It didn’t add up.
Though considering how completely he had misjudged Mark, he wasn’t so sure his instincts hadn’t gone totally to shit. He crossed to the door that led to the second-level apartment and rang the bell. Within moments he heard the sound of someone approaching. A moment after that, the door cracked open and Liz Ames peered out at him.
He smiled. “Hi. I’m Rick Wells. I own the bar next door.”
She didn’t return his smile. “Yes?”
“It was me who heard you screaming the other ni-”
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
Her unfriendliness surprised him. Key Westers-even those new to the island-were typically outgoing and warm, infected with the laid-back charm of the southernmost tip of the continental United States.
He supposed he’d be suspicious too, if he had just stumbled upon the scene of a brutal murder.
“I wanted to talk to you about the other night. About what you saw.”
When she hesitated, he flashed her what he hoped was his most winning smile. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay. I know how traumatic witnessing something like that can be.”
She frowned slightly. “And how do you know that?”
“Because I used to be a cop.”
She paused a moment more as if carefully considering his truthfulness, then swung the door open. “Come on in.”
She relocked the door after him, and started up the narrow flight of stairs. He followed her up and into her sparsely furnished living room. The furniture consisted of a comfortable-looking couch, a battered coffee table and a floor lamp. All three looked as if they could have been purchased secondhand. Nothing hung on the walls, the wooden floors were bare. A number of hardcover books lay open on the coffee table.
The room told him a lot about Elizabeth Ames, including the fact that she didn’t plan to live in Key West long.
Odd, he thought. Why would a therapist open up a private practice if she didn’t intend to make a long-term commitment to a location?
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked stiffly. “Water, coffee, soft drink?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
“Have a seat.”
He crossed to the couch, pausing to glance at the books on the table. There were several, all books on the history of Key West.
She came up beside him, bent and flipped the books closed. “I’m doing a little research.”
Odd, he thought again. Elizabeth Ames was not the typical island transplant, thrilled to be living in paradise, effusive and relaxed.
Prickly, that’s what she was. And suspicious, like a lot of folks from the mainland. No wonder she didn’t plan to stay long-she would never fit in.
He sat and smiled at her. “Looking for anything in particular?”
She frowned at him again. “What do you mean?”
“Your research. I grew up on the island-” He spread open his hands. “There’s not much about Key West I don’t know.”
She stared at him a moment, then took a seat at the opposite end of the couch from him. “Actually, I am looking for something in particular. Something a client told me about.”
“Shoot.”
“This patient said the Blessed Virgin appeared to children playing-”
“In what’s now the walled garden of Paradise Christian,” he filled in for her. “Sure, I’ve heard the story. Though I don’t know if it’s true or not.”
Her expression sharpened with interest. “I haven’t found a single record of it in any of these books.”
He shrugged. “It’s one of those stories everyone who grew up here knows. In fact, I’ve heard several different versions of it. Why so interested?”
She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. He sensed she was trying to decide whether to tell him the truth. Whether or not she could trust him. When she looked up he saw by her expression that she’d decided she could. Her next words confirmed it. “ Tara was a patient of mine. She told me the story.”
Elizabeth Ames had not only stumbled upon a murder victim, but one whom she had known.
She suddenly didn’t seem as unfriendly and suspicious as before. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That must have been a terrible shock.”
“It…yes.” Her lips trembled and she pressed them together.
“Did you tell Lieutenant Lopez about your connection to the victim?”
“Of course.”
The way she said the words conveyed dislike. Not of him, of Val.
He decided to call her on it. “You don’t like him much, do you?”
“I don’t know him.”
“He must have been interested to learn the two of you had a relationship.”
“A professional relationship,” she corrected. “And if you’re so interested, why don’t you ask him? You’re friends, aren’t you?”
He smiled, impressed. Seems he wasn’t the only who listened and asked questions. He decided he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by being completely honest with her. “He told me to butt out.”
“Because you’re not a cop anymore.”
“Yes.”
She smiled for the first time. The curving of her mouth altered her face, making her approachable, warm. Attractive, he realized, surprised. When she dropped her prickly, suspicious demeanor, Elizabeth Ames was actually quite attractive.
“So you decided to launch your own mini-investigation,” she said.
“Basically.”
“Why?”
He arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“Why launch your own investigation?”
“Because I was a cop and-”
“But you’re not now. So, why do you care? Did you know Tara?”
He thought a moment before answering, searching for absolute honesty-for himself as well as her. “Because I was, in essence, first officer at the scene. Because I recognized the killer’s style. Because I hate being shut out of something I know I can do better than anyone else.”
“And that’s it?”
“No.” He silently swore, wondering how he had ended up being the one interrogated. “Because I have a feeling about this. That I need to investigate. It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not. I feel the same way.”
They stared at each other a moment, something passing between them, something strong. Rick jerked his gaze away, uncomfortable with the connection.
“What did you mean about recognizing the killer’s style?”
He returned his gaze to hers, choosing his words carefully. “A number of years ago a serial killer was operating in the Miami area. He killed young women in the same fashion Tara was killed.”
Rick saw that his words shook her, but she met his gaze evenly anyway. He noticed that her eyes were a clear, light green. “How did…I saw a lot of blood, but I didn’t…The paper said her throat was slit.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what wasn’t in the paper.” When he hesitated, she leaned toward him, expression earnest. “I was there, Rick. I know there’s more.”
So he told her, quietly, without drama, excluding only the most gruesome details.
Liz paled. She struggled, he saw, not to cry. “And that’s how…that killer in Miami -”
“Gavin Taft. Yes.”
“And he was never caught?”
“He was,” Rick corrected. “And convicted. At present, his address is death row at the Florida State Prison in Starke.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. If these killings mirror those others and that murderer is behind bars, who…”
Her words trailed away. He picked up the thought where she had left off. “I don’t understand either. Not yet anyway. Could be a copycat. Or an accomplice the police didn’t know about.”
Silence fell between them. She broke it first. “Have you ever heard of an old priest named Father Paul?”
Rick thought a moment, then shook his head. “I’m not Catholic.”
“ Tara said he knew the story about the appearance of the Blessed Virgin. I thought…if I could talk to him, maybe-”
“This might make sense?”