Hex on the Ex (8 page)

“Do you know the victim’s name?”

“Laycee something.”

My stomach flipped. “Laycee Huber?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone I told you that. The police have to notify her family before they release her name to the press. Listen, I need to get off the line. Jarret is with a detective, and I don’t want him talking too much without me. I’ll tell him you called.”

As soon as he clicked off, my phone rang again.

Robin heaved a deep sigh. “I’m so glad you’re there. I
just heard the news about Jarret. I got worried. I thought maybe—”

“No. It wasn’t me,” I said, curious why I topped everyone’s victim list. “It was Laycee Huber.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Jarret’s agent just told me on the phone. Jarret is with a detective now. Apparently he left Laycee asleep in his bed when he went out for his run this morning. She was dead when he got home.”

“What was she doing at his house?”

“I don’t want to guess. Do you want to hear something bizarre?”

“Worse than Laycee Huber dead in Jarret’s bed?”

“I went to his house this morning to pick up a box. I must have missed the intruder by minutes.”

“Liz, no. I had a strange feeling about you this morning. Did you see Laycee?”

“I only got as far as the kitchen. I didn’t see or hear anyone.” I flinched—Laycee must have been in the bedroom, dead or dying while I was there.

“Don’t tell anyone you were there.”

“Why not?”

“Ex-wife in the house and a dead woman in the ex-husband’s bed? Keep your mouth shut. Trust me. Don’t be helpful. Remember what happened to me? I volunteered to help the police last year and was rewarded with two nights in jail. Do not say anything,” Robin said. “Maybe I should leave work and come over.”

“Don’t. I’m okay. I need some time to process this.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to be alone?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, grateful for her concern. “This isn’t about me. Poor Laycee. Her husband called me this morning, looking for her. What a mess.”

“Why was she with Jarret? Didn’t Laycee go to the game with another guy last night?”

“Kyle.” I had forgotten about their date. “You’re right. I don’t know how she wound up with Jarret. I want to see if I can find another news report. I’ll stay in touch.”

“Just remember what I told you. No one needs to know you were there.”

“Someone already does. One of the neighbors saw me pull out of his driveway.”

“Then let the police come to you. Don’t offer information. Call a lawyer. Protect yourself.”

“This isn’t about me,” I said.

“I know. Let the investigation unfold on its own.”

After we hung up, I scanned through all seven local TV stations for a story update but every station was in a commercial break. The floor above squeaked from the weight of Stan and Angel working.

I sat at the edge of the sofa, staring through the window while layers of complicated feelings reeled through me like ticker tape. I pictured Laycee at the game—once my friend, yesterday an irritation, and today the victim of violence. My heart ached over the shock and fear she must have felt in her last moments. Bitterness and disgust over her past betrayal. Then shame for dishonoring the dead. I didn’t like Laycee, but she didn’t deserve to die. And what about Jarret? A scandal might mar or even destroy his career. He was an idiot for leaving his house open to intrusion. Anger melded into horror—I may have missed the murderer by minutes.

Peace wouldn’t come by sitting in a daze. I needed busywork. As I rose to unpack the last box of books, my cell phone rang again. A familiar Illinois phone number flashed on the display.

“Liz? It’s Marion Cooper.” My ex-mother-in-law’s voice wavered. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to call. I’m trying to reach Jarret. He doesn’t answer his telephone. There’s a story on the cable news station about…” She hesitated. Usually talkative and amicable, Marion appreciated a good piece of gossip—but not if it targeted her family. Talking about a homicide at her son’s home fell outside the province of her small-town comfort zone.

“I know. I saw the story on the news. Jarret is okay,” I added quickly to ease her. “I spoke with his agent. I don’t know exactly what happened yet. All I know is that Jarret found a woman dead in his house.”

“What should we do?” Marion said. “Should I call the police station? Is Jarret in jail?”

“No. My best guess is that he’s still at the house with the police. Let me make a call. My brother is a LAPD detective. Maybe he can get us more information.”

“Yah. I told Bud you’d know what to do. Bud and I are worried. Everyone is calling here.” She hacked out a smoker’s cough. “I wish my son would get in touch with us.”

