All Fall Down (20 page)

A
shley liked visiting Dilworth Square on Saturday nights. The trendy shopping area catered to an upscale clientele and consisted of unique boutiques, several bistro-style restaurants and an outdoor café. Because the shops stayed open until 10:00 p.m. on Saturdays, there was always a nice crowd for Ashley to blend in with, conversations to eavesdrop on, people to chat with while waiting in line to pay for a purchase.

Being alone in a crowd wasn't nearly so lonely as the alternative.

Ashley slipped by a couple strolling arm in arm, averting her gaze. Lately, the quiet had been pressing in on her. Nights were the worst. More often than not these days, she awakened in the midnight hours, drenched in sweat, choking on it. On the darkness and the emptiness inside her.

Then the memories would come. And she would be lost.

She needed her sisters, Ashley knew. Their arms. Their unconditional love and understanding. She needed them to make everything okay for her. But they couldn't.

They didn't understand.

Because they didn't know. She hadn't told them.

They weren't there for her, only for each other.
Ashley closed her eyes briefly, denying the thought. She told herself her sisters loved her, that she was as important in their lives as they were in hers. She hadn't seen them much lately because they'd been busy—Melanie with her case, Mia with her marital problems.

She was kidding herself. Something had come between them. Someone.

Veronica Ford.

As if Ashley's thoughts had conjured the woman, she appeared up ahead, emerging from the Godiva Chocolate store. She was smiling, obviously in high spirits. She carried one of the store's small gold shopping bags, swinging it as she walked.
Not a care in the world.

Hatred rose inside Ashley. In the past few weeks, every time she had driven by Mia's house, the other woman's car had been there. Of late, the only times she and her sisters had gotten together, Veronica had been included.

As if she was one of them.

The hatred swelled. She wasn't one of them, dammit. They were three. Only three, not four.

Ashley caught the curious stares of people she passed and realized she had been muttering to herself. Embarrassed, she brought a hand to her forehead. And discovered that even though the night was mild, she was sweating.

Dear God, what was happening to her?

She was falling apart.

Ashley shook her head in denial. No. She wasn't
falling apart. Veronica Ford was turning her sisters against her. She was trying to steal them from her.

It wasn't fair. Not after all she had done to protect them. Not after the way she had suffered. The way she continued to suffer.

Up ahead Veronica ducked into another shop. A lingerie store. Ashley followed, stopping outside the store's display window. She peered through, watching as the attorney browsed the racks, holding up this and that—a teddy, a gown, a bra-and-panty set. While she shopped, she conversed with the salesgirl, laughing and smiling.

Veronica carried a simple, champagne-colored chemise to the counter. While she paid for it, Ashley moved away from the window, blending in with a group admiring the work of one of the sidewalk artists.

When Veronica emerged from the lingerie store, Ashley followed her, staying far enough behind as to not arouse her suspicions, but close enough never to lose sight of her. Several times the lawyer glanced back, as if searching for someone, but her gaze never landed on Ashley. Only when she entered a store did Ashley close in, peering at her through the shop window.

Veronica visited a perfumer, a bookstore and a shoe shop. Everywhere she went, she purchased something. She spent carelessly, Ashley saw, as only those with unlimited funds did. She didn't look at price tags or hesitate when she found an item she liked—she simply handed the shopkeeper her credit card.

Veronica emerged again, and again Ashley fell in step behind her. Only this time Veronica turned down
the tree-lined alley that wrapped around the back of the square.

Ashley hesitated a moment, then stepped up her pace, not wanting to lose sight of her. She reached the alleyway entrance. The alley was brick, one side lined by the back of the shops and their delivery entrances, the other with ornamental trees laced in tiny white lights.

The alley was empty.

Where had she gone?

Ashley frowned and started forward. Her footsteps made a soft slap against the brick; laughter and the hum of conversations from the business side of the square floated on the night air, sounding far away, almost ghostly. Gooseflesh raced up her arms and Ashley shuddered.

“Are you looking for me?”

Ashley gasped and swung around. Veronica stood ten feet behind her, hands on hips, all but bristling with anger. She must have realized she was being followed and set a trap by hiding in one of the recessed doorways.

“Veronica!” Ashley said, feigning surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Obviously, she wasn't fooled. “Why are you following me?”

“Following you?” Ashley repeated, cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Why would I waste my time that way?”

“That's what I'd like to know.” The other woman cocked her head, studying her. “You don't like me very much, do you?”

Ashley looked her straight in the eyes. “I don't like you at all.”

“But why?” She tipped her hands palms up. “What have I ever done to you, Ashley? What, except try to be your friend?”

