Close Enough to Kill (4 page)

“We just find the first available table,” Bernie said. “There is no hostess.” She surveyed the room, which had the look of an old diner, with one row of booths against the left side wall, a counter with six bar stools along the right wall and a dozen small tables situated in between. The waitresses wore jeans, white shirts and tennis shoes, and from the best he could tell, they ranged in age from eighteen to sixty.

Just making conversation, Jim said, “Something sure smells good.”

“It’s the Friday special. Beef roast.” Bernie lifted her hand and waved. “There they are, in the very back booth. Come on. If we don’t put in our order before one, we won’t get any peach cobbler. It goes fast.”

Jim followed her. In his peripheral vision he caught the inquisitive stares of the other patrons. He figured everybody knew who he was and they were wondering how he would measure up. When they approached the back booth, two men slid off the red vinyl seats and stood. He recognized Ron Hensley, and by process of elimination assumed the other man was the DA, Jerry Dale Simms. Auburn-haired and freckled, Simms grinned and held out his hand. He was taller than Hensley, about six-one, broad shouldered, hefty, with a wrestler’s bulky build.

After Bernie made introductions, Jerry Dale grabbed Jim’s hand and pumped it as he grinned and talked and slapped Jim on the back. Jim usually hated it when people fawned over him—over who he used to be—but he got nothing but good vibes from Jerry Dale and decided then and there that he liked the friendly good old boy.

“Sit down. Sit down,” Jerry Dale said as he slid back into the booth. “We’ve done ordered peach cobbler for four. Didn’t want to wait and risk not getting any.”

Ron slid in beside Jerry Dale as Bernie sat and scooted in across from the two men. By the time Jim sat down beside Bernie, their blond, mid-twenties waitress appeared, a cheerful smile on her face, and handed each the one-page, vinyl-laminated menu. Jim had barely glanced at the items listed before the waitress asked, “What’ll it be, folks?”

“Today’s special,” Jerry Dale replied.

“Same for me,” Ron said.

“Make that three,” Bernie told her.

Jim glanced up at the waitress, caught a glimpse of her name tag—Renee—and said, “I’ll go along with everyone else.”

“Four specials. And four peach cobblers. Everybody want sweet tea?” Renee looked right at Jim. He nodded. “You the new chief deputy?”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “I’m Jim Norton.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Renee Michaels.” She glanced over at Ron and grinned, then turned and sashayed off toward the kitchen, swaying her cute little tush.

Jim wondered what the momentary exchange between Renee and Ron was about, but he pretended not to have noticed. He could tell by the expression on the lieutenant’s face that the waitress had struck a nerve. His guess would be that at some time in the not-too-distant past the two had been lovers.

“Have you gotten moved in and settled into your new place?” Jerry Dale asked.

“Pretty much,” Jim said. “Not a lot to do in a furnished rental.”

“I guess not. Later on you might want to buy a house. If you do, just let me know. My Amy is a realtor and she’ll be up to date on all the best bargains.”

“Thanks, but I figure I’ll be renting for a good while. I don’t really need much more than a roof over my head.”

“No wife? No kids?” Ron Hensley asked, and Jim wondered if the guy really didn’t know any of the personal details of his life.

“An ex-wife who lives in Huntsville with my son. Kevin’s twelve, and to be perfectly honest, he’s the reason I’m here in Adams Landing. He’s why I took this job.”

“And a good reason it is, too,” Jerry Dale said. “I’d move to the moon if Amy ever left me and took our kids up there. How long you been divorced? Did she up and remarry and take your kid away?”

Jim shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to be rude, but at the same time preferring not to go too deeply into personal matters with people he’d just met.

“So how are J.D. and Anna Leigh?” Bernie Granger asked Jerry Dale. “I hear Anna Leigh made the junior high cheerleader squad. I’ll bet she’s one happy little girl.”