“He will, Marion. Give him time. He’ll be with the police for hours. Leave him a message. If I hear from him, I’ll make sure he calls you.”

“Thank you. It’s hot and muggy here. How is the weather out there?”

“Hot and dry. The usual,” I said, comforting her. Odd as her question was, I wasn’t surprised Marion asked. She used
weather as a neutral ground to escape unpleasant topics.
Bad news? How’s the weather?
“Try not to worry. I’ll call you as soon as I talk to my brother.”

I hung up, and then left a message on Dave’s voice mail.

Channel 7 broke into programming with a news bulletin. “This is Shazia Kapoor reporting from outside the home of Dodger pitcher Jarret Cooper, where a woman was found slain this morning. I’m here with Captain Eagleton from the West Valley Community Police Station.”

She addressed the mustached man in LAPD blue on her left. “Captain Eagleton, can you update us on what happened here today?”

“911 dispatch received a call near 10
A.M.
reporting a female victim of an intrusion at the Cooper home,” Eagleton said.

“Have you identified the victim?” Shazia said.

“We’re withholding ID pending notification of her family. We are, however, asking for citizens in the Royal Oaks neighborhood to report any unusual or suspicious activity on or near Royal Oak Road this morning.”

“The West Valley Division phone number is onscreen for witnesses to contact,” Shazia said. “Captain, can you tell us anything else? Who placed the original call to 911?”

“Mr. Cooper placed the call. The homicide unit in charge of the investigation is canvassing the neighborhood now. That’s all the information I can give you.” Eagleton glanced over his shoulder as if to signal the end to the conversation.

“Thank you, Captain.” She turned to the camera and began a recap of her earlier report.

Eagleton crossed the street behind the reporter, and then
stopped to talk to a man at the base of Jarret’s driveway. I held up the remote to mute the volume, then froze. I stepped toward the screen for a closer look. Unbelievable.

Though I only saw his hair and part of his face, I recognized the tilt of the head and the confident stance instantly. Nick—standing on the asphalt conversing with the captain. Eagleton turned and went back up the drive. Nick pulled out his phone. Within seconds, mine rang.

“You won’t believe where I am,” Nick said.

Still in shock, I said, “I don’t—yet there you are, right on my TV screen.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, saw the reporter, and then turned away fast. “Damn.”

“Camera-shy?” I said as he sidled out of view.

“No one was supposed to know I’m here. Eagleton won’t like this at all. Did you see my face?”

“Only your profile. But if you’re going stealth, you better get out of there. Every major news and sports network is carrying the story. What are you doing there?” I said.

“Are you home?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right over to explain.”

I
made a pot of coffee while I waited for Nick. The high-pitched whir of Stan’s drill upstairs distracted me from the tape of questions running through my mind about what could have happened at Jarret’s house. As the rich brown liquid streamed into the coffeemaker on the counter, I wandered upstairs to check on Stan’s progress.

I had to hand it to him. He worked slowly but with care. Tarps protected my bed and the furniture from the dust coming out of the master bathroom into my unpainted bedroom.

Inside the bathroom, stacks of soiled, broken tiles jutted out of a white plastic bucket on top of the toilet. The wall beneath the window where the old bathtub once stood was stripped down to drywall and exposed beams. White dust coated the mirror and countertops, paint chips and chunks
of plaster covered the floor. Stan and Angel kneeled at the far wall, an open sore of pipes.

I stopped at the threshold, facing the mess. “How’s the work going?”

Stan sat back on his knees, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Moving along. After we scrape away the old grout, finish clearing the walls, setting the floor, and checking the pipes, we can bring in and set the new tub and then begin retiling. The pipes are in better shape than I thought.”

I nodded as if I understood. I heard at least another week of me showering at the gym. The guest bathroom upstairs wasn’t an option—the previous owner hadn’t used the shower in years and I had stacked the room with unopened boxes. My renovation plan looked more illogical by the hour.

Too late to change direction. I left them working, got a cup of coffee, and went to the den to flip through local channels for updates and wait for Nick. As soon as the bell rang, I ran to the door.

“You okay?” he said when he saw my face.

“Happy to see you.” I led him into the den, where a newsbreak replayed Captain Eagleton’s statement to the press.