“Maybe I don't want you as a friend. Maybe I think you're bad news.”

As she said the words, Ashley realized they were true. She didn't know why, but she found something about the woman distasteful. Snakelike. Sneaky.

Veronica snorted her disbelief. “
I'm
bad news?” She touched her chest. “Me?”

“That's what I said.” She hiked up her chin. “And I'm going to prove it.”

Veronica shook her head, her expression pitying. “You need some serious help, Ashley.” She crossed to the doorway to her immediate left, collected her bags, then looked back at Ashley. “And I really hope you get it before you hurt the people who love you more than you already have.”

She turned and started down the alley. Ashley watched her go, chest aching with unshed tears. The words had cut her to the quick. “What do you know about the people who love me?” she called out, voice shaking. “What do you know about me?”

Veronica didn't stop, she didn't look back. Ashley started after her, impotent rage clawing at her. “I want you out of my life! Out of my sisters' lives! Do you hear me, Veronica Ford! Just go away!”

The other woman stopped. She turned and put her bags on the ground. Her expression had changed, become harder, colder. “That's what this is all about,
isn't it? Your sisters. You're jealous of my friendship with them.”

She was jealous, Ashley acknowledged silently, but her feelings for Veronica went deeper than jealousy. They came from a place inside her she couldn't name but trusted completely.

“Go back to Charleston and leave us alone. I don't want you here.
We
don't want you here.”

Veronica shook her head, expression pitying. “I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for Mia and Melanie because they love you so much.”

“Stop talking about them.” The words came out choked. “This is about you.”

“No, it's about you. You can't stand that they like me. You're jealous of the time they spend with me. Why don't you just admit it, it might make you feel better.”

“Stop it!” Ashley fisted her fingers, feeling as if a weight was pressing against her chest, crushing her. “Sh…shut up!”

“The fact is, you're afraid they like me better than they like you. I'm sorry if that hurts you, but that's the way you feel. And you know what, you're probably right. They do.”

Tears flooded her eyes; so many that her vision swam. “They're my sisters!
Mine!
And I want you to stay away from them.”

“Sorry, Ashley, but that just isn't going to be possible.”

The lawyer collected her bags, turned and walked away. Ashley watched her go, acknowledging that she hated Veronica Ford with every fiber of her being.

C
onnor pulled his Explorer to a stop in front of Melanie's house, but didn't cut the engine. He gazed at the modest, cottage-style dwelling, noting that it looked well maintained—the paint fresh, the lawn recently mown, the flower beds tended. A toddler swing hung from the big maple tree beside the driveway and a bike with training wheels sat half in, half out of the open garage. Melanie's Jeep was parked inside.

Connor tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, uncertain of his next move.

Stay? Or go?

He glanced at the seat beside him, at the bulging manila envelope. The reason for his visit.

The trumped-up reason.

He grimaced. The truth was, it wasn't imperative that he see her now, at home. Everything he wanted to discuss could wait or be handled via fax and phone. But the Dark Angel investigation wasn't why he had stopped by the Whistlestop PD this morning. It wasn't what had caused him to leave that same PD feeling frustrated, or what had motivated him to drive the dozen blocks to her house after he had learned she was home today with a sick child.

No, the feelings that had propelled him to her front door were anything but professional.

He and Melanie had been working together over a month now. He had found her to be a thorough cop and thoroughly professional. He liked the way her mind worked, the way she approached a problem methodically but with the kind of creativity found in only the best detectives. She was impatient, but never let her impatience cause her to become sloppy. She was hot-tempered but kind, direct, moral to a fault and funny when drawn out.

And too damn attractive for his peace of mind.

Connor pushed the thought away, though it was true, and glanced toward her house. His gaze landed on the red, white and blue flag-bedecked wreath on her front door and he smiled. Not only had the fourth of July come and gone, September loomed right around the corner. He wondered if she'd simply been so busy she had lost track of time or if her son had asked her to leave it up.

His smile became rueful. One of the many things he wondered about when it came to Melanie May and her life. For, with all that he had learned about her, she was still a mystery to him. He knew she was divorced, fiercely devoted to her child and had ambitions beyond being a Whistlestop cop.

But he wanted to know more about her than just her stats.

And he hadn't felt that way about anyone in a long time.

Reason enough to go.
He reached for the shift, to drop the car back into Drive, but he found the key and
cut the engine instead. Grabbing the envelope off the seat beside him, he swung out of the vehicle and started up the front walk, not giving himself a chance to change his mind.

