Senseless (9 page)

Garrison stared at the barren horizon. “You left this screaming woman?”

“I was scared.”

“You never called the cops to report this?”

“Like I said, I was scared.”

Scared that his bony ass would end up back in jail for ten to fifteen years for breaking and entering. “Did you see who hit you?”

“Just a flash in the corner of my eye.” He sounded breathless.

Garrison had no concern for whatever fear Danvers felt now. He’d left a woman in the hands of a monster. “That doesn’t tell me a whole lot, Mr. Danvers.”

“I want my deal in writing and then I’ll talk more. I can tell you where the house is located—where I’ll bet he killed that woman.”

Garrison smiled. “Mr. Danvers, you are out on bail. If you don’t tell me what you know I’ll have every cop in Northern Virginia looking for you.”

“No one is going to find me. Not you. Not that crazy motherfucker.” He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “I dropped my fucking wallet at the house. He knows where I live.”

“Then you better come in so that I can protect you.”

“I give you an address and then you still put out an APB on my ass and I go back to jail. You’ve got to know this breaking and entering is my third strike. I can’t risk being put away for the next ten years.”

“Just give me the address. ”

“I don’t want to go back to jail again.”

“I can do that. ”

Danvers shoved out a sigh. “I want my guarantee in writing. I’ll call Ms. Carlson at six this evening, and if you’ve got my deal, I’ll text you the address. Once you’ve found the killer, then I’ll reappear.”

Connor Donovan balanced a cup of double espresso and a box crammed full of notepads, scrap pieces of paper and articles on his hip as he shoved the key into his mailbox lock, wiggled it a couple of times, yanked up and then turned the persnickety lock to the right. He’d gone by the medical examiner’s office last night hoping to find someone who might tell him something about the woman’s body found at the shelter. But no one had talked, no matter what he offered. So he’d headed to his storage shed and dug through old file boxes, trying to find his notes on the Sorority Murder story. He’d dug out five boxes from deep in the shed when he’d hit pay dirt and discovered the box of missing notes.

His eyes itched as he pulled the mail—mostly junk and bills—from the full box. He shoved the lot under his arm next to the newspaper, closed the box door and headed up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. He never took the elevator and he always walked when he could. His hours for getting to the gym proved next to impossible but he liked the fact that his waist was as trim as it had been when he’d been doing more fieldwork.

He unlocked his front door, entered and kicked it closed behind him. Polished hardwood floors and white walls were the first thing most visitors commented about. He liked the sleek barren look—fewer distractions when he wrote.

The large living room had a long, low black couch, which sat across from a coffee table and a wide-screen television. The only pictures on his wall were photos he’d snapped during his travels. U.S. soldiers raising an American flag in Baghdad in front of a school-house. Snow falling on a young blond teenage girl with braids in Munich. A girl in Madrid on a scooter, arms wrapped around her boyfriend’s waist as she grins over her shoulder. A Russian soldier crossing the cobblestone street at the Kremlin in Moscow while a handful of schoolchildren watch. Each photo represented a story assignment and each offered a perfect conversation opener.

He set the box and mail on a sleek black slate table that sat under a white dome chandelier, but kept his espresso. The galley-style kitchen glistened with chrome and polished black granite countertops. It looked sleek as hell, but he rarely used it.

Donovan sorted through the mail, tossing the ads and bills in separate piles. The last piece was an oversized manila envelope that was hand addressed.

His sister occasionally sent him articles of interest. But Nadia lived in Europe now and the postmark on the envelope was local. He tore open the envelope, anxious to start digging through his old files. He pulled out a single piece of paper and glanced at the handwritten note.
REPENT OR ATONE.

“What the hell?” If the mail hadn’t been delivered to his apartment building he’d have balled it up and tossed it away. He’d had his share of crackpots contacting him over the years. But this one had come to his home. And he’d always been so careful about hiding his identity from everyone.

Donovan stared at the note. He could call the cops but what could they do? “Keep your eyes open,” they’d say.

He didn’t need to waste a half a day at a police station to know he had to be careful. He carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. He’d tuck it in the file with all the other hate mail.

Repent or atone.

If the letter had been a mindless rant like all the others, he’d have shoved it out of his mind. But the simply spoken words rattled through his mind as he opened the box and mined for gold.

Red Horseman
had been on-line for just under an hour when
Drama-Girl
came into the chat room.
Drama-Girl
and
Red Horseman
had hooked up a few weeks ago in the chat room for single professionals living in the Washington, D.C., metro area. Immediately, they’d struck up a rapport and
Drama-Girl
quickly found she anticipated their chats.

Drama-Girl
was lonely, bummed that her parents’ thirty-year marriage had ended in divorce and her own affair with a married man had dissolved. Toss in the fact that
Drama-Girl
also felt the weight of her ad sales job, which had grown more and more competitive in the last year.

