what I mean. And even if some evidence turns up to implicate her, we weren’t lovers. She was a kid who had a crush on me. Thorn would handle questioning her, not me.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” But Murdoch, his disapproval self-evident, still didn’t leave.

Scowling, John growled, “You got something to say to me, Murdoch?”

“It just seems like you’re working really hard to justify working on this case.”

“Justify? I’ve been working The Razor murders for almost a year. I’m not letting him get away from me now.”

“I can take over—”

“Don’t piss me off, Murdoch. I have a job to do, and I’ll do it. I want this guy. I want him bad. And I’m gonna get him. There’s no evidence The Razor killed Tina. But if I find something indicating otherwise, I won’t ignore it.”

“You’re a good cop. I’m not saying otherwise. But—”

“Look, I’ve got to call Thorn. Keep me posted, okay?” He looked down at the file, deliberately dismissing the other man. After a second, Murdoch stiffly said, “Sure,” then left.

John looked at the phone and thought about calling Thorn, but he wanted to talk to Lily before he did. He also wanted to follow up with some witnesses. The cops who’d reported to the murder scene. And the man who’d been dating Lily’s mother fifteen years ago, the man Lily had often referred to as “the gym rat.” Park, he reminded himself.

The guy’s name had been Mason Park.

He wouldn’t want to mess up and call him “gym rat” to his face, even if Lily could appreciate it.

Remembering Murdoch’s concerns about a conflict, John snorted. There was no chance in hell Lily had anything to do with her mother’s death. Anyone who said otherwise was just plain stupid.