Before he could ring the bell, she opened the door. Though it was after 10:00 a.m. she looked as if she had only recently showered and dressed—she wore ancient-looking jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her hair was damp, her feet bare. She looked more like a college coed than a police officer and divorced mother of a four-year-old.

“Connor,” she said softly, obviously surprised. “What brings you here?”

“Hi.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling like a gangly teenager instead of a thirty-eight-year-old man. “Bobby told me I'd find you here. I hope my stopping by isn't a problem?”

“Of course not. Casey's sleeping.” She smiled. “What's up?”

He could look a suspect dead in the eyes and lie his ass off, but not Melanie. That became immediately obvious to him. He shifted his gaze slightly and cleared his throat. “We received a couple faxes this morning, one from Asheville's PD, the other from Columbia's. Both possible Dark Angel victims. I thought I'd run them by you.”

“Great.” She stepped back to allow him to enter, but held a finger to her lips, expression sheepish. “We'll need to keep our voices low. Casey's a light sleeper.” She motioned forward, then indicated he follow her.

When they reached her small, sunny kitchen, she
closed the door behind them. “Have a seat. I'll make some coffee.”

“That's not necessary.” He took one of the tall stools at the breakfast counter, depositing the envelope in front of him. “I don't want you to go to any trouble on my account.”

“No trouble, trust me. We had a rough night and I've only had one cup of leftover so far this morning.” She made a face. “And I hate reheated coffee.”

“Coffee'd be good. Thanks.”

She emptied what was left of the previous day's pot in the sink, then filled the carafe with fresh water. “Bobby's kids could sleep through an explosion, but not my Casey. Of course, when he was a baby, I tiptoed around because I thought I was supposed to, I thought he would sleep better. Now I know all I was doing was training him to need absolute quiet to sleep.” She shrugged. “First-time moms, we do our best.”

Connor rested his chin on his fist, watching her easy movements. “How is Casey? Bobby said he was ill.”

“Ear infection.” She flipped on the coffeemaker. “He's been plagued with them since he was a baby. I thought he'd outgrown them, but…”

She didn't finish the thought, but didn't have to. Connor got it. She bent her face toward the coffeepot, breathing in the scent of the brewing coffee. He found something about the movement sexy in a natural, earthy sort of way. The truth was, he found everything about her sexy in the same sort of way.

“So, what do you have for me?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“The possible vics.”

“Oh…yeah.” He opened the envelope and pulled out the faxes. They were one-page summaries of a couple of dead-end investigations. “As I said, the two PDs forwarded these. Both these deaths were thought suspicious, but the detectives never found anything concrete they could hang a homicide investigation on. Though they don't really fit our Angel's M.O., both men had a history of spousal abuse. I wanted to get your opinion.”

The coffeemaker sputtered its final measure of water through the filter and Melanie poured two mugs of the brew. After asking him if he needed cream and sugar she slid one of the mugs across the counter to him. “Tell me about them,” she said.

“First guy was a motorcycle enthusiast. He was forced off a mountain road and plummeted to his death. No witnesses.”

“How do they know he was forced off?”

“Tire marks. Damage on the remains of the bike.”

“Pretty risky move. Awfully public. Also, sounds like a cut-and-dried homicide.”

“Not necessarily. Those mountain roads are narrow, someone may have been trying to pass and got into trouble. It was raining and slippery.” Melanie came around the counter to get a look at the report. She bent over his shoulder. As she did, her hair brushed against his cheek—it felt silky and smelled of the fruity shampoo she'd used. It took all his concentration to focus on what he was saying when what he wanted to do was reach up and capture the strands between his fingers.

“And the second?”

Connor dragged his attention back to the report in front of him. “This guy was a hunter. Spent almost every weekend during deer season at his camp, sometimes alone, sometimes with buddies. Killed in a so-called ‘hunting accident.' Thing is, this was no stray bullet or misaimed shot that got him. He was nailed in the chest at close range. A couple of hunters stumbled onto him. He was already dead.”

“No witnesses?”

“None. This particular weekend, all his buddies begged off.”

“That would have left him alone and vulnerable, just the way our Angel likes 'em.”

“Exactly, though neither accident clearly fits our Angel's pattern. Both deaths employed a more direct killing method and were riskier in terms of potential discovery. In addition, neither man was made vulnerable by his own frailty so much as by his hobby. But,” he finished, “the guys were both batterers. And they're both dead as the result of inexplicable accidents.”

She was quiet. Connor could almost hear her thinking, putting the facts together. “These could belong to the Angel,” Melanie murmured. “In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they did.”

