Reunion (8 page)

When she didn’t respond immediately, he leaned forward. “So…I told you. Now, you tell me something.”

She picked up the paper and started to read. “‘The body of a man was found in Johnson Park by an early-morning jogger. It was estimated that he died around midnight. An unnamed source said that the man had died of a broken neck and that authorities have linked this murder to the killing of a woman a few days ago. In both cases, the killer left a single rose by the body as a signature. The killer’s Prince Charming gesture doesn’t change the fact that two people are dead.”’

“My God,” Gabriel muttered. “I’m seeing these murders as they take place, aren’t I?”

Laura laid the paper in her lap. “It would seem so.”

No longer hungry, he pushed his chair away from the table and then stalked out of the room. Laura followed. She caught up with him in the hall and grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” she begged.

He turned, his mouth twisted in anger. “Wait for what?”

“I think you should go to the police,” she said.

He threw up his hands and all but pushed her away. “And tell them what? That I walk in my sleep and dream about murder? Hell, lady, they’ll lock me up for committing them. Nowhere in the articles does it mention the fact that the thorns on the roses have been removed, but somehow I know that for a fact. And nowhere does it mention that the last victim died with a dog whistle halfway down his throat, but it’s there. I know it, because I watched him swallow it.”

Now Gabriel took a step forward, putting himself within whispering distance.

“You think that’s something?” he said. “Then take a bite of this little fact and see how it tastes. You saw that beautiful rose garden out back?”

Laura nodded.

“It was my mother’s passion. When they began to bloom, as they are right now, she kept dozens of fresh arrangements all over the house. The scent of roses was always in the air. But she had this little quirk. She thought it was some sort of crime against nature that something so beautiful should cause so much pain. It was her habit to remove all the thorns from the stems as she put them in vases.”

Laura blanched. The implications of what he’d just said were startling.

“What are you getting at?” she asked. “Are you trying to tell me that you…that the killer is—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.

Gabriel’s face was a study in the absence of color. His skin was ashen, his lips bloodless and thinned in frustration.

“I don’t know what I’m trying to say. All I know is I survived a wreck that should have killed me, just like it killed my parents, and all I get for my magnificent intestinal fortitude is a large dose of living hell!”

In sudden fury, he picked up a vase from a nearby table and hurled it against the opposite wall before stalking out of the room.

Laura listened to the sound of shattering crystal as she watched him go and wondered if that was the way a breaking heart sounded when it finally gave way.

A
summer day in Oklahoma after a night of rain was nothing short of pure misery. The humidity was off the scale and did nothing for hairdos and clothes but cause them to wilt, except for the unfortunate few who had the kind of hair that went into a revolt, curling into unbelievable tangles and snarls.

Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation agent Kirby Summers suffered neither of the problems with regards to his hair. It was too sparse and straight to go limp or tangle. However, the same couldn’t be said of his suit. It was too hot for the weather. Right now, he would have willingly traded it for a pair of cutoffs and his favorite T-shirt—the old ragged one that had once been black but was now faded to a sick, foggy gray. Most of the Grateful Dead’s logo had long since washed away, but the memories that came with it were still firm in his mind. He’d lost his virginity wearing that shirt.

As he turned onto Sooner Road and headed toward the crime scene, he thought of that shirt and grinned. He would always have a fondness for women named Shirley.

As for his suit, it clung persistently to his skin, outlining all too vividly his lack of bulk. Kirby Summers wasn’t slim. He was out-and-out skinny. His balding head and high, wide forehead gave him a Tweety Bird look to which he’d long been resigned. At first glance, he was the epitome of a nerd, until you looked in his eyes. They were a soft, chocolate brown, sharp with intelligence, sparkling with wit. The true measure of the man.

He pulled into Johnson Park. When he killed the engine, his expression was somewhere between pissed and resigned. Pissed because his vacation had been canceled, and resigned because it was part of his job. As he got out of his car and began walking toward the investigation in progress at the back of the park, he couldn’t help thinking that, but for the warped brain of some serial killer who’d decided to run amok, he would be in the Colorado Mountains right now, enjoying cool breezes and lots of fishing.

He’d planned this vacation for more than three years, envisioning himself coming back with a trophy fish. His buddies had kidded him, saying he was leaving the city just to get himself laid. Kirby had let most of their crap slide off his shoulders, not because he was averse to arguing, but because it was too close to the truth to ignore. He stepped aside to avoid a large pile of dog poop and found himself shoe-deep in mud.

