Deeper Than The Dead (34 page)

“Blackmail?” Mendez suggested.

“Maybe. Or maybe Ventura County should be going back through their missing persons reports and unsolved homicides. The second homicide was in another jurisdiction too, right?”

“Yeah. To the east of here.”

They pulled up in the Cranes’ driveway. There were no cars parked in the driveway, but lights were on in the downstairs windows. Someone was home.

“Hicks called a while ago and asked for Dr. Crane,” he said. “Janet Crane said he wasn’t home and she isn’t expecting him until late.”

“That’s all right,” Vince said, getting out of the car. “That’s fine, actually. I have a thing or two to say to Mrs. Crane.”

“Should I call you an ambulance now or wait?” Mendez asked.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Let me show you how to handle Janet Crane.”

“Better you than me,” Mendez said as they started up the sidewalk.

“Walk up right behind me,” Vince instructed. “I don’t want her to see you when she opens the door. After that, just follow my lead.”

Vince went to the Crane’s front door and rang the bell. Beautiful home. Mr. and Mrs. California lived here. The perfect couple with the perfect home and perfect jobs and a perfect child; perfect tans and perfect white smiles. A pretty facade. The thing Vince had learned over the years was that a lot of not-so-perfect things often lived behind a beautiful exterior.

Janet Crane peeked out the sidelight, her face switching from annoyed to overjoyed in the blink of an eye.
Welcome to the borderline personality disorder
, Vince thought.

“Mr. Leone!” she said, opening the door. She was a little confused, an emotion that didn’t sit well with her. How did he know where she lived? Why would he come by at such a late hour? “What a surprise!”

Vince smiled the big smile. “Mrs. Crane, sorry to bother you so late, but we have some questions for you.”

“We?”

He stepped to the side enough that she could see Mendez behind him. Now she smelled a rat, and the nice smile hardened.

“Detective.” Her gaze darted back and forth between them. “What’s this about?”

“Well, I have a small confession to make,” Vince began amiably. “It would probably be better if we came inside and sat down for this. You don’t want your neighbors looking out and seeing a couple of guys on your doorstep at eleven o’clock at night.”

She hesitated just enough to let him move toward her, then automatically stepped back, and he easily stepped into the foyer. Mendez stepped in behind him.

She had changed out of her red power suit into a pink jogging suit, but the makeup was still in place and the black hair was still starched stiff.

“I’m a little confused, Mr. Leone. Why would you feel the need to bring a detective with you to my home?”

Vince played contrite, ducking his head. “That’s where the confession comes in. I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely forthcoming with you earlier today.”

She was working up to disliking him now. She wouldn’t take kindly to being played.

“I’m not really just visiting,” he admitted. “I’m here on business.”

He pulled out his ID and held it up for her to see. She peered at it, her face frozen carefully blank.

“I’m with the
FBI
,” he said. “I’m here helping out with the investigation.
^”

“What could you possibly want with me?” she asked, crossing her arms tightly against herself.

“We just have a few questions,” he assured her.

“About what?”

“Is your husband home, ma’am?” Mendez asked.

“Not at the moment. Why?”

“Do you know where he is by any chance? We have a couple of questions for him as well.”

“He’s playing cards. Friday is his night to play cards.”

Lie,
Vince decided from her body language and the way she repeated the statement as if to confirm that it sounded good.

“Who does he play cards with?” Mendez asked, pen poised over his notebook.

“Friends. Men he plays golf with. I don’t know them.”

Vince arched a brow. “You don’t know your husband’s friends?”

“Not all of them,” she said defensively. “I don’t play cards, and I certainly don’t have the time to play golf. Those are Peter’s hobbies and Peter’s friends.”

“You must have met them, at least,” he said. “Don’t they ever come here to play cards? You don’t stick around to serve them snacks?”

She was getting her back up now. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I’m not a barmaid or a waitress. I make a point of not being here when Peter entertains his male friends.”

Mendez bobbed his eyebrows and hummed a little while he made notes.

