Текст книги "Never Die Alone"

Автор книги: Lisa Jackson

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Before Brianna could explain, Selma appeared, dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing earlier in the day, her face devoid of makeup. Her hair hung limp in the ponytail, strands falling around her face and behind her glasses. Her eyes seemed to have sunken into her skull.

Obviously her daughters were still missing.

“Selma,” Brianna said, walking to the doorway to greet her.

“You talked with the detective?” Selma asked.

“Yes, I did.” Somehow Brianna had to put a positive spin on her meeting with Bentz. “I hope I lit a fire under him.”

“But you don’t know.”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow. For sure.”

Selma looked about to fall down. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she admitted. “I should be home, in case Zoe or Chloe show up. They might come for their car. . . .”

“You have your cell. Come on. How about a cup of coffee?”

Tanisha, who had overheard the conversation, was on it, reaching for a cup. “Regular?” she asked.

“I don’t care.”

Brianna met Tanisha’s gaze. “Let’s go with decaf, and then I think we’d better get started.”

“About time,” Enrique remarked with a pissy expression as he glared at the clock mounted to one side of the stage.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning.” Jenkins lifted an eyebrow and gave Enrique a stare as he stirred Equal into his coffee.

Brianna hated to defend him, but said, “Enrique’s right. We should get started.” The fact that Roger and Latrice hadn’t shown wasn’t that much of a surprise. Neither of them was all that tight with the group. “I guess if anyone else comes, they’ll catch up.”

“Shit, man, are you waiting for Roger?” Enrique snorted his disgust. “You can’t count on that dude. He’s whacked!”

“Well, aren’t we all, to some degree?” Jenkins threw back at him. “Wow. Way to be judgmental, Rico.”

“It’s Enrique.”

“Whatever.” Jenkins’s smile stretched a bit. He loved toying with the hothead.

Brianna warned, “Play nice.”

“Oh, ouch. I’m not the touchy one.” Jenkins took a sip from his cup, made a face, and said, “You know, we really oughta get some real cream here. This chemical garbage doesn’t cut it.”

“Organic?” Lincoln joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Tanisha wasn’t amused. She glared at Jenkins. “Fine. From now on, the cream and sugar and whatever anyone wants, that’s your job.” She pointed a glossy-tipped finger at the middle of Jenkins’s chest. “And while you’re at it, maybe some of that foo-foo flavoring. Hazelnut, or vanilla, or whatever other crap you all are into.”

“Wow. Seems to be an epidemic of irritation around here.”

“Excuse me?” Tanisha demanded hotly, but Jenkins backed off and found his seat.

“Take it down a notch,” Brianna suggested to Tanisha, and patted the air in a “calm down” motion. “This is supposed to be a support group.”

“Humph. With numb nuts?” Tanisha’s eyes narrowed on Jenkins.

“Hey!” Brianna shook her head. This could escalate no further. “We’re not in second grade. Okay?”

With an effort Tanisha tamped down her temper. “Yeah, I know. I’m just edgy. Lack of sleep.”

Reining things in, Brianna focused on Selma. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“No, but . . . why not? I can’t just sit in the apartment.”

“Okay, then maybe you should be first tonight. Come on.” She guided Selma into a chair and took the seat next to her.

Although Tanisha left the steaming cup of decaf on a small table beside her, Selma didn’t seem to notice. She clasped her hands between her knees and hung her head for a few seconds. Then when she finally pulled herself together enough so that she could talk, she took a deep breath. “This isn’t about Sandra,” she said, mentioning the twin sister she’d lost fourteen years earlier. “It’s about my daughters, Zoe and Chloe.” Her voice cracked on their names. “They’re missing.”

CHAPTER 11

“I don’t need much,” Edward said from somewhere on the other end of the phone connection, most likely the Texas hill country, where he’d been born and raised and had brought up his sons until moving to the farm outside of New Orleans.

Jase imagined his father, thin as a rail, lines marring his face, the scents of smoke and stale whiskey clinging to a graying beard that needed to be trimmed and jeans that hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for several weeks. Once a lean, tough ranch hand whose craggy face and sexy smile had caused more than his share of female hearts to skip a beat, Edward Bridges was now a ghost of his former Marlboro Man self. “You know, I just could use enough to get me through to the first of the month when I get my check.” Ed’s words were slurred as he wheedled his way through the pitch, which was always the case when he called to ask his son for money.

