Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 10

Julia Rutledge lives in a stately home surrounded by mature trees in an established neighborhood of Painters Mill. I pull into the driveway and park behind a green Jaguar XJ6.

“Nice wheels,” Skid says as I shut down the engine.

“A little above your pay grade,” I say. “So is she.”

“A guy can hope.”

“Are you referring to the car or the woman?”

At his grin, I get out and slam the door. We walk in silence to the well-lit front porch, where baskets of pansies and asparagus ferns hang from freshly painted eaves. It’s raining again, but I can hear the television inside. I knock and a moment later a female voice comes at me through the door. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder,” I say loud enough to be heard through the door. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, Ms. Rutledge.”

“Would you mind showing me your ID?”

“No problem.” Surprised by her vigilance, I glance at Skid as I reach for my badge. He looks back at me and shrugs. I hold my ID a foot or so from the peephole. A moment later the bolt lock snaps open. I hear the security chain disengage. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a striking woman with wavy blond hair that falls well past her shoulders and perfectly arched brows that frame eyes the color of lake ice. At fifty-three years of age, Julia Rutledge is attractive with a slender, athletic build and cheekbones any runway model would pay a year’s salary to possess. She’s wearing a pale blue linen blouse with black slacks. Bloodred toenails peek out of embroidered espadrilles.

“Julia Rutledge?” I show her my badge again.

Taking her time, she gives it another once-over. “Sorry about that. A single woman can’t be too careful these days.” She has the deep and melodic voice of Lauren Bacall, but with a touch of the South. Her gaze sweeps to Skid and her mouth curves. “Hello.”

Skid touches his hat. “Ma’am.”

“This is Officer Skidmore,” I tell her. “May we come inside? We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Please do. It’s awful out there.” She steps back and opens the door wider. “Weatherman says there’s more on the way.”

Skid and I step into a large, neat living room with gleaming hardwood floors covered with an Amish-made braided rug. An oil painting depicting an Amish woman standing in the middle of a wheat field, a woven basket in hand and a dog at her side is displayed on the wall next to the fireplace. The air smells of cigarette smoke that’s not quite masked by the otherwise-pleasant scent of vanilla.

“You have a beautiful home,” I tell her.

“Thank you.”

I motion at the painting. “Are you the artist?”

She smiles at the painting as if it’s a cherished old friend. “A doctor up in Wooster asked me to paint that one for him.” She chuckles. “When I finished, I couldn’t part with it.”

“I hope he understood.”

“He didn’t.” But she waves it off. “Such is the life of an artist.”

“Mrs. Rutledge—”

“Call me Jules, please.”

“Jules,” I repeat. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but a Painters Mill man by the name of Dale Michaels was murdered a couple of days ago.”

“I heard about it at the gallery today. Just … awful.”

Though she doesn’t actually move, she seems to curl in on herself. Then without a word, she crosses to the nearest end table and snags a pack of cigarettes. I watch as she taps one from the pack and lights up. That’s when I notice the Beretta on the lower shelf of the end table, within easy reach from the sofa.…

I wait, wondering if she’ll mention the call he made to her the night he was killed.

“I’d been talking to him about a painting he wanted to buy,” she tells me. “He told me he’d walked by my gallery one evening after hours and saw it in the window.”

“When was that?”

“I think it was the day before he was killed,” she tells me.

“Were you and Dale friends?”

She shakes her head. “I knew him in high school, but then everyone knew everyone in high school back then. Until that night, I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”

“Do you always take late-night calls from people you don’t know?”

Her eyes sharpen on mine. “That particular call came in on the gallery number. I had forwarded calls to my cell and just happened to pick up.”

I nod. “Did you talk about anything besides the painting?”

“I don’t think so. He mainly wanted to know if it was for sale and how much I wanted for it.”

“Do you know Blue Branson?” I ask.

“I see him around town on occasion.” She considers me a moment. “We went to high school together.”

“What about Jerrold McCullough?”

“What about him?”