“Shit,” he muttered, and then grinned at his own wit. Yes, it
was
shit. Shit on the ground. Shit that his vacation had been canceled. Then he remembered why he was here and sighed. And serious shit for the man who’d been murdered.

He flashed his badge at a uniformed officer standing beside the crime scene tape that had been strung about the area. When the officer lifted the tape, Kirby ducked and passed under.

“Morning, sir,” the cop said.

Kirby nodded and kept on walking, keeping a careful eye out for further mud and shit.

The medical examiner was in the midst of his examination when a uniformed officer nudged Detective Ray Bush’s elbow.

“Hey, Bush. Isn’t that Kirby Summers?”

Relief settled on Ray Bush’s shoulders as he looked up. He’d been expecting the OSBI agent all morning. As a homicide detective for the Oklahoma City Police Department, Bush had been assigned to a case a few days ago involving a murdered prostitute. Being a Reno Street hooker was not an occupation that lent itself to old age, and the fact that the woman had turned up dead was tragic, but not necessarily out of the ordinary. The only thing unusual about the crime scene had been a long-stemmed rose left on her body. The fact that the thorns were missing had been odd, but not anything remarkable.

And that had been the general consensus until this morning, when a second body had turned up with a similar signature. Another dead body with another thornless, long-stemmed rose.

Serial killer.

It was enough to give even the veteran officers a knot in the pits of their stomachs. Not only could this cause a public panic, but pressure would come down heavy on them to solve the murders and solve them now.

Problem was, except for the roses found on the victims, there was no similarity between them. They were different ages, different sexes, and had definitely moved in different social circles. Bush had already checked on Theodore Russell’s personal life on the off chance that he could have been one of the prostitute’s clients. That hadn’t panned out. When he’d been notified that the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation was sending one of their best men in to help him out, he’d been more than willing to share. This nut was one killer they needed to get off the streets, and fast. He would take all the help he could get.

Bush held out his hand as Kirby walked up.

“Agent Summers, isn’t it? Ray Bush, Homicide. I assisted you on a case a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah, the missing motel owner, right?”

“Right,” Ray said.

“Pleasure,” Summers said, shaking the other man’s hand then glancing down at the body. “So, what have we got?”

Bush pulled out his notepad. “Theodore Russell. Early forties. Senior accountant. Went out looking for his wife’s lost dog. Didn’t come home. She reported him missing around 3:00 a.m. An early-morning jogger found his body around 6:00 a.m. Unfortunately, the rain washed away whatever clues the killer might have left. All we have is this rose.” He held up a plastic bag, containing one very bedraggled long-stemmed red rose.

“I understand you had another body a couple of days earlier with a similar signature.”

Bush nodded. “Right down to the fact that the stem is thornless.”

Kirby glanced down at the body. “How did he die?”

“Just like the prostitute. A broken neck.”

Kirby’s dark eyes narrowed. “Does the media know about the missing thorns?”

Ray nodded. “No, sir. I made certain of that.”

“Good.” Then Kirby squatted down beside the body, watching as the medical examiner continued to work. “Hey, Sam. Anything you can tell me that might help?”

Sam Whitehall paused in the act of bagging some hair that he’d found on the dead man’s jacket and looked up.

“He’s got something lodged in the back of his throat. My best guess is that it’s some kind of whistle. I’ll extract it when I begin the autopsy.”

Kirby frowned as he stood. “A whistle?”

Bush flipped down his list of notes. “His wife said he’d gone out to look for a missing dog. Maybe it’s a dog whistle.”

Summers made another note, then took a handkerchief out of his suit coat, swiping at the sweat running down the back of his neck.

“You through here?” he asked.

Bush nodded.

“I’d like copies of everything you have on both victims as soon as possible.”

“You got it,” Bush said.

“I’ll be in touch,” Summers said, and started to walk away when Bush called out.

“Hey, Summers.”

Kirby stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

“Something about this gives me the creeps. Glad to have you aboard.”

Summers thought about the fishing trip one last time and then nodded. “No problem.”

Laura overslept. When she opened her eyes, she knew it was late by the amount of sunshine reflected on the wall opposite her bed. She lay without moving, absorbing the quiet of the house and thinking of Gabriel Connor. He made her uncomfortable in a way she’d never experienced. When she was around him, she felt out of control. It was disconcerting to know they would be lovers. While the thought wasn’t abhorrent, right now it
was
frightening. The man was somehow involved in these murders. Whether it was psychically or physically had yet to be discerned. And that was why she was here.

