“Good idea. Did the preschool mention Hope’s being autistic?”
“I haven’t talked to them yet. They were on my list for this afternoon.”
“I’ll ask when I call. If these repetitive behaviors are endemic to Hope versus being trauma-induced, then I’m going about things the wrong way. When will you be back?”
“Whenever Daniel comes back. He’s got my car keys.”
Meredith snorted a chuckle. “I suppose that’s one way to get you to listen.”
“I listen,” Alex protested.
“Then you do whatever the hell you want to do.” She sighed. “I can’t go back.”
“What do you mean? Are you staying?”
“For a few more days. If I leave and something happens, I’d never forgive myself.”
“I can take care of myself, Meredith,” Alex said, torn between gratitude and annoyance. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years.”
“No you haven’t,” Meredith said quietly. “You’ve been taking care of everyone else for years. You don’t take care of Alex. Come back soon. I need a break from this tune.”
Tuesday, January 30, 2:30 p.m.
The Jag rolled up beside him and the window slid down, revealing a very angry man. “What the fuck happened?”
He’d known he was in trouble when he’d gotten a call to meet in the middle of the day. It was a remote location and neither of them would leave their vehicles, but the sheer risk of being seen together…
“You said to make her stop asking about Bailey. My guy said she went straight to the county courthouse today. I’d told him if she got too close to make her stop.”
“And you left it up to ‘your guy’ to decide when and how to do that?”
“He definitely overplayed his hand. You’re right.”
“Goddamn straight, I’m right. Do you even know why she was in the courthouse?”
“No. My guy couldn’t follow her in. He… would have been recognized.”
Dark eyes rolled. “Oh, for God’s sake. You hired some ape with a fucking wanted poster hanging in the county courthouse? God, this town is filled with fuck-ups. I told you I would deal with Bailey.”
He jutted out his chin, unwilling to be lumped with the town fuck-ups. “You’ve had her for almost a week. You said you’d have the goddamn key in two days. If you’d delivered your end, the stepsister never would have started all this poking around, because I would have delivered my end and Bailey Crighton would have already been found in a dumpster somewhere outside Savannah by now.”
His dark eyes flashed dangerously. “What you’ve done could blow up in somebody’s face and it sure as hell won’t be mine. Hell. If you’d planned to hire a felon, why not hire one with a little more finesse? A hit-and-run in downtown in the middle of the goddamn day? Your guy is beyond stupid. He’s a liability now. Get rid of him.”
“How?”
“I don’t care. Just do it. And don’t fuck it up. Then find out why Alex Fallon was at the courthouse today. All we need is her digging up trial transcripts.”
“She won’t find anything in the trial transcripts.”
“Yeah, and she was supposed to believe her stepsister was some strung-out junkie who skipped town, but she didn’t buy that, did she? I don’t trust what she’ll find.”
Because he also wasn’t sure what Alex Fallon would find, he turned his attention to the bigger failure. “So how will you handle Bailey Crighton?”
The man’s cobra smile raised the hair on his neck. “Bailey’s gone back on the juice.”
That actually surprised him. Bailey had been sober for five years. “Voluntarily?”
His sinister smile widened. “Now what fun would there have been in that? By tomorrow she’ll be begging for her next fix, just like old times. She’ll tell me what I want to know. But Bailey and her stepsister aren’t why I called you. I want to know what the fuck’s going on with these dead women?”
He blinked. “I thought…”
“You thought it was me? Shit. You’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”
His cheeks flushed hot. “Well, it’s not me or any of the others.”
“And you’re sure of this because…?”
“Bluto doesn’t have the balls to kill anybody and Igor’s just a whiny little bastard. He’s frothing at the mouth, calling Bluto, meeting him in the park at all hours in plain view of half the town. That boy’s gonna blow the whole damn thing out of the water.”
“You should have told me before now.” It was said softly, maliciously.
His stomach wrenched when he realized exactly what he’d done. “Wait a minute.”
His dark eyes became amused. “You’re in too deep, Sweetpea. You can’t back out.”
It was true. He was in way too deep. He licked his lips. “Don’t call me that.”
“The nicknames were your idea. It’s not my fault you don’t like yours.” The mocking smile disappeared. “You fool. You’re worried about a nickname when you don’t know who’s doing these women? You think Igor can blow us out of the water? You think Alex Fallon’s questions are a threat? Those are nothing compared to what these killings can do to us. The press has picked up on the connection. The Tremaine girl’s picture was all over the news last night. What do you know?”
His mouth went dry. “I thought it was some copycat at first. Maybe some wacko who read about it after all the news about what happened to Simon up north.”
“I don’t care what you thought. I asked what you know.”
“Claudia Silva was the second victim. She was found with a key tied around her toe.”
He stiffened. A match flared and cigarette smoke billowed from the Jag. “Has Daniel found Simon’s key yet?”
Simon’s key. The carrot with which Simon Vartanian taunted them all, even from his grave. His real grave this time. At least Daniel had gotten that right. “If he has, he hasn’t said anything.”
“He’s not going to tell you. Has he been back to his house?”
“Not since before the funeral.”
“And you’ve searched the house?”
“I’ve been through the old Vartanian place ten times.”
“Make it eleven.”
“He can get into the box without the key, you know.”
“Yeah, but he may not know about the box. The minute he finds a key, he’ll start looking for the box. If he hasn’t already. This asshole who’s killing the women knows about the key. He wants the cops to know about the key. So make sure Daniel doesn’t find Simon’s key.”
“He hasn’t been to the bank. I know that. But he is seeing the Fallon woman. Half the town saw him shoving his tongue down her throat on her front porch last night.”
Again the cobra smile. “You can work with that. After you take care of Igor.”
His blood went cold. “I’m not killing Rhett Porter.” He used Igor’s real name, hoping it would shock some reason back into the conversation. But he’d wasted his breath because the cobra smile just widened.
“Sure you will, Sweetpea.” The window rolled up and the Jag drove away.
And he sat there staring straight ahead, knowing he would, just like he had the last time he’d been told to kill. Because he was in way too deep. He had to kill Rhett Porter. He commanded his churning stomach to settle. After all, what was one more?
Atlanta , Tuesday, January 30, 3:25 p.m.
“And so the social worker is recording it for me,” Alex finished. Sitting in the chair in front of Daniel’s desk she glanced from Daniel to Chase Wharton, whose body language was tense, but whose face was carefully blank. From the corner of her eye she looked at Ed Randall, who regarded her with a scrutiny that made her feel as if she was on display.
Chase turned to Daniel. “Call Papadopoulos. Make sure that recording is made correctly so we can separate out any background noise.”