“You went to school with all three of those men, didn’t you?”

“Painters Mill is a small town, Chief Burkholder. If you have a point, I’d appreciate it if you’d make it.”

“Did you keep in touch with any of them after high school?”

“No.”

I nod. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us figure out who killed Dale Michaels?”

“If I think of something, I promise I’ll let you know.”

I hold her gaze for a moment. She doesn’t look away. She’s got pretty eyes, I think. But there’s something in their depths I can’t quite put my finger on. Secrets? Fear?

I motion toward the pistol on the lower shelf of the coffee table. “Any particular reason you keep that so handy?”

“I’m not breaking the law, am I?”

“No,” I tell her. “I’m just curious.”

“With news of this murder … I was feeling uneasy, I guess.”

I nod. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Rutledge.”

I reach for the knob and open the door. Skid and I step onto the front porch. Jules Rutledge follows as far as the doorway. “I hope you find the killer.”

“I’ll do my best,” I assure her.

She closes the door. I hear the bolt lock and the security chain being engaged and look at Skid. “She seem kind of nervous about something to you?”

He nods. “Definitely uptight about security.”

“She doesn’t look like the type to keep a pistol handy while she’s watching TV.” I start down the steps.

“You think she’s afraid because of the murder?” he asks.

“Or else she’s expecting trouble.”

*   *   *

It’s past nine thirty, and I’m in the process of packing the file and my computer into my laptop case when a knock sounds at my door. I glance up to see Town Councilman Norm Johnston standing in the doorway, looking like he’d been physically dragged into my lair and I’m about to jab my spider fangs into his heart and suck out all his blood.

He’s not one of my favorite people, and the sentiment runs both ways, I’m sure. Shortly after I became chief, I busted him for a DUI, dashing his mayoral aspirations and setting the tone for an adversarial relationship that’s lasted almost four years now. The rift deepened during the Slaughterhouse Killer investigation when his daughter was murdered. I was the primary investigator, and like so many family members of victims, he blamed me.

“Hi, Norm.” I set down my laptop case. “Come in. What can I do for you?”

Norm is never comfortable around me. I know it’s because he doesn’t like me, but his job requires him to set his personal feelings aside. Tonight, I get the sense there’s another reason for his discomfort.

“I need to talk to you.” He enters my office and closes the door behind him. “Confidentially.”

I wonder if he’s going to cut my budget again despite the fact that it’s barely enough to keep my small department afloat. I mentally shore myself up, formulating my arguments as he settles into the visitor chair across from my desk.

“I think someone’s stalking me,” he begins.

It was the last thing I expected him to say. I try not to show my surprise. “Who?”

He glances over his shoulder at the door, as if expecting someone to come through it and catch him in here with me, and I realize he’s not merely upset; he’s frightened. “I’m not sure, but in light of this recent murder, I thought I should let you know.”

I may not like Norm, but I’ve never known him to be an alarmist. I know he wouldn’t be here talking to me about this if it wasn’t serious. As a cop, I’ve learned to take any threat seriously.

I pull out a yellow legal pad. “Tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”

He reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and retrieves several folded sheets of what looks like lined notebook paper. “I found the first one taped to my car window. Three days ago.”

I open my drawer and pull out a single latex glove, then work my right hand into it. I take the papers, lay them on my desktop, and unfold them. I see cursive scrawl in blue ink. You knew. Nothing else. Puzzled, I go to the second page.

You looked the other way. I go to the final page. You’re next.

“Kind of cryptic,” I say.

“Not to mention threatening,” he says.

“Do you have any idea why someone would send them to you? Or what the notes refer to?”

“Some nutcase.” He shrugs. “Maybe some council business I was involved with? A decision I made someone didn’t agree with. Believe me, it happens.”

I nod, but sense I’m not getting the whole story. “You said this was taped on your windshield and yet it doesn’t look as if it’s been wet.”

“My car was parked in the garage.”

“So whoever left this entered your home without permission?”

“That’s correct.”