“Lord, yes.” Jerry Dale went off on a proud papa tangent, giving blow-by-blow details of how his thirteen-year-old daughter beat out six rivals to win a spot on the squad.

Jim figured Bernie had sensed his discomfort at discussing his ex-wife and son and had diplomatically steered the conversation away from the topic. He’d been in town less than twenty-four hours and he already owed his new boss. Gut instinct told him he was going to get along just fine with the sheriff, that in time they would probably become friends. And that would certainly be a first for him. He’d never been good friends with a woman unless he was screwing her. But there was always a first time for everything.

After lunch with fellow teacher and friend Shannon Tolliver, Thomasina Hardy returned to her classroom at the Adams County Junior College. She’d been teaching here since her graduation from Auburn University five years ago, having taken the job so she could move back home to Verona, a rural community about twenty-five minutes from downtown Adams Landing. She’d never had dreams of living in a big city, away from her family and childhood friends. Some people couldn’t understand why, at twenty-seven, she enjoyed living at home with her widowed mother and younger brother, with her two older siblings’ homes within earshot of the home place. The Hardy clan was close-knit—mother, four siblings, two in-laws, and three grandchildren. Thomasina hoped that someday she would marry a fine man and bring her own children into the clan. But for now, she liked her life just as it was.

But she didn’t love her life and hadn’t ever since she and Ron Hensley had broken up about six months ago. She’d gotten a little more involved in their relationship than he had and when she’d made the mistake of becoming possessive, he’d backed off so quickly it had made her head spin. Her heart had been broken and she’d gone into a mild depression for about two months; then she had looked around and realized there were a lot of other men out there—better men than Ron. One man in particular had caught her eye—Brandon Kelley, the art director here at the junior college. He wasn’t an Adams County native, wasn’t even an Alabama native, and had come to work at the junior college only last year. She didn’t know a great deal about him, only the basic facts. He was thirty-eight, divorced, no children, and had come to Alabama from North Carolina.

Once he started teaching at the junior college, enrollment in art classes doubled, and seventy-five percent of his students were female. But who could blame the students for drooling over the guy. He was simply to die for. Chocolate brown eyes, curly brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples and worn just a tad too long. He was handsome in a Greek god sort of way. Thomasina had to admit that she was as infatuated with Dr. Kelley as any of his young students.

After sitting down at her desk, Thomasina pulled out the right-side bottom drawer and placed her handbag inside, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had less than fifteen minutes to relax before the start of her first afternoon class and she had found that a quick, ten-minute power nap usually refreshed her and gave her the energy boost she needed to keep her going until the end of the day. But today, for some reason, she couldn’t seem to drift off into that semi-asleep state. Her mind kept whirling with thoughts—thoughts about Dr. Brandon Kelley. Her older sister, Amanda, had told her to ask the guy for a date, and she’d been trying to build up her courage to do just that. After all, what was the worst that could happen? He’d say no. And if he did? No big deal. She’d at least know where she stood with him and could move on to someone who was actually interested in her.

Thomasina opened her eyes, grumbled to herself and gave up on getting her daily afternoon power nap. As her gaze traveled over her desktop, she noticed a square white envelope lying in the middle of a textbook she’d put there before leaving for lunch. She stared at the envelope for half a minute, then picked it up and turned it over to the front. Her name—Thomasina—had been printed in bold letters in black ink. Her heart did a nervous rat-a-tat-tat.

The envelope had not been sealed, but the flap had been tucked neatly beneath the V-shaped back opening. She slid the flap up, and with forefinger and thumb eased the one-page note out of the envelope.

Thomasina took a deep breath, then unfolded the paper, which had been pressed in half, and read the brief message.

I worship you from afar, my beautiful Thomasina.

With her heart fluttering and her pulse racing, she gasped. It was a love letter, of sorts. A succinct message from an admirer. But who? One of her students? Possibly. After all, she was rather attractive and had dealt with male students making passes at her on several occasions.

