Trust Me (14 page)

The photos in this section weren't as revealing as the ones in Playboy, but she was obviously using her body to motivate others to buy her video and diet products. She posed in skimpy outfits to show how particular exercises had tightened her abs or toned her behind. There was related information, too--various low-calorie recipes, clothing suggestions, hair- and skin-care tips.

David wondered how often Oliver Burke had frequented this site. He checked the guest book for past entries, but it didn't go back far enough--

"Whoa, now I know why you told Tiny you had to work. I'd rather 88

spend my lunch hour with her, too."

David twisted to the side to see Mike Fitzer standing at the entrance to his cubicle, looking at his monitor.

"She's involved in one of my cases," David explained.

"If you have to bring her in, I'll pay you fifty bucks to let me frisk her."

David wished Mike would mind his own business. He was the laziest detective on the force. It was difficult to believe someone could accomplish so little and still manage to hang on to a job.

"Hate to disappoint you, but I'll be lucky to speak with her. She's only peripherally involved."

"Too bad."

Mike didn't move on, so David rolled away from his desk. "Something I can do for you, Mike?"

"Actually, there is. You know the woman who started The Last Stand?"

"I know the three women."

"I'm talking about the one who's been getting so much press lately.

Skye Something."

"Kellerman."

"That's her."

No surprise there. This was the second time in two days someone on the force had mentioned Skye to him. But ever since she and her friends had started TLS, hearing her name at the station wasn't all that uncommon.

"What about her?"

"She's a major pain in the ass."

"What's she done?"

"She's hired a private investigator to look into one of my cases, and he's majorly pissing me off."

David momentarily lost interest in Miranda's Web site. "Because..."

"He keeps getting in my face, telling me how things should be done.

He thinks he knows more about running an investigation than I do."

David thought he probably did. "Which case is this?"

"Sean Regan's."

"The man who went missing on New Year's Day?" David had read about Regan in the paper, heard about him at the office.

"That's the one. Skye's convinced his wife had him
killed,
so this private investigator of hers is badgering me to run a few license plates and get other information."

"Is there any chance the wife did it?"

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"Not in my opinion."

"What do the facts suggest?"

"There's no life insurance to speak of, so she had nothing to gain financially from his death. She's a good mother, someone with no criminal history. Why would she all of a sudden decide to kill her husband?"

"Why does Skye think she did it?"

"She claims Mr. Regan thought his wife was having an affair, that Mrs. Regan wanted to get rid of him so she wouldn't have to fight him for custody of their kids. But chances are greater it was Sean who was cheating, and now he's run off to avoid his family responsibilities. His boss told me Sean missed a lot of work in the weeks right before he went missing. Said he was acting strange."

So Mike had done some legwork.... "Strange in what way?"

"Whispering on the phone while he huddled in the corner. Coming back very late from lunch. Making stupid mistakes."

"You think he'd up and leave his kids?"

"For the right woman? Hell, yeah. He wouldn't be the first father to do it."

The enthusiasm in that statement made David a little uncomfortable.

What would he do for the right woman? Forget his own responsibilities?

He understood that temptation better than most. "I'll talk to Skye," he said.

"Tell her to stay out of my business before she really pisses me off,"

Mike grumbled. Another detective called his name and, nodding at David, he crossed the room.

Muttering a curse, David turned back to his desk, clicked on the E-mail Me button and sent Miranda Dodge a message telling her he had a few questions about Oliver Burke. Then he signed off. He had some appointments this afternoon and needed to be on his way. One was with the hygienist who'd worked for Burke before he was forced to close his doors.

Skye easily located the address written on the slip of paper she'd salvaged from Jane Burke's garbage. It happened to be only a few blocks away from Jane's current residence. Initially, she'd thought Jane and Oliver might be planning to move, but the place wasn't for sale or rent, so she looked up the phone number in a crisscross directory, and called to ask if anyone at that location had any connection to the Burkes. The woman at the other end of the line said her daughter was a playmate of Kate's--then asked why she wanted to know and Skye hung up.