“That’s trespassing.” I think about that a moment. “Any idea how they got in?”

“There’s a dog door that goes into the backyard. Probably came in at night.”

Turning, I pull an evidence bag from a drawer in my credenza. I slide the notes into it and then seal it. “I’ll send these to the lab to see if they can pick up some latents.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know, Norm, most stalking victims know their stalkers or they’ve had some contact with them at some point.” I make the statement without looking at him.

“Well, I have no idea who this is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Do you think it’s from a male or female?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

I tap the evidence bag with my finger. “Are these the only notes you’ve received?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything else unusual happened? At home? At your office? Or when you’ve been out and about?”

“No.”

“What about social media? Facebook or Twitter? Or e-mail? Any strange messages? Or phone calls?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Anything taken from your garage?”

“I checked. No.” Pulling a kerchief from the pocket of his jacket, he blots at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “This person came into my home, Chief Burkholder. In light of this recent and as-of-yet-unsolved murder, I felt as if I was being threatened.”

I pick up the evidence bag and recite the notes aloud from memory. “‘You knew.’ ‘You looked the other way.’ ‘You’re next.’” I furrow my brow. “They seem to be referring to a specific incident,” I say. “You’re sure you don’t have any idea what this stalker is referring to? Maybe he or she feels you’ve somehow wronged them? Maybe you had an argument or altercation that you didn’t think was important or significant at the time?”

“I have no idea what they could be referring to.”

“Norm, I know it’s frightening when something like this happens, and I know it can be disruptive to your life, but we don’t know that it’s related in any way to the murder.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he says defensively. “I said in light of the unsolved murder, I felt I should let you know.” He lowers his voice. “I’d appreciate some protection, Chief Burkholder. I want a police car at my house. At least at night.”

I pause to choose my words with care, because I know he’s not going to respond well to what I’m about to tell him. “Norm, I’m not discounting the threat posed to you by these notes. I think we should take this very seriously. But as town councilman, you know I don’t have the manpower to assign an officer to you, especially with this homicide on my hands.”

“I’m part of the governing body of this town. It’s your responsibility as chief to keep me and the rest of the citizens of Painters Mill safe from harm.”

“I can step up patrols—”

“I’ll go over your head. I’ll—”

I cut him off. “Norm, all you can do at this point is be vigilant about your personal safety. Keep your doors and windows locked. Keep your alarm system engaged. Be aware of your surroundings—”

“I don’t have an alarm system,” he snaps.

“Well, then get one installed,” I say firmly. “If you’re frightened, I suggest you hire private security.”

“Private security? Are you kidding?” He rises so abruptly, the chair back strikes the wall and chips the paint. “I knew better than to come in here and ask for anything from you.”

I rise as well. “Norm, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Not good enough. As usual.” He jabs his finger at me. He’s so angry, his hand is shaking. “If anything happens to me, Burkholder, it’s on your fucking back.” He jabs again. “Yours!”

“Norm—”

“Go to hell.”

He turns away, stalks to the door, and pushes it open with both hands. It swings wide and bangs against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed map of Holmes County.

CHAPTER 11

I’m usually pretty good at letting things roll off my back, especially when it comes to my job. A police chief invariably encounters a high level of conflict in the course of his or her duties—and a fair share of criticism. I learned a long time ago that you can’t please everyone. When you’re chief and you have an entire town counting on you to protect and serve, it’s foolish to try.

Still, my conversation with Norm Johnston troubles me as I head toward the farm. It’s not until I reach the county road that I realize it has more to do with his overreaction to the situation than his actual overt hostility. Worse, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not telling me something. But what?

It’s after ten when I arrive at the farm. I’m preoccupied with the case, the conversations and suppositions of the day. Thoughts of work evaporate when I spot Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked in its usual spot. Anticipation swells in my chest. It seems like days since I last saw him. In reality it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but suddenly I can’t wait to see him. I park beside his vehicle, shut down the engine, and get out. It’s raining again, so I grab my umbrella from the backseat and hightail it to the house.