The chat rooms helped her unwind. My boss is an ass.

Red Horseman
responded, He just doesn’t appreciate the work you do. You’ve told me how hard you work.

Drama-Girl
liked the fact that
Red Horseman
was her age and an ambitious professional. He, too, worked long hours and was feeling the pressures of the economy. I should have his job. He thinks he knows how the work gets done but he has no clue.

You will have his job one day. I have confidence in you. You are going places.

Drama-Girl
glanced up from her laptop through the glass walls of her office. The mail boy had paused at her door and slowly sorted envelopes. I’ll own this company one day.

I’d bet on it. I keep telling you how smart you are.

Thanks. You always make me feel so good. No one else understood her like
Red Horseman.

She’d sent him pictures. The first few were sweet, safe. When
Red Horseman
had sent her a picture and she’d been pleased to see a darker, smokier version of Brad Pitt, she’d been so thrilled. Maybe she had found the one. Luv your eyes! Too cute!

God, she’d just passed her thirtieth birthday and was falling for a guy she’d never met. She’d read all the warnings, even watched those reality To-Catch-a-Bad-Guy-type shows but
Red Horseman
wasn’t like them. He never asked anything of her and gave her so much support. He was real, genuine. She could feel it in her bones.

So she’d sent him more explicit pictures. When she’d said she’d wanted to hook up,
Red Horseman
had suggested they go a little slower. He wanted her to be sure. It touched her that he was looking out for her well-being.

But
Drama-Girl
was anxious and so certain of her feelings. Waiting was overkill. Hey, let’s meet. I’m leaving town on business in a few days and I want to see you before I go. I am so sure of you.

The cursor blinked for several moments as if the machine was deep in thought. Are you?

His smiling picture stared at her, fueling feelings of a deep spiritual connection. I am very sure. When?

I’m leaving in three days on my trip. Tonight? Her fingers trembled with anticipation as she drummed them nervously on her desk.

Great. Where?

There’s a bar on Prince Street.

Renegades?

Yes.

I know it. Nine work?

It sure does, babe.

I can’t wait.

Neither can I.

Chapter 8

Tuesday, April 4, 5:26 A.M.

When Garrison returned to his office, Lieutenant LaPorta sat in one of the two metal chairs in front of his desk, her long legs outstretched, ankles crossed. Her head tipped forward as she studied the screen of her BlackBerry. LaPorta had always liked her gadgets, whereas he simply tolerated cell phones and pagers as necessary evils.

He passed by her and dropped his keys on the desk. Shrugging off his jacket, he hung it on the back of his chair. “What do you have? ”

She typed a message into the BlackBerry. “Where’s your partner in crime?”

“Kier? Tracking down backgrounds on a couple of our witnesses to the fire.”

She hit Send. She tucked the BlackBerry in the pocket of her dark blazer as if she had all the time in the world. “The fire was definitely arson. We tested the area for chemicals and the kitchen area lights up like a Christmas tree. I suspect gasoline, judging by the scent, but tests will confirm. A Molotov cocktail tossed at the front door as your witness suggested would have set the place ablaze.”

He leaned back in his chair wondering why the murderer would set fire to the shelter. Had someone in the shelter seen him dump the body? Or was the killer sending a message? “Any of the residents test positive for accelerant?”

“No. They were all clean. And none so far have any arson priors or reasons to burn the place.” Her Black-Berry beeped. She glanced at it but ignored the caller. “Any word on your Jane Doe?”

“I’m headed to the medical examiner’s office in a few minutes. She’ll be doing the autopsy in an hour. No match on prints yet. And so far no missing-persons reports match her description.”

“You’ve got yourself a puzzle, Garrison. And as I remember, you like puzzles.”

He grinned, hoping to dodge the personal stuff. “Sure, why not?”

She studied him a minute. “That’s why we didn’t work. I’m just too straightforward. An open book. No mystery to be untangled.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“Not in our case.”

He tensed, unsure why she’d chosen now to revisit the past. Not sure what to say, he said nothing.

“Have you ever wondered why we didn’t work? That’s a puzzle I’ve never been able to crack.”

It hadn’t worked with Macy or anyone else—not since his wife had died. Life with Susan had been a roller coaster—ups and downs. And in the beginning it had been great. Then the mood swings became more pronounced. She either couldn’t sleep for weeks on end or would crash and not be able to get out of bed for days. Taking care of Susan had become a job unto itself. And still he’d loved her and tried to make it better. They’d been married fourteen months when he came home and found her dead. She’d committed suicide. That had been a decade ago, but since then he’d not been in any relationship for the long haul.

“I never lied to you, LaPorta.” And he hadn’t. He’d also never promised what he couldn’t deliver. A normal life. A family.