“So you must have hobbies of your own,” Vince said. “That’s very healthy, I think. Couples don’t have to do everything together.”

“I serve on a number of committees and boards here in town,” she said. “I don’t have time for hobbies.”

Vince frowned. “All work and no play—”

“I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions,” she said abruptly. Her tone of voice was changing, the cadence of her speech becoming more clipped, curt. “I heard you have a suspect in custody.”

“We’re really not at liberty to discuss the case, Mrs. Crane,” Vince said.

“I don’t see how I can help you.”

“Where was your husband on the night of Thursday, the third of October?” he asked.

“He was here. He and our son like to watch a television program together Thursday nights.”

“Yes,
Cosby
. We know,” Vince said. “Your son mentioned that to his teacher, Miss Navarre.”

“She had no business asking Tommy those questions,” she said, her temper rising another notch. “He’s terribly upset.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Crane?” Vince asked. “It seems an innocent question to me. Why would your son think it was anything else? I wasn’t there, but I feel safe in assuming Miss Navarre didn’t ask Tommy if his father is a serial killer.”

“He found out that was the night that girl went missing. He’s a bright boy.”

“I guess so,” Vince said. “I should start recruiting him for the Bureau now, because that’s quite a leap in a ten-year-old’s logic system. How did he know anything at all about the disappearance of Karly Vickers?”

“He saw it in the newspaper.”

“Your fifth grader sits down and reads the newspaper in the evening?”

“His father was reading it.”

“Does your husband have an unusual interest in following these cases?”

“No more than anyone else in town.”

“Has he been keeping the articles?”

“Why would he do that?”

“He was the last person to see Miss Vickers that day,” Mendez said. “You’re aware of that, Mrs. Crane?”

“Yes. That doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”

“And you don’t remember if he was home that evening?”

She glared at him. “I told you he was.”

“But you don’t remember if he went out of the house later that evening.”

“No. I’m sure he didn’t,” she said. “Peter doesn’t go out that much.”

“Except to golf and play cards with people you don’t know in places you have no idea about,” Vince said, his own tone of voice becoming harder, colder. “Now that seems odd to me, Mrs. Crane, because you strike me as the kind of woman who would keep a short leash on a man.”

The whites of her eyes showed all around the iris. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re controlling,” he said without rancor. “You want to be in charge. I’ll bet if I go into your kitchen or laundry room you’ll have a big whiteboard calendar and everything on it will be color-coded. Am I right?”

She was getting angrier by the second now. “There’s nothing wrong with being organized.”

“Not at all. Controlling, however, is a different thing,” he said. “Controlling is getting pissed off at people who don’t toe your line, people who don’t follow your script, people who ask questions you don’t want to answer.”

He let the last shred of the Mr. Nice Guy act fall away. “That’s the flip of the switch that sets you off and makes you think you can scream at people and threaten them, and be a Class A bitch to anyone who crosses you.”

Her jaw dropped, astonished anyone would speak to her that way. “I beg your pardon?” she said again.

“You don’t want my pardon,” Vince scoffed. “You want to kick me in the balls right now, don’t you? Because I won’t do what you want, and I won’t believe what you want me to believe just because that’s your agenda.

“I’m bigger than you, and meaner than you, and I’m not going to take your bullshit,” he said. “I’m not some little fifth-grade teacher you can push around and try to intimidate.”

Janet Crane’s face was nearly purple, her eyes popping. Vince expected her hair to stand straight up. She pointed to the door.

“Get out! Get out of my house!”

Vince laughed at her. “Or what? You’ll call a cop?” He hooked a thumb at Mendez. “I brought a cop with me. Where’s your witness? Who’s going to testify on your behalf? The child you drugged to make him sleep so he won’t bother you?”

She turned on Mendez. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

Mendez was the picture of disinterest, so unconcerned with her needs he couldn’t be bothered to raise more than one shoulder to shrug. “He outranks me.”

“I’m calling my husband,” she announced, storming down the hall to a beautiful study with two desks and white bookshelves that climbed to the ceiling.

“So you
do
know where he is,” Vince said.