“Dad,” Jase said, leaning against the wall of his apartment and glancing to the living room where the slider door was cracked a bit, the night air slipping inside. “We’ve been through this all before.”

“I know, I know, but just hear me out. It’s been rough around here for the past couple o’ weeks. Landlord’s threatening to throw me on the street.” Ed laughed then, the chuckle rolling into a cough aggravated by forty years of cigarettes. “I’m just talkin’ a couple o’ hundred. Maybe three. You know I’ll pay ya back.”

That, Jase didn’t know. He had no idea how much he’d loaned his old man over the years. But in a way, it was payback to a father who had, in his dysfunctional manner, stood by his two sons when their mother had taken off after the loss of a third child, the brother Jase had never known.

Prescott had given up on the man who, as far as he was concerned, had done such a piss-poor job of single parenting. As for their mother, Marian Selby Bridges, child-bride and runaway wife? Neither Jase nor Prescott had ever heard from her. Neither man knew if she was dead or alive, and neither cared. At least she wasn’t calling and begging for money.

At that thought, Jase cringed.

“The old man’s playing you for a patsy,” Prescott had advised a few years back. Prescott had never bought into their father’s “poor me” act, and Edward Bridges’s series of girlfriends who called themselves “Auntie Maureen” or “Auntie Raydeen” or “Auntie Lou” to Edward’s sons had left a sour taste in both boys’ mouths. It wasn’t much of a wonder that Prescott had moved out and married Lena Hendrix, a woman with a firm set of values and a commitment to God, country, and, once she was wed, her husband.

Prescott had offered advice about handling their dad over the years. “You’re enabling him, bro,” Prescott had said during one memorable phone call. Jase had been in his truck, having just met with his father and, yes, “loaning” the old man a couple of hundred bucks. Again. Prescott had called as Jase was driving through the slanting rain to his apartment. At a red light, Jase waited while a man walking a huge dog crossed the street. His cell had been jammed against his ear listening to his brother. Prescott had said, “Stop. Okay?” Jase didn’t respond as the wipers slapped off the fat drops and the streetlight shimmered scarlet against the pavement. “Just don’t give him the cash. He’ll quit calling. Trust me. That’s what I did and he finally took the hint. Hell, I can’t take care of a wife and two kids and Dad, too.”

Jase hadn’t argued. He’d known his brother was right, but he’d never had the heart to completely write off his father. Not then. Not now. Not when he felt responsible to the father who’d raised him.

Times had been hard. Jase had grown up rough and tumble as his father had followed the work, moving from town to town, ranch to ranch until Edward with his affinity for the bottle and dragging two trouble-making boys had worn out their welcome. Along the way Jase had learned how to build a fence, round up strays, and buck hay, all the while attending three different elementary schools. He’d also discovered how to fight and when to run. Eventually, with a little luck, a lot of work, and an inheritance from his grandmother, he’d been able to make his way through college and law school. Scholarships and a federal loan or two had helped. He’d also found out that sitting in an office twelve hours a day doing legal research wasn’t in his DNA. A year after he’d taken a job with DeWitt, Montgomery and Horowitz, he’d quit and pursued freelance journalism, which had been his minor as an undergrad.

Ridiculously, because of his father’s own struggles Jase felt more than a little guilty about his accomplishments, something Edward had sensed and preyed upon.

As he was now.

“The way I figure it,” his father was saying, “I took care of you and your brother for all those years after your mother took off. And then you two kids inherit a shitload of money from your grandma, enough so you can get yourself through school and Prescott can pay for a goddamned BMW, a fuckin’ engagement ring with a rock the size of Gibraltar, and a damned wedding in the Bahamas. Talk about pissin’ it away!” He snorted in disgust. “You two kids ended up with the house and ranch, too.” Now he sounded bitter. He’d inherited his mother’s twenty-year-old Cadillac and a few thousand dollars, a hand slap from the grave. “So now, son, you and your brother?” Ed said. “You owe me.”

“That’s not the way it works,” Jase said, though he did get it. Their father’s portion of the inheritance had been small, and Ed had blown through it within a year.

“Look, Jase, I’m in a bind here. You know I hate to ask, but I got no choice. My back’s in a corner.”

“Okay, so I send you the money. What happens next month?”

“Hell, next month won’t be a problem. I got a side job that’ll pay out and by then my checks from the government will be comin’ steady-like, so I’ll be good.”