She read the note again; the words were written in bold print and with black ink. But what student could have written something so utterly romantic? None she knew of. It was something a man would have written, not a boy. A worldly man, with the heart of a poet. Or an artist?

What if Brandon Kelley had written it? What if this was his way of wooing her?

Thomasina held the note to her breast and smiled.

After just one bite of the peach cobbler, Jim understood why Bernie and the others had raved about it. Without a doubt, it was the best he’d ever eaten—even better than his mother’s, and she’d been a great cook. If he ate many lunches like the one he’d eaten today, he’d either have to work out more or he’d wind up putting on ten pounds his first month in Adams County.

“Amy’s going to want to have you over for dinner one night,” Jerry Dale said. “She’ll be calling you. She’s a wonderful little cook.”

How did he get out of such a gracious invitation? “That’s awfully nice of—”

Jerry Dale laughed. “Nothing nice about it. That wife of mine is a matchmaker. She’ll probably invite one of her unmarried friends to dinner the same night. Just warning you ahead of time. And she won’t take no for an answer.”

Jim swallowed. “I don’t suppose there’s some courteous way to say no thanks, is there?”

“Not with my Amy. She’s a little velvet steamroller.”

“When Amy calls you, why don’t you suggest that you come for dinner one evening when your son is visiting,” Bernie said. “Tell Amy you’d like Kevin to meet some of the kids here in Adams Landing and he could start with Anna Leigh and J.D.”

Jim released a silent sigh. Once again, his boss had come to his rescue. Was that just her nature? he wondered. Was she the caretaker type who was always looking out for others?

Suddenly Ron Hensley’s cell phone rang—a distinct, loud ring, no catchy tune. He eased the phone from the belt clip, hit the
ON
button and said, “Lieutenant Hensley.”

Jim studied the deputy’s facial expressions and figured something was wrong, bad wrong, before Hensley said, “Goddamn it. Who found her? I see. Yeah, we’ll be out there as soon as we can. Just don’t let anybody touch anything and keep them as far away from the crime scene as possible.”

The minute Hensley finished his conversation, Bernie asked, “What was that about?”

“Earl Wheeler found a woman’s body lying in the middle of a dirt road leading into one of his soybean fields,” Hensley said. “That was John. He’s on his way to the scene now.”

“Any idea who—” Bernie didn’t get her sentence finished.

“Earl told John that he’s pretty sure the woman is Stephanie Preston. Said she looked like the woman in the newspaper and on TV who’s been missing for a couple of weeks.”

When they arrived at the crime scene, a small crowd had already formed along the roadside and the rutted lane leading into farmer Earl Wheeler’s soybean fields. Jim had seen this happen all too often, thanks to citizens in possession of police scanners. Although several deputies had beaten them there and were doing their best to keep the spectators at bay, Lieutenant Downs was sweating profusely, apparently concerned about keeping the scene secured.

“Look at them,” Hensley said. “Swarming like maggots. Why is it that people are so damn fascinated by murder and mayhem?”

Neither Jim nor Bernie replied since the deputy’s question was obviously rhetorical.

Bernie parked her Jeep just short of the yellow tape marking the scene, opened the driver’s door and hopped out, with Hensley on her heels. She gave the bystanders a hard glare and ordered everyone to keep their distance, then met Downs as he came toward her. Jim, who’d been sitting in the backseat, didn’t rush, allowing the sheriff to take the lead. After all, when it came time to speak to the press, she’d be the one to take the heat. And when the case was solved, it was her right to take most, if not all, the glory. As the new chief investigator, this should be his case, but he wasn’t about to inform either the sheriff or Hensley of that fact.

After he got out of the Jeep, he stood back, surveying the scene. Bernie paused after speaking to Downs and looked at Jim. She motioned to him with a wave of her hand. He nodded, and then joined the others at the edge of the yellow tape.