She glared at him as she snatched up the receiver of the phone. “He has a cellular telephone in his car.”

“Really? What for? So he can be available for all those urgent emergency teeth cleanings?” Vince asked. “That’s an extravagant toy—”

“So what?” she snapped back at him, punching numbers.

“So he works all day in an office ten minutes away from here. Why does he need a cellular telephone? You’re telling us he rarely leaves the house if he’s not working. When is he not at your beck and call?”

“But he’s not here now,” Mendez pointed out.

“True,” Vince said. “But I doubt he and his cronies are playing cards in his car, and why would he lug that phone into his card game with him? You have to carry the damn things around in a suitcase.”

“Doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Mendez agreed. “Unless he’s just that whipped.”

“Is that it?” Vince asked, depressing the plunger on the phone and disconnecting her call. “Do you have your husband that cowed, Mrs. Crane?”

She was so angry now there were tears in her eyes and her mouth was quivering as she tried to hold back the vitriol she wanted to spew at him. She made a strangled gurgling sound in her throat.

“Because that kind of domineering, controlling behavior can create some pretty nasty recoil on the other end of a relationship,” Vince said.

“Edmund Kemper,” Mendez offered.

Vince nodded. To Janet Crane he said, “Edmund Kemper endured so many years of domination by his mother, he ended up murdering college coeds and cutting their heads off to relieve his psychological pressure.”

“My husband is
NOT
a MURDERER!” she screamed.

“You’re that sure?” Vince asked quietly. “He was the last person to see Karly Vickers the day she disappeared. He knew Lisa Warwick from the Thomas Center. And it turns out he was arrested in Oxnard for soliciting Julie Paulson for sex. Those women are all dead or missing.”

Janet Crane slammed the receiver down on the phone and stood absolutely rigid beside the desk. “You’re lying. My husband is a pillar of this community. He is well respected. He is admired. He is the perfect husband and father.”

“Is he?” Vince said. “Because down in Ventura County he’s just another john that comes to Oxnard to fuck hookers.”

“That’s outrageous! How dare you say that!”

“And if I opened one of his desk drawers here and showed you newspaper clippings from all three of these cases, what would you say then, Mrs. Crane?”

“Get out of my house,” she said. “Get out of my house or I’m calling our attorney.”

Vince exchanged a look with Mendez.

“You’d better be on good terms with that attorney,” Vince said. “You never know how soon you might need his services.”

He let the silence between them hang for a moment. She was breathing hard, starting to hyperventilate. Even clenched into fists at her side, her hands were shaking. Good.

“Think about that, Mrs. Crane,” he said quietly. “Every time he’s out of your sight. Every time he doesn’t answer that cellular telephone. Every minute he doesn’t have to listen to you harping and harping and harping. Where is he? Every time he brings you a little gift of jewelry, where did he get it? Every time he goes out to be a part of the search for Karly Vickers or man the phones on the hotline. Why is he
really
doing that?”

She said nothing, just continued to stare at him, glassy-eyed and trembling with rage.

“One more thing,” Vince said, taking a step toward her, and then another. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “If I hear you’re trying to take your son out of Anne Navarre’s class, or that you’re going to sue her, or that you accosted her on the street, you’ll answer to me, Mrs. Crane.

“All I have to do is make one hint to a reporter that you know something you shouldn’t about that murder victim in the park, or that your husband has a predilection for prostitutes, and all that status you prize so highly comes tumbling down,” he said.

“You’re threatening me?”

“No,” he said, taking another step into her personal space, leaning toward her so that she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. “I’m telling you how it is.
I’m
the big dog in this fight,
Janet
. Don’t piss on my fences.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction from her. He had accomplished exactly what he had set out to do. How she reacted now was irrelevant. He turned his back on her and walked out.

He didn’t realize how hot he’d gotten until he stepped out into the cold. He was sweating and breathing hard. He felt more than a little primitive. The male of the species defending his mate, testosterone running like a flood through his veins. His pulse pounded in his head, and he worried for a second he might have a stroke.