“You have a way of drawing people in and making them believe they’re special.”

An awkward silence settled between them. “I’m not sure what to say. ”

Macy usually didn’t struggle with emotions and it surprised him she did now. “Nothing to say, I guess.”

“What’s this about?”

Suddenly she straightened, as if realizing her terrible slip. “Sorry. Don’t know where that came from.” Color flushed her cheeks as she rose. “I’ll keep you posted if I find out anything more about the fire.”

He stood. “Great. Thanks.”

As Macy left his office, Garrison listed all the attributes that made Macy perfect for him. Smart, logical, independent. He respected and admired her, but had never loved her. Maybe Susan’s death had damaged him and left him no good for anyone.

His mind took an unexpected turn back to Eva Rayburn’s sharp eyes and smoky voice, which had remained with him all day. She was like a cool, smooth pond, but he suspected the waters below the surface were deep, murky and even turbulent. But was she a firebug or a killer? That he didn’t know.

A puzzle.

Macy was right on one score.

He liked puzzles.

Butterflies chewed Eva’s stomach when she knocked on the door of Mark Givens, director of financial aid at St. Margaret’s College. She’d sat in on a few classes and had discovered just how much she’d missed college and learning. She’d done some studying on-line in prison, but it had not been the same as sitting in a room full of students or talking directly to a professor. So on a whim six weeks ago, just days before the spring deadlines, she’d applied to the college and to the scholarship program, knowing without help she’d not be able to afford full-time college.

She’d been accepted two weeks ago to St. Margaret’s, but had yet to hear from financial aid. She’d been dreading this visit for days.

Eva pushed open the door. “Dr. Givens.”

Dr. Givens raised his dark gaze up from a stack of papers on his desk, peering over horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to owlish proportions. He’d shorn his dark thinning hair close to his head and his white button-down shirt and black slacks exactly fit his trim body. As always, he studied her as if trying to peer into her brain.

“Eva Rayburn,” she supplied. “You said you might have news on my grant application today. ”

“Rayburn. Yes, I have your file.” He pretended to not quite remember her name, but she sensed he’d not forgotten the ex-con. Few did. He turned to the bird’s nest of papers on his desk and rooted through them. Several seconds passed before he found her paperwork. “Have a seat.”

Eva held the strap of her backpack so tight her knuckles ached. For so many years she’d told herself that wanting too much was dangerous. Much like venturing off the porch and racing to the car before the neighbor’s pit bull attacked.

But in the last six months, she’d found it harder and harder not to want more. She wanted to go to school, wanted a real college education, wanted a normal life. Still the memory of her year at Price haunted her. She’d reached and been punished for it. For ten years she’d licked her wounds, fought off anger and resentment and in the darkest hours of night dreamed again of what might be. Those dreams had grown hungrier and hungrier with each year and now it seemed they were demanding to be fed.

And now she was reaching again. And she’d never been more terrified.

“Has the committee decided on my scholarship?”

He nodded. “You have excellent college board scores. Perfect, in fact. I first assumed the results were wrong but you took them twice. Scored perfectly both times. That doesn’t happen often.”

“I’m good with tests.”

“And we received your transcripts. You earned all A’s throughout your first and only year of college. Excellent essays on your application.”

“Yes.”

“The only thing working against you of course is your criminal record.” He peered over the edge of his glasses. “We don’t get many students who have served time for manslaughter. ”

Eva lifted her chin, refusing to cower. She’d served her time. “No, I suppose not.”

“Your manslaughter conviction gave the committee pause.”

Eva sensed “The But” coming and had to fight a crushing wave of disappointment. She’d heard all the reasons she couldn’t be hired in Richmond or why she couldn’t rent a room. But instead of cowering or showing any sign of sadness, she trained her gaze on his wanting a direct connection when he rejected her. “What are you saying?”

“Your paperwork said that you killed a young man from your college, Price University.”

She’d been up-front about all the details. “Yes.”

“I spoke to the warden and to your parole officer.”

No doubt he’d asked about all the gruesome details that most were afraid to ask her directly. Why did you kill that boy? He raped me. How did you kill him? I don’t remember. They say I hit him in the head with a fireplace poker. Why did you burn the house down? I don’t remember.

She had the vague sense of an old scab being scraped open. “And?”

“Both had very good things to say about you. They believe you deserve a second chance.”

The breath she’d been holding seeped from her lungs. The warden had been kind to her, recognizing her need to learn. Her parole officer had given her used books to read.

Eva nodded, again fearing her voice would crack with emotion. Maybe she’d read him wrong.

“We are progressive here at St. Margaret’s. We’re not a big university but we believe what we do here has value. And we believe in second chances.” He smiled and he held out his hand. “You’re one of the strongest applicants we’ve had in years.”