“It’s Stephanie Preston,” Bernie said. “John called Morris Claunch, our county coroner, and he should be here any minute now. He’ll be able to give us some basic info, but it seems fairly obvious that Stephanie’s throat has been slashed.”

Jim stepped over the tape and moved closer to the body, stopping a good five feet away. Stephanie was young, pretty, dark haired, full breasted and slender. With no apparent signs of a struggle and no blood anywhere on the ground near the victim, Jim surmised that she had been killed elsewhere and brought to this spot. And it was apparent, even to an untrained eye, that she had been posed in a somewhat seductive manner. One arm was draped across her breasts and one hand covered her mound, as if although the killer had wanted to expose her lush body, he’d also wanted to present her corpse with a small degree of modesty. The way he had arranged her limbs and long dark hair said that, in his own sick, perverted way, the killer had cared about his victim. Jim had seen this before, usually in cases where a member of the family turned out to be the murderer and in one case where the perpetrator had been a serial killer and posing his victims had been part of his MO.

Just as Jim noticed several marks on Stephanie’s otherwise flawless skin, Bernie walked up beside him.

“I have to call Sheriff Mays over in Jackson County,” she said. When Jim looked at her questioningly, she added, “Ed Mays is Stephanie’s uncle.”

Jim nodded. “Take a look at those marks on her.” He pointed them out, one by one. “What do they look like to you?”

“I’m not sure. Some look like small burns, as if—” Bernie swallowed hard. “They look like cigarette burns. And the others look almost like bite marks.”

“I’d say the body was placed here recently, within the past few hours, so it’s hardly likely that any wild animals would have caused those bite marks. If they had, there would be deeper wounds, some tearing, some flesh torn away.”

“They’re human bite marks, aren’t they?”

“That would be my educated guess,” Jim told her.

“Someone tortured Stephanie.” Bernie closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, then reopened them and cleared her throat.

“It’s okay to be upset,” Jim said. “You don’t have to pretend that it doesn’t bother you to know that not only was this young woman killed, but she was probably tortured for a couple of weeks before he slit her throat.” He glanced at Bernie and noted how pale her face was. “It bothers me a hell of a lot, too. I’m just better at hiding my feelings.”

“I don’t have the luxury of crying or screaming. I’m the sheriff. How would it look to my deputies—to anyone for that matter—if every time I’m exposed to something terrible, I break down and boohoo like a…a…”

“Like a woman?”

Bernie blew out a disgruntled moan. “Since she’s naked, do you think that means he raped her?”

“Probably, but it’s possible he didn’t. An autopsy should tell us everything we need to know about what she endured in the what, two weeks since she came up missing.”

“Our coroner, Morris Claunch, is the local undertaker,” Bernie said. “He’s not trained to do the kind of autopsy we need.”

“I figured that. So you’ll recommend that Claunch contact DFS, right? Or am I being presumptuous in assuming the sheriff’s department usually calls in the state boys when there’s a murder?”

“You’re my chief deputy, the lead investigator for my department,” she told him. “Is it your recommendation that the DFS and the ABI be brought in on this case?”

He looked her square in the eyes. Was she testing him by asking what he thought should be done? “Yeah, it’s my recommendation, but you’re the sheriff. It’s your call.”

“Look, I’m more aware than most that law enforcement in many Alabama counties still suffers from a prevailing ‘turf’ mentality, and some sheriffs and police chiefs are reluctant to call in the ABI. I’m not one of those sheriffs.”

“I had a feeling you weren’t.” The corners of his mouth lifted, hinting at an approving smile.

“Adams County simply doesn’t have the resources we’d need to do justice to this type of crime investigation,” Bernie told him. “My only other murder case was simple. Cut and dried. The killer confessed. So I haven’t worked with the ABI, but my dad knows the ABI area commander in Huntsville, and I’ve heard him say that he’s never had a problem working with the Bureau.”

Jim glanced at the cell phone clipped to Bernie’s belt, then said, “The sooner the better.”