So much for the extra effort....

Disappointed that her garbage foray hadn't netted more, she threw the 90

note away and used Google and the fee-based online resources of LexisNexis, ChoicePoint and Merlin Data to search for anything connected to Oliver or Jane Burke.

Prior to Burke's attack, Skye had been an account executive for a carpet company, completely ignorant of how the criminal justice system worked. But since then, thanks to her efforts with The Last Stand, she'd learned a lot about running an investigation.

She found the Burkes' marriage certificate, which held no surprises.

The birth certificate for their daughter, Kate. Bankruptcy and foreclosure papers from when Jane lost the house after Oliver went to prison. Quite a few newspaper articles about the trial surfaced on the Internet, too.

Normally, an attempted rape would rate a one on a scale of one to ten compared to the more sensational topics, such as arson, murder and terrorism, which received the majority of media attention. But Oliver had been such an unlikely rapist, and so well-known in the community, that prosecuting him had drawn fierce battle lines between the believers and unbelievers--the kind of controversy that sold papers.

For the heck of it, Skye tracked down the name of Burke's brother and ran a few searches on him, too. Now that she knew he was having an affair with Jane, she was curious to learn more about him.

Noah was definitely married, with three kids ages ten, eight and five.

He lived in Orangevale and ran what appeared to be a successful construction business: NSL Construction. He had excellent credit, coached Little League, seemed to be a pretty upstanding guy. Except with regard to Jane.

Skye wondered if his wife had any idea what was going on. Then she decided she was too emotionally spent to imagine the heartbreak and put it from her mind. She had to focus, keep working, find something that would give her an advantage over Burke....

Besides all the newspaper stuff and magazine articles, Oliver's name came up on some civil litigation--two lawsuits, both initiated by people who'd once lived on the same street as the Burkes. The first dated back ten years and was filed by a man named Markum. He claimed that Oliver had killed his dog. In the second, a Mr. and Mrs. Harold Simmons had sued the Burkes for throwing acid on their lawn.

Skye wasn't sure whether the information she'd managed to dig up would mean anything in the end. David had probably found it already and discarded it as too old or inconsequential. But, at the very least, she had the names of two neighbors who might be willing to share what they knew about Oliver Burke.

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Planning to visit both households, she jotted down the house numbers.

But before she could grab her purse and set off, the phone rang.

"Any more threats?" It was Jasmine. She sounded tired, depressed and worried--and she didn't even know about their financial predicament at The Last Stand or that Sheridan was struggling with her past again.

"No more threats," she responded. "But then, I haven't been home. I spent the night with Sher."

"Smart move. I don't like you living all the way out in the boondocks."

"Don't start." Skye's nerves were frayed enough. The minutes seemed to be marching past her, indifferent to her growing anxiety, carrying her forward, ever closer to Burke's release.

Would he come after her right away? Part of her wished he would.

Better to get it over with than spend God knows how long looking over her shoulder, afraid to sleep or even breathe in case she missed some sign.

"A place in town would be safer," Jasmine said.

"Not necessarily. That would only prolong the inevitable."

"Don't be so fatalistic. It doesn't have to end that way."

A gut sense told Skye it could end no other way, but she didn't attempt to explain the unexplainable. "Maybe, maybe not," she said to avoid an argument. Then she got up and closed her office door because she could scarcely hear above the solicitations going on over the phone in the lobby.

"How's it going in Ft. Bragg?"

"Not good."

Skye returned to her seat. "You haven't found her?"

The quality of Jasmine's voice changed. "They found what was left of her."

"Oh, Jasmine. I'm so sorry."

Silence, followed by a muffled sniffle, let Skye know Jasmine was crying. She waited, giving her friend time to grieve.

Finally Jasmine spoke. 'They found her in a trash bag, tossed onto a rocky section of beach from the highway above. Can you believe it?"

Unfortunately, Skye could. "When was this?"

"Just after dawn."

"Will you be okay, Jas? Should I come get you?"