I open the door and step into the brightly lit kitchen. Tomasetti is sitting at the table, his laptop open in front of him. The room smells of spaghetti and the bowl of potpourri I keep on the console table in the hall.

He looks up from his computer as I shake the rain from my coat. “Hey,” he says, rising.

“Hi.” I hang my coat on the hook, but not before I notice the tumbler of whiskey on the table beside his laptop.

He goes to the cupboard and pulls out the bottle of cabernet we opened the day before. He pours a generous amount into a glass and hands it to me. “You look tired,” he says.

I take the drink. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tomasetti.”

“In that case, first things first.” Taking the glass from me, he sets it on the counter, then raises his hands to either side of my face and kisses me.

Even after living with him for almost six months, this kind of intimacy still feels foreign and new. It moves me and I lean into him, my legs seeming to melt beneath me.

After a moment, he pulls back and hands me the wine. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

He turns to the stove and removes the lid from a small saucepan. “Leftovers okay?”

“You’re not trying to make up for leaving without a word this morning and avoiding me all day, are you?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder and grins. “I thought I’d try.”

“It’s working.” I walk to the stove and look into the saucepan to see that he kept spaghetti warm for me. “Smells great.”

“Have a seat.”

I take my glass to the table and sit across from where he was sitting and sip the wine. It’s dark and rich and leaves my tongue with a happy aftertaste.

Tomasetti places a plate of spaghetti, French bread, and a small salad in front of me. “So how’s the case going?” he asks as he takes the chair across from me.

I give him the highlights, ending with a recap of my conversation with Blue Branson.

“You think he’s involved with the murder?” he asks.

“I don’t think so, but he’s hiding something.”

“Protecting someone?”

“Maybe,” I tell him.

He turns his attention to his laptop. I take the opportunity to wolf down the food. “You wouldn’t think less of me if I licked my plate, would you?” I ask.

“No.” He doesn’t look up from the laptop, but his mouth twitches. “But I might get turned on.”

Smiling, I rise and take my plate to the sink. “What did you do today?”

“I went to Joey Ferguson’s house up in Bay Village.”

I nearly drop the dish in the sink, and I turn to face him. “Are you kidding me?”

He types something on the keypad. “Nope.”

“Tomasetti, I don’t have to tell you that was a bad idea, do I?”

He says nothing.

But I’m not ready to let it go. “You can’t have any contact with Ferguson.”

His sigh holds a hint of annoyance that doesn’t come through in his voice. “I’m aware.”

“But you did it anyway?” My temper begins to spiral, an uncomfortable pressure in my chest that climbs up my throat like some clawed animal. I know at least part of what I’m feeling is because I’m sleep deprived and frustrated with my case. But the bigger part of me is angry because this man I love doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that his actions no longer affect just him.

Taking a deep breath, I reel myself in, focus on keeping my voice level. “Tomasetti, I know this thing with Ferguson is difficult. And I know you’ve suffered. I get that. But you have to let this go.”

“In a perfect world—” He cuts off the rest of the statement, but the words hover between us, so tangible I could reach out and snatch them from the air with my fist.

In a perfect world, my wife and children would still be alive.

While I hate it that he was hurt so horribly, that three people he loved were stolen from him by violence, another part of me wants to remind him that he has me now. My heart. My love. And that if his family were here now, he and I would never have met.

After setting the plate in the sink, I go back to the table and sit across from him. “Tomasetti, if something happens to Ferguson—”

“If anything happens to Ferguson, it’ll be his own doing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I stare at him, refusing to acknowledge the pinpricks of unease on the back of my neck.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” He picks up the tumbler of whiskey sitting beside his laptop and sips. “I’m not going to do anything, so you can stop worrying. All right?”

“You’re going to his house. You’re talking to him. What do you call that?”

He doesn’t look up from his laptop. I see his eyes moving and I realize he’s reading, and that only pisses me off more. “I mean it, Tomasetti. This isn’t just about you anymore. The things you do affect me, too. It’s incredibly selfish of you not to consider that.”