“Right.” She removed her phone and scanned through the programmed numbers, then walked away from Jim and farther away from the crowd before placing her call.

Hensley came over to Jim and nodded toward Bernie. “Is she calling in the ABI?”

“Yeah.”

“Morris Claunch just drove up,” Hensley said. “What should I tell him?”

Day one as Hensley’s supervisor and Jim noticed that the guy was already playing by the rules. That was a good sign. “Tell him the sheriff is calling in the ABI and she’ll want DFS involved.” Jim looked directly at his deputy. “How long’s it going to take to get an autopsy report from DFS?”

“Average time? A week to a month. And for DNA evidence, that could be up to six months or longer. Worst case scenario—up to a year.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“The DFS guys are overworked and underpaid, and there aren’t enough of them to go around,” Hensley said. “In the past, we’ve worked with a preliminary draft right up to the trial.”

“Unless the coroner can tell us otherwise, I’m going to work under the assumption that Stephanie Preston was repeatedly raped and tortured before being killed.”

A tall, gangly man with thinning brown hair and a decided slump to his shoulders plodded casually over to them; he spoke to Hensley and glanced at Jim. “You the new chief deputy?”

“Yeah, I’m Jim Norton.”

The man held out his hand. “I’m Morris Claunch, the coroner.”

Bernie replaced her cell phone on the belt clip as she approached them. “A response unit is on its way from Huntsville, along with an agent, a guy named Charlie Patterson.” She looked right at Claunch. “I called Dad and he said you and he had worked with Patterson several years back.”

“Hmm…yeah, we did. Patterson’s okay. As I recall, he’s a team player. He’ll work with you”—Claunch glanced at Jim—“with your chief investigator and his team.”

“Once you take a look at the body, I’d like to know what you think,” Jim said.

Claunch raised one eyebrow, then nodded before making his way toward the beautiful young woman lying naked on a dirt lane in the middle of a soybean field.

Thomasina Hardy loaded the dishwasher and cleaned up her mother’s kitchen, then washed her hands and applied scented lotion. Her brother had a Friday night date and her mother had just left to go to her older sister Amanda’s to babysit the children so Amanda and her husband could go bowling over in Adams Landing. So here she was all alone on a Friday night. She and Ron broke up six months ago, so she should be back in circulation by now, shouldn’t she? She’d had a total of five dates in the past few months and not once had she accepted a second date with any one of the guys. Yes, she was picky. She might give just about any guy a chance with one date, but if he didn’t measure up, she didn’t waste her time or his.

Paul Landon, the richest bachelor in Adams County, had thought buying her dinner meant he got to screw her on a first date. The guy was a jerk. Neither his good looks nor his sizable bank account impressed her enough to give him a second chance.

Her mom had fixed her up with widower Steve Banyan, an Adams Landing pharmacist, but an hour into their date, she’d been bored to tears. All the man talked about was his kids and his deceased wife.

Her sister had fixed her up with two different duds—one worked at the phone company with Amanda’s husband and the other was a guy on their bowling team.

The only contender in the bunch had been Raymond Long, a recently divorced nice guy. But he’d never called her for a second date. Maybe she simply wasn’t his type.

Thomasina picked up the
TV Guide
and the remote control as she sat down on the sofa in the den and contemplated another Friday night alone. As she curled up on the sofa, she turned on the television and laid the remote at her side, then flipped through the guide. She had her choice of cop shows, reality shows and sitcoms, but she decided on a cable channel that showed an attractive young woman undergoing breast enlargement surgery. Although she filled out a C cup, Thomasina had often wondered how she’d look with a set of D or double-D boobs.