"No, I can drive. I wouldn't want to leave my car behind. Anyway, how long have we been doing this? I'm getting used to the worst possible outcomes. But the hardest thing, the thing I will never get over, is the senselessness. Why ? Why would anyone do this to a child?"

"That's the age-old question," Skye said. "Do you know who did it?"

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"Not yet. But I've finished the profile. It's up to the FBI and the local police now. I might as well go home. I've got work to do."

"It can wait if you need the time."

"It can't wait. It's all so.. .critical."

And that was why working at The Last Stand was draining, heartbreaking, thrilling and rewarding. The emotional pendulum swung so wide. "Maybe you should take a break."

"I prefer the distraction." There was another lengthy silence while Jasmine tried to control her emotions. "I'll call you when I get back."

"Okay, do."

"See you soon."

Jasmine hung up, and Skye sat at her desk staring at the wall, which held the photographs of several famous serial killers--Ted Bundy, Son of Sam, Leonard Lake. They all looked so ordinary. That was why she'd hung them there, to remind her that their appearances masked the monsters they were.

Reaching into her drawer, she took out the picture she couldn't bear to put on her wall--the picture some reporter had wangled out of a family member of Oliver's and published the day after the trial. It showed him as a ten-year-old boy, scrubbed and polished in a suit and tie with his hair slicked back. He'd been a small kid for his age, a cute kid, which was the reason Skye had clipped his photo from the paper. He, more than any of the others, reminded her that predators could come in all shapes and sizes, that even little boys with good parents could turn out to be conscienceless criminals who destroyed anyone and everyone they could.

"You won't win," she whispered, staring into his black, grainy eyes.

But she shivered when she glanced at her calendar.

It was Wednesday afternoon. Oliver would be released on Friday.

Oliver lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling while listening to the snores of his cellmate below. The tap of footsteps on concrete, an occasional moan, even the echo of various conversations ebbed and flowed in a constant hum. But the noise, the cold and the drafty air that smelled heavily of body odor wouldn't be part of his life much longer. It was nearly Thursday. One more day and he'd be born again, out of the bowels of hell....

He couldn't believe the torturous wait was nearly over. All he had to do was continue avoiding Vic. And, now that it was down to a matter of hours, Oliver felt confident he could do that. He would simply remain in his cell until Friday morning. Then Jane would pick him up and off they'd go.

Vic could go to hell. Vic wouldn't be able to hurt him.

Closing his eyes, he pictured his wife's eager greeting. Three years 93

was a long time to wait for a man. But Jane was an incredible woman.

Maybe Skye had cost him a lot, but she hadn't cost him Jane--or Kate, who'd just turned seven.

Oliver retrieved his flashlight--prisoners who weren't a behavioral problem and performed as many services as he did were allowed more possessions than the average inmate--and pulled the blanket over his head so he could study the notes he'd made in ciphertext. He'd gotten so good at forward substitution that he no longer needed the key he'd created; he knew it by heart.

His cellmate snorted and rolled over. "Damn, Ollie, go to sleep. What are you doing up there? Jerking off again?"

Oliver ignored him. He had a right to jerk off if he wanted to. It was certainly better than his other options at the moment. His small size and soft-spoken manner had proved to be a real attraction to the men in prison, but homosexual encounters left him more disgusted than satisfied. Except for Larry. He'd met Larry in the library one day. They'd had a lot in common--

liked the same books and music. Larry was gentle and quiet, and he knew how to make Oliver feel like somebody. But in the end he'd turned out to be a big disappointment. Sometimes Oliver regretted what he'd had to do to Larry. Sometimes he missed Larry more than Jane.

Putting Larry from his mind, he flipped back several pages and read over what he'd written, quickly translating it into plaintext. He'd created his method of encryption years ago so he could put his thoughts on paper without worrying that someone might get hold of his notebooks and read them. He remembered doing it when he was as young as ten. But the simple alphabet substitutions he'd started with had grown into a much more elaborate cipher system that included numbers and even geometric symbols.