She groaned, then rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. A short while later, she emerged from her room dressed in a knit shirt and slacks. The carpet muffled the sound of her footsteps as she came down the stairs. The scent of coffee still lingered in the air, but it was a quarter after ten. Breakfast had long since come and gone. Lost in thought, she didn’t see the housekeeper coming out of the library until they almost collided.

Laura stopped in midstep, reaching for Matty to steady her. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Matty smiled. “Good morning, Miss Dane, and there’s nothing to apologize for. I’m fine.”

Laura returned the smile. “I know it’s late, but could I talk you out of a cup of coffee?”

Matty pushed her toward the dining room. “It’s never too late around here. Sit! Sit! I’ll bring coffee. Would you care for some eggs…or maybe some French toast?”

Laura shook her head. “No. Please don’t fuss on my account. It’s so near lunch that I’d rather wait for that, instead. However, I would dearly love the coffee.”

Matty nodded and had started toward the kitchen when she paused and turned. “It is a beautiful morning, and the roses are in bloom. Maybe you would like to have your coffee out on the patio?”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Laura said. “By the way, where is Gabriel?”

Matty shrugged. “He said he had to see a client. He didn’t say who. If you need him, you can call his office. They probably have a phone number where he can be reached.”

“I don’t need him,” Laura said. “I was just curious.”

“Okay, then. You go to the patio. I’ll bring your coffee.”

Laura felt like saying “Yes, ma’am” as she headed toward the library. Moments later, she opened the French doors and stepped out on the patio beyond.

The air was warm with a promise of more intense heat later in the day, but for now it felt wonderful, like warm silk brushing against her skin. She lifted her head and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent-laden air.

Sunlight caught on evaporating dew, giving the new-mown grass a jeweled appearance. A fountain bubbled nearby as a constant stream of water spilled from a pitcher in a marble cherub’s hands. English ivy covered more than two floors of the home, cloaking the walls in a dark, verdant growth.

And then there were the roses, growing in abundance and planted so that the eye was drawn to their surroundings as much as to the bushes themselves. Laura stared, transfixed by the ingenuity of the woman who had created such beauty.

Angela Connor had planned her garden well. No formal geometric plots between concrete paths for her. Her roses grew up trellises and out of pots, entwined around miniature fences and among old iron wheels. As Laura stood, transfixed by the magnificence of such an effort, she felt a shifting within her. She waited, but although the feeling persisted, nothing happened.

Uneasy, she decided to walk and stepped off the patio onto the well-graveled path leading to the roses just as Matty came out of the house.

“Miss Dane! Your coffee,” Matty called.

“Set it there,” Laura said, pointing toward a table. “I’ll get it in a moment.”

Matty did as she’d been asked and then disappeared into the house, leaving Laura alone. She turned back to the path. The urgency within her increased, until she was all but running to get to the garden.

Once inside its boundaries, the urgency disappeared, and she stood for a moment, trying to assimilate what had just happened. What had she felt? Was it nothing more than a bit of Angela Connor’s spirit returning to a well-loved place, or was it something more sinister? Had that been a welcome or a warning?

She started to walk among the blooms, absorbing the serenity of her surroundings and letting her mind go free.

Sadie Husser had a penchant for pretties she didn’t need. Her husband, Eli, had been dead for more than twenty years, but while he’d lived, he’d passed his love of antiquities on to Sadie, the love of his life.

At seventy-two, Sadie Husser was one of Oklahoma City’s leading ladies. Her parties were social events. Everything in her world had been set and orderly until the robberies began to occur. There had been two in the last three weeks, and all within a six-block radius of her estate. Since then, she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. This morning she’d made a call to Straight Arrow Security, confident that her troubles would soon be over.

Gabriel got out of his car, gazing intently at the massive structure before him. He knew Sadie Husser by reputation. In her heyday, she’d been quite a beauty. He supposed the same could be said for her home. The once grand structure looked a little worn at the seams, but he knew it wasn’t for lack of money. Sadie Husser was stinking rich. As for the slightly weathered sashes on the windows and the faint cracks leading up the brick walls, he supposed Sadie cared more about what was inside than what was without.

The home had aged along with Sadie, and he doubted if she even noticed the faults. If she did, she obviously didn’t care. His interest stirred as he stared up at the structure. Turning this mausoleum into a security-controlled environment would be one of the biggest tasks he’d ever undertaken. But the job didn’t daunt him. Instead, he felt a strange sense of elation. It would be something on which to focus besides his troubles.

Gabriel walked across the veranda and rang the doorbell. A few moments later, Sadie’s houseman answered the door. His soft lispy voice did not match his muscular appearance or his short, spiky hair.