He shouldn’t do it. Jase knew he should stay strong. But suddenly he remembered his old man with a shovel, Edward’s hands so dirty you couldn’t see his nails as he stood beneath the spreading branches of that single tree visible from the living room of the house where Jase and Prescott had grown up, the house that it seemed he might soon own.

“I’ll pay ya back, son, I promise.” A pause. Heavy with portent. “I know things,” he said around a cough.

Now it was Jase’s turn to be silent, but his fingers clenched tightly over his phone and his shoulder muscles tightened.

He heard a lighter click and then a long intake of breath. “I’d hate to tell the family’s dirty little secret, but . . .” A long sigh. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

Jase thought about his own reputation, how he’d battled to lose the stink of the poor, tough kid who’d been at odds with the law, maybe even society when he thought about it. His jaw slid to one side as he considered Prescott, now playing the part of a religious man, a pillar in his church, a husband and father.

Trinity and Caleb’s innocent faces came to mind.

They didn’t deserve this. Jase had lived with the threat of his whole life unraveling, but he couldn’t face his niece and nephew carrying that burden with them. They knew nothing of their family’s secrets and shadowy past. It was best to keep it that way.

“You’re resorting to blackmail now?” Jase said, and heard his father take another deep intake of breath, remembered how the tip of Edward’s Camel glowed fiery red as he’d stood in the doorway of the farmhouse, staring into the night while rain had peppered the tin roof of the porch and gurgled down the gutters.

His father replied, “As I said, ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.’”

“Bullshit, Dad.”

Another pause. Another drag on the cigarette. Would Jase’s old man really do it? Actually go to the authorities, bring up a decades’ old crime? Or was Ed just blowing smoke? That was the problem with the past, it never really was over and gone. Long-dead misdeeds, buried and forgotten, had a tendency to rise up and sting you.

“I ain’t kiddin’, son.”

Jase felt as if he were being squeezed in his grandfather’s old vise, the one in the barn. Slowly and deliberately his father was turning the handle, making the jaws dig farther and farther into his flesh.

He caved.

Hated himself for it.

“Fine, Dad,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll send the check.” God, he was weak. He should have called the old man’s bluff. “It’ll go out tomorrow, but it’s the last time.”

“’Course it is, but I was hopin’ you might be able to wire it, y’know. Through Western Union. It’s faster. Or I’ll come get it.”

“I’m sending a check. That’s it.” He hesitated, then added, “And I’ve recorded this conversation. I’ve got an app that does that. So, when you call next month, I’m going to play it back to you.”

“What? For the love of Christ! I swear it. Aren’t you listening? You won’t need to, Jase,” Edward insisted. “And you’ll get your money back, you’ll see.” Ed hung up then. Mission accomplished.

Jase clicked his phone off and closed his eyes. He leaned his head against the wall and then banged it a couple of times, groaning. The problem was unending. His father had a love affair with the bottle; that was the long and short of it. And though he’d get sober and stay that way for months at a time, even landing jobs, Ed always broke down. Something or someone set him off, and he was soon cozying up to Jack Daniels or Jim Beam all over again.

Never once had he considered rehab. Jase had tried to get him into treatment, but after Ed’s flat-out refusals to enter any kind of program, Jase had eventually given up. His grandmother’s old adage came to mind: “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Especially if it’s a stubborn old mule!”

Edward Bridges had the stubborn part down pat.

And so Jase enabled him, a bit at a time. Sporadically his father called, always about something else, but the bottom line was that Ed ended up pleading for money and making Jase feel like a heel for putting the old man through it.

Jase glanced outside to his deck that ran the length of his one-bedroom unit situated three stories above the street. A moth was beating itself up near the window where, on the inside, a lamp was glowing. “I feel ya, pal,” he said. His whole damned family needed counseling, but it wasn’t going to happen. At least not tonight.

Ignoring his own sudden need for a beer, he pushed himself away from the wall and walked into the living room, where he flopped onto the couch with his laptop. His flat-screen mounted over the fireplace showed highlights of the week’s sports events on ESPN, the sound muted. He clicked onto the Internet through the newspaper’s server and started his search for information on the 21 Killer.

He’d heard more of Brianna’s conversation with Bentz than he’d admitted and now was on the track of the missing twins she’d mentioned. It didn’t take long. After logging in through the Observer’s Web site, he located information on the Reeves twins who’d gone missing from Phoenix, and Beau and Belle January from Dallas. They, too, had vanished, one after the other.

Victims of the 21 Killer?

Or just a coincidence?

Identical twins in the first case, but male.

Fraternal twins in the second, a man and a woman.

