All the Pretty Faces (12 page)

“He’s undergone four different plastic surgeries to repair his face,” she said. “Living with those scars probably sparked his interest in makeup.”

“Interesting that he chose a field where he would surround himself with beautiful women,” Dane said.

Peyton nodded. “Insecurities. Once he became scar-free, he thought the women would notice him.”

Yet something about that didn’t sit right. Wouldn’t a makeup artist have wanted to show off his talent by making his victim even more beautiful in death, rather than remove her makeup?

If he’d suffered from being disfigured, why would he want to inflict that kind of pain on anyone? This woman hadn’t known him when he was scarred, so it couldn’t have been personal.

Although perhaps she symbolized the girls who’d rejected him before his plastic surgery.

He thought about Betsy again. She had a tiny scar on her forehead, but she’d worn it like a badge of honor. She certainly wouldn’t have laughed at someone else who’d been hurt. She would have sympathized.

If his motive stemmed from rejection because of his disfigurement, that wouldn’t fit his sister. Unless she’d rejected him and he’d misinterpreted her reason.

Disappointment blended with hope . . . He wanted it to be true. He wanted to nail the bastard and finally end the torment for himself and for his mother.

“What do you think?” Peyton asked.

Dane repressed his personal feelings. Peyton knew about his sister’s death, but he’d never confided how much it drove him.

“He’s definitely a person of interest,” Dane said. “So is McCray.” He didn’t like the way he’d cornered Josie. McCray enjoyed frightening her.

“Let’s see what we find.” She entered McCray’s name and several listings appeared, but the only Porter McCray was deceased. “Are you sure that’s his real name?”

Dane worked his mouth from side to side. “No. I suppose it could be an acting name.”

She cross-checked his name again with acting schools and casts for other productions, including commercials, but again got no hits.

“He may have changed his name for more reasons than his acting career.” If he had, Dane would uncover the truth. McCray could have escaped from a mental home or have a record under an alias. His obsession with Josie could have been what brought him to Graveyard Falls in the first place. Worry knotted his shoulders. McCray could have killed Charity to get Josie’s attention. “How about Easton?”

Dane read aloud as the information appeared on the screen. “Eddie Easton was born in a little town near Nashville. His father is a sculptor and hoped his son would follow in his footsteps, but Eddie chose photography. He attended photography school in LA where he first began photographing models and wannabe stars.”

Peyton pointed to the police background check. “He has a record. Two DUIs. Lost his driver’s license at eighteen, but has it back now. Did some community service. Volunteered at a nature preserve that rescued birds of prey.”

The talon marks taunted Dane. “The killer left wounds on the victim’s face that resembled claw marks from a bird, and he took a piece of bone,” Dane said. “Easton’s background fits the profile.”

Peyton nodded. “He could be your man.”

“He had access to sculpting tools. Is it possible the cuts on the woman’s face were made by sculpting tools instead of a scalpel?”

“It’s possible,” Peyton agreed. “I’ll confirm with Dr. Wheeland.”

A possible connection, but Dane wanted more. Some sign the guy was violent or psychotic.

“Where was he ten years ago?”

Peyton clicked a few more keys, then frowned. “UT, undergraduate student.”

Dane’s blood ran cold. Yet hope surfaced again. There were too many coincidences. If Easton attended school when Betsy had visited, they could have met at that party.

His pulse pounded.

Was it possible that he’d finally found Betsy’s killer?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Josie spent the afternoon watching auditions with the casting director.

Olive’s demure black jacket and slacks contrasted with her nails, which were painted silver today. She was a take-charge woman with a statuesque frame that caught a person’s attention when she entered a room. Josie admired her poise and confidence.

She felt small and invisible in comparison. That was okay with her. She’d had all the attention she wanted since the book hit the shelves. After a piece or two of hate mail had arrived, her publicist began screening incoming mail for possible trouble. Josie had decided not to torture herself with the negativity.

Three teens exited the room whispering about their auditions, and then a gray-haired woman rolled into the room in a wheelchair. Her hair was long and stringy, wrinkles sagged beneath her eyes, and she wore an old housedress. Dozens of pieces of jewelry hung from her thin frame.

Josie gripped her hands together, a panic attack teetering on the surface. She was in costume for Charlene Linder’s part. Her age-spotted hand trembled as she toyed with the silver chain around her neck.

Olive glanced at Josie as if to ask what she thought, and Josie swallowed hard, leaned close to Olive, then whispered, “She definitely reminds me of Charlene.”

A sinister cackle erupted from the woman, and she shook her finger as if talking to Billy. “She’ll never do for a wife. Cut that whore’s hair off her.”