Nick listened, arms folded, to the captain’s comments. “Eagleton is so smart about community relations. I love his skill for placating the press without revealing too many details.”

“How do you know him?” I said.

“Dave and I broke up a cult a few years ago in his jurisdiction. Eagleton is fair, honest, and tough. Before he took over West Valley, he ran the gang and vice units at Foothill. When he called me to the scene this morning, I had no idea
whose house I entered. Imagine my surprise—I walked in and saw Jarret’s photos in the hall.”

“Imagine my surprise when I saw you on the news.”

“Eagleton asked for my help to expedite the investigation. He wanted me to look at the body before the field investigation unit took over the scene.”

“I don’t understand. You’re not a medical doctor.”

He sat next to me on the sofa. “Before I explain, I have to tell you—for a minute I thought the small brunette facedown on the pillow might be you. I panicked until I got closer and saw the victim’s face. You knew her, Liz.”

“I heard. Laycee Huber. Jarret’s agent told me over the phone.” I held my hand to my chest. I had to know. “How bad was it?”

“Are you sure you want me to tell you?” he said. At my nod, he continued, “Someone repeatedly knifed her in the back, presumably while she slept. The slashes appeared angry, brutal. From her positioning on the bed, I assume she never woke to see her attacker.”

“She would have fought if she did. I know Laycee. She would have fought with everything she had. What did he want you to see?”

“A symbol smeared into the blood on her back,” he said.

I flinched, horrified. “What kind of maniac signs his victim?”

“The first responders assumed the mark was gang related. But Eagleton, who was a gang expert before he took over West Valley, disagreed. He recognized part of the marking and thought the killing may be cult related. That’s why he called me to come over. He didn’t want to risk e-mailing a photo. He wants the symbol kept out of the press, away from
the public. I met him at the address he gave me, ignorant of what I was heading into.”

“Was Jarret in the house when you got there?” I said.

“I didn’t see him. Eagleton met me at the gate, guided me inside to the bedroom, and waited while I studied the symbol.” Nick reached into his pocket and brought out a small sheet of paper with a sketch of a five-pointed star. The number
5
, scrawled upside down in the center with three small crosses beneath.

“A star?” I said.

“A pentagram, defined by the connecting strokes. Wiccans use it to symbolize their beliefs. Christians, Mormons, and the Bahá’í Faith, among others, used the pentagram in artwork for centuries.” He turned the paper to show the 5, upright. “The killer marked Laycee with an inverted pentagram.”

I took the paper out of his hand and glanced down. “What’s the difference?”

“The inverted pentagram is common to witchcraft and devil worship. It represents black magic to some groups. Others, including a satanic group organized in the sixties, use the three downward points to signify rejection of the Holy Trinity. In occultism, a reversed pentagram indicates evil. In black magic, the sign of fatality,” he said.

“And the five?”

“In my opinion, the key to the killer’s message. Laycee could be a fifth victim. When you take the components together, the five, the reversed pentagram, and the Petrine crosses—”

“Petrine?”

Nick pointed at the three crosses underscoring the five. “Inverted Latin crosses. The Petrine cross has conflicting
meanings, from symbolizing St. Peter to denoting anti-Christian beliefs. In this context, I assume they’re used to represent the devil. The inverted pentagram and crosses signal a killer tied to the occult, with the five completing the message.”

“Saying what?”

“I can’t tell yet. I have a vague sense I’ve seen this combination before, but I need to dig through some books and papers for the source,” Nick said. “Eagleton is requesting a search of the FBI files for a match, too. My sketch is rough. The killer drew each part of this symbol on Laycee’s body slowly and deliberately.”

“He brutally attacks her then takes his time leaving a message?” I shuddered, wondering how close I came to confronting a madman. “Could the killer be someone Laycee and/or Jarret knew? Or do you think Laycee happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, like the Manson murder victims? A random killing by deranged zealots? Did you see any signs of a break-in?”

“All valid questions, and impossible for me to answer. I didn’t stray beyond the hall and the bedroom. There were no broken windows that I saw. I’m no cop, but if it wasn’t a break-in, I assume Jarret is the primary suspect.”