Not 21’s MO.

After printing out the information on each of the missing sets of twins, Jase added his own notes, including what he’d overheard about Zoe and Chloe Denning. The Denning girls fit the profile of 21’s victims much more closely than the other two sets. Was it possible that the killer had expanded from only female victims? The fact that they were killed as they turned twenty-one, of legal age, had to be significant. The killer was obviously making a statement about reaching adulthood, coming of age. Or was that just psychological crap and the guy was just a freak who had a fascination with twenty-first birthdays?

If they are victims of 21. Remember, the police and the criminal justice system think they got their man. There’s a chance this is all just Brianna Hayward’s half-baked theory.

He chewed on that; he didn’t think Brianna was the type to go off half-cocked, even if she was motivated by the desire to get her cousin Caldwell out of jail.

Then again, what did he really know about her? She’d been just a kid when he’d last seen her.

Still searching, Jase pulled up everything he could find about Donovan Caldwell, including the abduction and murders of his sisters, Delta and Diana. The abduction and ritualistic murders of Caldwell’s siblings mirrored those of Lucy and Laney Springer, two more of the 21 Killer’s victims.

Either the identical double homicides were committed by the same nut job, his apprentice, or a copycat who had inside information. From what source? The killer himself? An accomplice? A leak in the LAPD who would have information not given to the press or public?

Again, he made notes to himself. He had a buddy who’d worked at the LA Times for years, had some connections with the LAPD. Jase phoned, but his friend didn’t pick up, so he left a voice mail, then a quick text. As he read on, one of the most glaring facts that came out of his research was that there had been a gap of twelve years, a long span between the killings of the Caldwell twins and the Springer girls.

Had Donovan Caldwell suppressed his urges for a dozen years?

Unlikely.

Had the killer moved to another territory for a while, then returned to kill the Springer twins? If so, there were no records of Donovan Caldwell moving between the two double homicides, a fact his lawyer hammered home during the trial.

Jase poured over the data.

What, if any, was the link between the two sets of twins?

Leaning back on the couch, one heel propped on the coffee table, he stared at the television mounted over the grate, but he didn’t pay attention to the highlights of a recent baseball game. His thoughts were turned inward. The time gap between the murders bothered him. Could the second set of murders have been at the hands of a copycat? If so, had that killer traveled to New Orleans from LA?

The LAPD hadn’t prosecuted Donovan Caldwell for the Springer twins’ murders. The prosecutors obviously hadn’t found enough evidence to link Caldwell to the second set of homicides and had to settle for prosecuting him for the ritualistic killings of his sisters.

Caldwell had admitted to disliking his siblings, even resenting them, and he’d been an odd duck, a person who could make others uncomfortable or wary. But had he been capable of this macabre murder of his sisters, stripping them and hog-tieing them and killing them as they turned of age?

The jury had said yes, and he was now serving time for the murders. He’d screamed in the courtroom that he was innocent and he’d been insisting ever since that he didn’t kill his sisters. But that was par for the course for convicts. Many claimed their innocence.

Jase raked his fingers through his hair.

He stared at a picture of Donovan Caldwell, a man who blended in with the crowd. While his sisters had been gorgeous and outgoing, popular and, by all accounts, well-rounded, fun individuals, Caldwell had been a loner, a plain-looking man who had trouble holding down a job or forming any relationship. He’d taken the stand and to his attorney’s dismay referred to Delta and Diana as “the twins,” hooking air quotes. During his testimony he’d been unable to hide his disdain for them.

Probably sealed his fate.

Then there was the question of the murder case that occurred twelve years later. Was Caldwell also responsible for that? Lucy and Laney Springer’s murders had brought the unsolved Caldwell twins’ homicides to the fore, and somehow the new evidence or technology had been enough to convict Donovan for the older killings of his sisters. Not so for the Springer girls.

Did Donovan Caldwell actually wait twelve years to repeat his crimes, to relive taking his sisters’ lives? Or were there other victims scattered around the country, dual corpses of twins who’d disappeared and had never been located?

Far-fetched.

But even the most unbelievable homicides happened. Bizarre murders were rare, but certainly existed. Jase had only to think of the stories he’d covered or look at the true crime books stacked haphazardly on his bookcase near the fireplace to confirm that truth was stranger than fiction. People were capable of monstrous, heinous, and bizarre actions. Some targeted family members, others randomly picked strangers.