Ten minutes into the show, the telephone rang. Thomasina groaned. It was probably one of those annoying telephone solicitors. She hit the
MUTE
button on the remote, then got up and walked across the room to where her mom had left the cordless phone earlier this evening when she’d made a call to Amanda. Thomasina checked the caller ID.
PAY PHONE
.
A pay telephone? How odd. She knew there were several of those old pay phone booths still around in various areas in Adams County, but she wasn’t personally acquainted with anyone who used them. Debating whether to answer or allow the answering machine to pick up, she let the phone ring four times, then quickly hit the
ON
button and said, “Hello.”

“Thomasina?” the unfamiliar voice said.

“Yes.”

“Did you get my note?”

It was then that Thomasina realized his voice sounded odd. A deep, throaty baritone.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“I’m your secret admirer.”

A cold chill raced up Thomasina’s spine.
Don’t overreact. Don’t assume this guy is some nut job. It could be Brandon Kelley simply being romantic, choosing to woo you as a secret admirer first, before revealing his true identity.

“Why keep your identity a secret?”

“I will reveal my identity when the time is right,” he told her. “But for now…sleep well tonight, my beautiful Thomasina, and dream of your secret lover who longs to touch you, to whisper love sonnets in your ear, to fulfill your every fantasy.”

Thomasina gasped softly, undeniably aroused by the man’s words, by the image his comments painted in her mind. Images of Brandon and her together.

“Please, tell me—”

The dial tone alerted her to the fact that he had ended their conversation.

Thomasina closed her eyes and sighed. Her Friday night wasn’t turning out to be so dull and uneventful after all. Will he call back tonight? No, probably not. But maybe tomorrow or tomorrow night. In a way, she wished Brandon would just come right out and ask her for a date, but in another way, she thought it was romantic and rather sweet that he had thought of a unique way to begin an old-fashioned courtship.

But what if it’s not Brandon? Of course, it was Brandon. Who else could it be?

She carried the phone with her when she returned to the sofa. After sitting down, she laid the phone beside the remote. For several minutes she stared at the silent television screen and considered the possibilities. If her secret admirer wasn’t Brandon Kelley, then who could it be? She couldn’t think of another man she knew who would do something so unconventional and romantic.

It has to be Brandon.

She hit the
MUTE
button again to resume the sound on the TV and tried to renew her interest in the show she’d been watching. But her mind kept wandering, alternating between fantasizing about Brandon and wondering whether she should be flattered or concerned about this little game he was playing with her.

Jim wolfed down a bologna sandwich and swigged on a Dr. Pepper as he tried to decide whether he should shave before heading over to the Adams Landing Hotel to pick up Agent Patterson for a late-evening session with the sheriff. The ABI agent had shown up less than an hour after Bernie had placed her phone call. He came with the crime scene guys, although he’d driven his own vehicle since he’d be staying in town for several days. If they didn’t break the case within a few days, Patterson would probably drive back and forth from Huntsville after that, since it was only a forty-five-minute drive. Jim’s guess was that this case wouldn’t be solved easily, maybe not for weeks or months. Maybe never. He had his own theories, but before mouthing off his opinion, he’d decided to wait until this evening and hear what Patterson had to say and get Bernie’s input after she spoke to her father. He wondered how many on-the-job years it would take before she felt confident enough not to run things by her dad. It couldn’t be easy for her trying to live up to the old man, living and working in his shadow.

Stephanie Preston’s body was on its way to Huntsville. Her family had been notified. Jim suspected that Bernie’s call to Sheriff Ed Mays probably had been the most difficult call she’d ever made. Both the ABI and the DFS were now involved due to the type of crime that had been committed, with the two agencies working with the county sheriff’s department. Bernie had called a press conference and had faced not only local reporters, but Huntsville newspaper reporters and television crews. She had kept her comments brief and refused to take questions, which was standard procedure this early in the game. Although the statement to the press had been succinct—Stephanie Preston’s body had been discovered, the cause of death to be determined by an autopsy, and yes, the death was being handled as a murder—rumors no doubt already abounded. Any of the locals who’d been at the scene could spread the word that Stephanie’s throat had been slashed and that she was naked.