Hope flickered. For an instant, her future flashed bright and shiny. “Does that also mean I get the scholarship? ”

He sighed. “You did not get the award.”

Her lips flattened as she choked back hurt and anger. “You just said I was your strongest applicant.”

“You are, and if it were up to me you’d have gotten the money. But we have a very conservative board of admissions. Some were uncomfortable about your past.”

“They accepted me to the school.”

“Yes. You are smart. No doubt. But the committee decided other students deserved the scholarship more.”

Bitterness twisted in her belly. “More deserving.”

He grinned, oddly reminding her of a clown she’d once seen at the circus. Clowns were supposed to be happy, funny creatures, yet the one she’d seen had given her nightmares for a week. “You’ve been accepted. There must be another way to find financing.”

“Without the money, they might as well have denied me.”

“We can defer your admission up to three years.”

“At the rate I’m saving, it’ll take twenty years before I have enough. “ Suddenly the walls in the room closed on her. Her chest tightened and for a moment the crushing confinement of prison returned.

Eva extended her hand, wondering how long her past would haunt her. When did people forget about the past and just let you live? “Right. Thanks.”

His smooth palm wrapped around her hand. “If it means anything, you had my vote.”

“You’re not on the committee.”

“No.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Eva pulled her hand free and left his office. As she climbed down the building’s stairs she could feel her anger growing. For so long she’d refused to dream or want. And now that she had opened the door to the future, her past had again slammed the door in her face.

She paused at the bottom of the stairwell, her hand on the door. She’d been branded a murderer and done her time for the crime. But in those lost moments, doubt taunted her.
Are you sure you killed him? Are you sure?

For so long, she’d simply accepted. But acceptance had not only cost her ten years, it had also gnawed into her future. The time had come to reach into the shadows and embrace doubt. Good or bad, she needed to know what happened in the moments leading up to Josiah’s death.

Eva yanked open the door, wincing as bright sunshine slammed her. She had to pause, as her eyes adjusted to the harsh glare. When her vision cleared, she headed for her truck, her long strides determined.

Twenty minutes later, grim determination had replaced the butterflies as she climbed the staircase to the second-floor computer lab at the college. She clutched a bag of fresh doughnuts as she walked to the teaching assistant’s office. She knocked.

“Yep. Come in.” The deep baritone voice had her spine straightening.

She summoned a grin. “Jeremy, I brought glazed doughnuts.”

Jeremy’s chair squeaked as he turned from a desk piled high with bits and pieces of computers. Long black hair skimmed narrow stooped shoulders and framed a narrow face. His large green eyes, accentuated by the blackness of his T-shirt, bulged a little when he laughed. He reminded Eva of a hobbit. “Back again?”

“We bad pennies keep turning up.”

He laughed. “You must want a favor. Another computer lesson?”

Smile widening, she handed him the doughnuts. “No lesson this time. I just need a little computer time.”

He dug a doughnut out of the bag and sniffed it. “You know the way to my heart.”

Eva kept her stance casual. “Is that ayes?”

Jeremy bit into the doughnut and closed his eyes in sheer pleasure. “Sure. What are you looking for?”

“Just doing a little poking around.”

“No chat room this time? ”

“Don’t really have the time for it now.” The chat room had been a fascinating world to her where it seemed no one judged her and accepted her at face value. She felt free when she surfaced. ‘Just searching.”

“Swear.”

“I do.”

“Have at it,” he mumbled as he extended his hand toward a laptop in the corner.

Eva had met Jeremy a few months ago when she’d been sitting in one of his classes. She’d not had much access to computers while she’d been in prison and she’d soaked up all he’d offered about computers. She’d figured out quickly he had a weakness for glazed doughnuts and came armed with a dozen when she picked his brain. Soon she was doing advanced searches on her own and even helping him.

She sat down in front of the computer and typed: “Sorority House Murder.” Seconds later her search gave her a list of choices to choose from.

“Have you considered college?” Jeremy said.

“Sure. But the money is holding me up.”

“You’re smart. I bet you’d get grant money.”

“Maybe.” She’d not told him about the scholarship and now was glad. Explaining why she’d been rejected meant explaining the past.

She selected an article and waited while it loaded. The article had been written over a decade ago and featured a picture of the sorority sisters who had testified against her. Sara. Lisa. Kristen.

They were the key to those missing minutes because they’d been there. They had testified that Eva had swung the fireplace poker and hit Josiah hard enough to kill him. They’d been so certain, so unified in their stories. They couldn’t, wouldn’t have lied. Would they? They’d been her closest friends.

“So who are those chicks?” Jeremy said.

She clicked out of the article, hit the print button and glanced back at him. His lips glistened with doughnut glaze. “Ancient history.”