“Why?” he asked, tipping his face to hers. He realized his mistake immediately. The movement put her mouth within inches of his. He swallowed hard and forced his gaze to remain on hers when every fiber of his being screamed for him to look at her mouth instead. Her full, sexy, inviting mouth.

“Think about it, Connor. Sometimes she has to take risks.” Melanie pulled a stool closer to his and sat down. “She hand-picks her victim. She studies him. She learns his likes, dislikes, habits. She uncovers his weaknesses.”

“The things that make him vulnerable,” Connor supplied. “A heart condition. A drinking problem. A severe food allergy.”

“Right.” Melanie tucked her hair behind her ear; some of the silky strands feathered back across her cheek. Connor followed the movement with his gaze, then cursed his weakness.

She, however, continued as if she hadn't noticed his gaze. As if being near him was no more sexually disconcerting than being near her brother or father. “But what if he has no weakness for her to exploit?” she asked. “What does she do?”

“She either moves on to a new victim or takes her chances.”

“If she decides to take her chances, she's got to find another way at him.” Excited, Melanie jumped to her feet and went to a small desk tucked into the corner of the kitchen. She took a file folder off the top and carried it back to the counter. She opened it and took out the sheaf of papers she had tucked inside. On the top of each sheet was a man's name, below that how and where he had died, and her personal observations about each death.

She laid them one by one on the counter in front of him, making two rows, adding the new victims. She pointed. “These aren't so different, Connor. She finds a way in, a place in their life where they're vulnerable.
Everybody's got that place. She finds it and uses it.” Melanie met his eyes. “She doesn't move on. She's got too much invested in these guys, she can't.”

“Serials do move on,” Connor murmured, playing devil's advocate. “If they feel they're at risk.”

“But she's different,” Melanie said, insistent. “If we're right, she invests a lot emotionally in these guys. She—”

“No,” he corrected. “Not the guys. The women they hurt.”

The words landed between them like a bomb.
That was it. The women were the connection.

The Dark Angel didn't kill to correct some global wrong, she didn't kill for personal revenge or to punish the individual victim. Instead, she was helping a woman in trouble.

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Connor got to his feet. It was so clear now. So simple. “The women are the connection, not the men.” He looked at Melanie. “She befriends the women
after
she learns about their situations.”

“But how?” Melanie asked, as excited as Connor. “Where does she meet them?”

“Places women go. The hairdresser's. The grocery store.”

“Hold on.” Melanie grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from the desk, returned to the counter and jotted those down, then lifted her gaze expectantly to his. “Women's groups. PTA meetings.”

They brainstormed some more. Between the two of them they came up with a list of twenty spots, every
thing from Laundromats to lunch places, kids' play groups to the gym.

“We need to interview the victims' wives and girlfriends again. Learn the places they go, the names of their friends.”

“If we get lucky, a couple of the women will frequent the same place or places. Or a woman's name will appear a couple of times.”

“More than a couple.” Melanie brought her hands together and laughed. “A breakthrough, Connor. Hot damn, this is fun.”

Connor found her laugh irresistible—the throaty sound of it, the way her eyes lit up with amusement, the way she tilted her head back as the sound bubbled past her lips. It was nice. He told her so.

“Gee-whiz, Parks,” she joked, “a nice laugh? Thanks. Nobody's ever said that to me before.”

“They should have. Because it is. Really nice.”

As if suddenly realizing he wasn't teasing her, she stood. “How about a warm-up?”

He followed her to her feet. “I've made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be silly.” Her smile looked forced. “It's not like you came on to me. Or made some totally inappropriate move. It was a nice thing to say.”

“Nice?”

Instead of laughing, she swallowed hard, audibly. Their eyes met. He took a step toward her. “What would you say if I did do something totally…inappropriate?”

She looked away, then back, the expression in her
gaze naked with longing. He wondered if she saw the same longing in his.

“I guess that would depend.”

“Would it?” He moved closer, heart thundering. “On what, Melanie?”

She lifted her face to his. She wet her lips. “On just what inappropriate thing you—”

The phone rang.

They both swung in its direction. After a moment's hesitation, Melanie grabbed for it like a lifeline. Connor swung away from her, disappointment spearing sharply through him. He breathed deeply through his nose, forcing aside thoughts of her mouth and body, the way both would have felt against his, the way she would taste.

What he had been contemplating would have been a mistake. He and Melanie had to work together; the last thing he needed in his already screwed-up life was the complication of an on-the-job romance. It was better this way.

Then why did he feel like killing whoever was on the other end of that call?

“An ear infection.”

At Melanie's brittle tone, Connor glanced over his shoulder at her. She stood ramrod straight, her back to him. It was obvious she was anything but pleased to hear from whoever had called.