Carla did as Val requested. Mark Morgan had no priors. No known aliases. He was twenty years old and grew up in Texas. His landlady, a Key Wester who claimed to have met Ernest Hemingway on one of his visits to Sloppy Joe’s bar during the forties, had nothing but good things to say about the young man.
“Sweet as pie, that one,” the woman said, leading Carla down the hall to Mark Morgan’s room. She stopped in front of a door and looked at Carla, squinting against the curl of smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from her bright coral lips. “Anytime I needed something, he was happy to help. Always ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ from him. I was sorry to lose him.”
“He moved out for good?”
“Don’t know for sure. He didn’t pay his rent this week, and I haven’t seen him.” Her hands, knotted with arthritis, shook as she found her master key. “That’s the way it is with these kids. They rent by the week then move on. He was here longer than most.”
Carla didn’t hide her disappointment. “The room’s been cleaned then?”
“Not yet. My girl who cleans for me, she’s been under the weather.” She smiled; the cigarette wobbled, its inch-long ash dropped to the floor. “Besides, I kinda hoped he’d come back.”
“You ever see him with other kids? A girlfriend?”
“A girl sometimes. Dark hair. Pretty.”
Tara had dark hair. “You think you could identify her from a picture?”
“Maybe.” She drew her eyebrows together as if a thought was suddenly occurring to her. “Is Mark in some sort of trouble?”
“Not necessarily, ma’am. Just following up on a couple leads.”
The landlady unlocked the door. Carla stepped inside. The unit consisted of a bedroom and kitchenette and smelled slightly stale, as if it had been closed up a while. She scanned the interior. The bed was neatly made. A Bible lay on the nightstand. She crossed to it and picked it up. The leather was soft and worn from use, the pages well thumbed. It was bookmarked in the Book of Revelation.
She returned it to the nightstand then crossed to the three-drawer chest. She opened the top drawer, found it empty, and opened the next two. They, too, were empty. She found the tiny closet the same way.
She turned to the landlady, hovering in the doorway, watching her. “What’s through there?” She pointed at the partially closed door across from the kitchenette. “Bathroom?”
“Uh-huh.”
Carla crossed to it and pushed the door open. Several pieces of dirty clothes littered the floor. It looked as if the kid had stripped, stepped into the shower and left the garments where they lay. A towel had been used and thrown over the shower ring.
Carla pushed aside the curtain and peeked at the tub. The faucet dripped. A half-empty bottle of shampoo sat on the window ledge behind the shower. A scrap of soap sat in the dish. A whisper of warm, humid air slipped through the cracked window casing.
She replaced the curtain, frowning. Mark Morgan had left without even taking the time to pack all his things.
She shifted her gaze to the clothes on the floor. They were heavily soiled, she saw. Bending, she carefully plucked a T-shirt from the pile. The light-blue fabric was marked with big, dark stains.
Blood, she realized, dropping the garment and straightening. Excitement bubbled up inside her. This nice ‘yes ma’am, no ma’am’ kid had bloodstains all over his clothes.
“You find something?” the landlady asked from the doorway behind her.
Carla swung to face her, blocking the pile of clothing. “Would you excuse me a moment? I need to make a call.”
The woman backed away to allow Carla room to pass. She closed the bathroom door behind her and dialed Val’s cell. “Make one wish,” she murmured when the man answered. “And I bet I can make it come true.”
“Mark Morgan?”
“Bingo, boss. I think we’ve got our prime suspect.”
CHAPTER 32
Sunday, November 18
6:45 p.m.
Liz took one look at Rick and knew that something was wrong. “What’s happened.”
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She swung the door wider. He stepped through, turned and faced her. “There’s another victim. A woman named Naomi Pearson.”
“Naomi Pears-” Then she remembered. The woman from the bank, the one linked to the man who had killed himself. The one who had been involved with fraud. She had read about it in the Key West Citizen. Liz brought a hand to her mouth. “How-”
“I don’t know any details except that it appeared she was killed in the same fashion as Tara.”
Liz felt ill. Wordlessly, she turned and crossed to the stairs. She sat heavily.
After a moment, she lifted her gaze to his. “Where did they find her?”
He paused. “A beach.”
“That means the killer dumped her body into the ocean.” Liz balled her hands into fists, fighting the helplessness threatening to swamp her. “I thought this guy didn’t conceal his handiwork?”
Her crossed to her. “This doesn’t prove Rachel’s dead. It doesn’t prove she fell victim to this madma-”
“Don’t patronize me, Rick. Until now, the police believed Naomi Pearson had run off. Just the way they believed my sister had run off.”
“Not quite. They had a good reason to believe she’d split.”
“And in their estimation, they have a good reason to believe Rachel did the same.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say…anything. I-” She doubled over, her hands to her face. She had known all along that her sister was dead. But to have died like…that…it was too horrible.
“Have you heard from Mark?”
She shook her head but didn’t look at him.
“Val was waiting for me at the Hideaway. I told him everything.”
Still, she didn’t speak. She couldn’t find her voice. She couldn’t bear to look at him. If she did, she would burst into tears.
“Liz, I have to ask you something.”
His tone brought her gaze to his. Her vision swam. “What?”
“Val told me…he told me you’d recently suffered a nervous breakdown. Is that true?”
It took a moment for his question, why he had asked it, to register. When it did, a cry slipped past her lips. She had known this would get out. That it would color everyone’s opinion of her.
She wished she could have kept it from Rick. She hated the way he was looking at her, with suspicion and disappointment.
She tipped her chin up. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why should I have? We don’t even know each other.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Do I?” She balled her hands into fists. “What would you have had me tell you? That I was hanging on by an emotional thread? That I took one too many blows this year and completely lost it? That you shouldn’t have a thing to do with me because I’m a brick short of an emotional load? Is that what I should have told you?”
“It would have been honest.”
She laughed, the sound brittle to her own ears. “If I had, you would have thought I was a brick short of a load. I can just imagine. Hi,” she mocked, “I’m Liz Ames, I had a nervous breakdown this year. Want to hear about it?”
He didn’t reply and she stood, facing him dead on. “What are you trying to say, Rick Wells? That nothing I have said or will say is credible? Is that it?”
He didn’t answer. His silence hurt.
She tipped her chin up a fraction more. “If you want to walk out that door now, go on. No harm done.”
“No. It’s just that-Damn.” He looked at the ceiling. “I wanted to believe you. I want to believe in you.”
“You still can.”
He returned his gaze to hers, expression naked with pain. A lump formed in her throat and she struggled to breathe past it. “Why, Rick? Why did you want to believe in me?”