Father John was an example of a killer who targeted strangers for the most part. Posing as a priest, he’d killed prostitutes in the city, though his ultimate target had been someone he’d known.

“All kinds of psychos,” Jase told himself, cracking his neck to relieve some tension before turning to his computer for more digging. He scoured the Internet for information on Donovan Caldwell, finding old newspaper reports, court records, and interviews with the arresting officer. Throughout the arrest, arraignment, trial, and conviction, Caldwell had screamed his innocence, but was hauled off to jail. To this day he swore that he’d been railroaded by police and prosecutors, who felt pushed by public pressure to get the 21 Killer off the streets. The prosecution had asserted that as the oldest and only son of a man’s man who wanted his male heir to succeed, Caldwell had been unable to meet his father’s expectations. Told he was a failure, Caldwell had hidden his simmering resentment for years and plotted his revenge to take away his father’s favorites. He had reveled in his domination and control of their last seconds of life, ensuring they would never reach adulthood.

Case closed.

Until now . . . Combing through the data on the missing twins in Arizona and Texas, he wasn’t convinced that the 21 Killer was behind their disappearances. Everything was off about them. But, unfortunately, the Denning girls were a different matter altogether.

Jase set his laptop aside and walked to the kitchen. Was it possible? Had the cops arrested the wrong man? Had the jury jumped to the wrong conclusions? Was Donovan Caldwell serving time for crimes he hadn’t committed? And if so, was the real killer now stalking the streets of New Orleans?

Why would 21 come here? he wondered. To prove a point and goad Rick Bentz, as Brianna had asserted? That theory seemed thin, but Jase wasn’t going to dismiss anything at this point.

Opening his refrigerator, he frowned at its meager contents, which consisted of a cardboard slice of pizza from a week ago, a bottle of ketchup, and three lonely beers. “Pathetic.” He grabbed a long-necked bottle from the shelf and cracked it open before heading outside and standing on the deck. Three stories, traffic moved slowly, headlights visible through the leaves and dripping Spanish moss dangling from the branches of live oaks planted along the street.

Taking a long pull on the bottle, he felt the cold beer slide down his throat and hit his stomach.

Mosquitoes buzzed near his head. Somewhere in the distance someone was playing a saxophone, the melancholy notes of a bluesy song rising upward from the street. He relaxed a bit. Cleared his thoughts. Until, in his mind’s eye, he saw Brianna’s face. Damn she looked like her twin.

Arianna Hayward.

Oh, hell.

Leaning over the railing, holding his bottle in both hands, he silently cursed the gods who had gotten him tangled up with Arianna.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Though Jase hadn’t known Brianna in high school, he’d met Arianna. More than once. A lot more. Dark thoughts came to mind, disturbing images he’d rather forget.

Rolling his bottle in his hands, he told himself not to go there.

But that might prove impossible since Brianna had been on his mind since the moment he’d heard from his brother that she lived nearby. She was trouble, he knew that, and she was the one woman in the world he should avoid at all costs, a woman who was dangerous to him, one who could ruin him if she ever guessed the truth.

And his connection to 21.

A story he couldn’t let go.

The 21 Killer was intriguing, if appalling at the same time. “21” would hold the public’s interest. Would sell papers. Above that, finding more about him, linking him to the current case of the missing girls, proving that the police in LA were wrong, might give Jase more cred not only as a crime reporter but as an investigative journalist. Someone who could dig deep, uncover the truth.

But if Brianna were right, the LAPD would end up with a black eye. And if Jase was involved in unraveling the story, how would that play here with the New Orleans department? It was a quick way to slam doors in his own face. Bentz wouldn’t care; he’d left LA on bad terms, but the brass at NOPD might see him as a rogue.

Well, hell, who really cared?

The story was the story, the truth was the truth, and the public had a right to know. Jase was more than willing to offer it up. Even if there was a personal price to pay.

The prospect that 21 may have resurfaced or that a copycat killer may have stepped into the murderer’s bloody shoes made a helluva story, one he wanted to pursue. If it was true. His conscience nagged a bit. Deep down, he hoped to hell Brianna Hayward’s theory proved wrong. For the Denning sisters’ sake. And for any other set of twins about to become adults and catch the killer’s attention.

But if the maniac existed, he needed to be exposed and taken down.

Jase was the man for the job.

Even if it means dealing with Brianna Hayward? Think of the consequences of getting close to her.

Personally, the smartest thing he could do was back away from her and this entire mess.

Then again, he thought as he drained his beer, he’d never been smart where women were concerned.