He closes the laptop and looks at me. “Joey Ferguson is a piece of shit. He’s a murderer and a rapist and he’s going to continue fucking up people’s lives until someone stops him.”

“It doesn’t have to be you.”

“Who else is there, Kate? The Cleveland PD? BCI? A jury of his peers? Here’s a newsflash for you: They didn’t get the job done. The law failed me. It failed my family. My children.” Up until this point, he hasn’t raised his voice, but that final word is fraught with emotion, and I know that’s the heart of the matter here. That he lost his children. That they’d suffered before they died, and he hadn’t been there to protect them.…

“Your kids loved you,” I tell him. “They wouldn’t want you to sacrifice yourself in the name of revenge.”

“You don’t know anything about them.”

“For God’s sake, Tomasetti, you know better than anyone that sometimes terrible things happen to good people. The people we love get hurt. Sometimes we lose them.”

“Not like that!” His shout is so abrupt, so loud and filled with emotion that I jump. “They didn’t deserve what he did to them. He didn’t just murder them, Kate. He tortured them. He raped and terrorized them. And then he burned them alive. I couldn’t even bury them, because there was nothing left.”

“I know what they did!” I shout back. “And yes, it was the most horrible thing imaginable. But you survived—”

“Did I, Kate? Did I really?”

“Yes! Damn it, you’re just getting your life back on track. Tomasetti, you’ve got a lot to lose. We’ve got a lot to lose if you do something stupid.”

“Should I just let it go, Kate? Let that son of a bitch go on with his perfectly happy life while those caskets full of bone and ash rot in the ground?”

“Don’t go there. Don’t do this to yourself.”

He rises and approaches me. His nostrils are flared, teeth clenched. When he speaks, his voice is deadly and soft. “Do you know what he was doing earlier this evening?”

“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t—”

“It matters, damn it. It matters to me.” His hand shakes when he scrubs it over his jaw. “Ferguson threw a party at his mansion on the lake. To celebrate his freedom, evidently. He hired a band and caterers and invited all of his sleazy friends.” I see him pulling himself back, but he’s having a difficult time of it because some vital part of him has already gone over the brink. “There were kids there,” he grinds out. “I saw them. Playing in the yard. Oblivious to the fact that their host is a monster.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, but—”

“All of us are sorry. But you know what, Kate? Sorry doesn’t cut it. It doesn’t help. Being sorry doesn’t erase the fact that my kids suffered. I can’t get that out of my head. You know what makes all of this even worse? They died because of me. Because of what I do. Because of who I am. The same laws I devoted my life to enforcing failed me, Kate. Failed them. How the fuck am I supposed to live with that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, stepping toward him. “I don’t have the answers. But you can’t let Ferguson destroy you, too.”

“He already has.”

“No!” I shout. “I don’t accept that.”

For the span of a full minute, we stand silent, listening to the water pouring off the roof and the wind whistling around the eaves outside the window above the sink. I can feel my nerves zinging just beneath my skin. My breaths coming short and fast. My thoughts ricocheting inside my head so that I can’t focus on a single one.

After a moment, he says, “Living in a fantasy world won’t keep your nightmares from coming true.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do about that.”

A little voice of reason tells me to go upstairs, take a shower, and go to bed. Let it go. But I’m angry with him. Worse, I’m scared. I’m terrified he’s going to do something that will jeopardize this precious thing we’ve built.

“I can’t compete with them.” In the periphery of my consciousness, I hear myself say the words, hating them the instant they’re out because they sound jealous and shallow and petty, three things I’ve never been.

The air around me feels fragile, like if I move, something will shatter and I’ll never be able to pick up the pieces. For an instant, I’m frozen in place, undecided, unable to breathe.

But I can’t stay. Not like this. Rising, I snag my coat and keys and then head for the door.

“Kate.”

I open the door. His voice follows me into the night, but he doesn’t come after me.