Josie clamped her teeth over her lip to keep a whimper at bay. The shrill voice, the Southern vernacular, even the insane look in the woman’s eyes as they shifted back and forth reminded her of Billy’s mother.

“Come here to Mama,” the actress said in a hoarse whisper. “Mama will take care of you, son. Mama loves you.” She mocked stroking Billy’s head as if he were lying in her lap, and nausea ripped through Josie.

The rest of the scene faded into a blur as Josie was swept back to that night. Finally Olive nudged her. “Josie, are you all right?”

Josie nodded, grateful to have Olive anchor her back to reality.
She’s just an actress. She can’t hurt you.

Olive laid her hand gently on Josie’s arm. “Josie.”

“Yes, I’m fine.” She forced a breath in and out. “She’s perfect for the part.”

“Good.” Olive stood. “Thank you, Miss Sherman. I’d like for you to read with the male actors auditioning for Billy’s part.”

The woman agreed, and Josie pulled herself together. But the afternoon presented another challenge.

There were at least thirty men trying out for Linder’s part. She’d had no idea that playing a serial killer was such a desirable role. The realization set her teeth on edge.

For the audition, Olive selected a scene between Charlene and Billy where Billy had returned from leaving one of his victims at Graveyard Falls. He was crying, terrified that his mother was going to die before he found the perfect wife.

Billy’s relationship with his mother was truly warped.

Charlene had isolated Billy to the point that he’d relied on Charlene for all his needs. Just as Charlene’s father had isolated her.

Billy had carried her from room to room, bathed her, fed her, then slept with her as if she was his lover.

By the time the auditions were nearly finished for the day, a headache pulsed behind Josie’s eyes. She yearned to go home and soak in a nice tub.

Porter McCray entered the room, looking so much like Billy with his hair, makeup, and mannerisms that her first instinct was to run.

Determined to stick it out, she remained rooted to the spot, her stomach roiling.

Olive spoke in a hushed tone as McCray lumbered through the stage door and settled on the floor beside the wheelchair. His voice sounded almost childlike when he spoke.

“Mama, I wanted her to be the one but she wasn’t,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone. Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry, son, but I have to,” Charlene said. “You have to find the perfect bride.”

“I tried,” he said in a broken voice. “But she didn’t pass the tests. She said she could cook but she couldn’t.”

“They’re all little liars,” the woman said in a voice as brittle as her bones.

He laid his head in the woman’s lap and clutched at her skirt as he sobbed.

A chill engulfed Josie. The scene carried her back to that horrible night. She could almost feel the heavy ropes around her wrist. Feel Billy Linder’s rancid breath on her neck, hear him whispering that she had to please his mother.

“He’s disturbing, but he fits the part.” Olive tapped her nails on her thigh. “What do you think?”

Josie blinked to remind herself that he was acting. “Yes, he fits.”

The crazed look in his eyes seemed real, though. Was he dangerous?

How deep would he go to get into character? Would he kill someone just to understand what it felt like to take a life?

Dane phoned Sheriff Kimball on the way back to Graveyard Falls, but Kimball had no new information. Dane needed hands-on help to cover the three suspects.

“Have one of your deputies keep an eye on Gil Baines, and put another one on Porter McCray,” Dane told the sheriff. “Also run surveillance on Easton.”

“Sure. You have something concrete on one of them?”

Dane explained about the background checks. “Any one of them is a viable suspect. Easton’s father was a sculptor, and he did community service at a nature preserve that rescued birds of prey.”

“I’ll see if he’s still at the community center and follow him when he leaves.”

“Thanks.” It was getting dark outside, the hours ticking by without answers. He wanted to find Charity’s killer so her sister could rest easier tonight.

He pressed Josie’s number, anxious to know if she’d heard from the killer or if McCray had bothered her again, but her voice mail picked up, so he left a message.

Pumped with adrenaline from the possibility that he might have a lead on Betsy’s killer, he called the nursing facility where his mother was staying. But he had to keep his thoughts on the case to himself.

A year ago, he’d had a lead and shared his hopes with his mother. She’d dragged out all the old videos of his sister when she was young and watched them for hours on end. Seeing Betsy running and playing soccer and strumming the guitar had made it seem like she was still alive.

For a moment in time, he’d thought he and his mother might be close again. That she might emerge from her shell and live in the real world again.

When that lead failed to pan out, she was so disappointed that it broke her, and she’d lapsed into a catatonic state.

Dane pinched the bridge of his nose at the guilt that seared him. Seeing her like that had been damn near as hard as losing Betsy.

All his fault again.

He’d promised his mother he’d make the man pay, but he’d failed. Worse, this time, his mother had sunk so low, he didn’t know if she’d ever come back.

When the receptionist answered, he asked to speak to Precious—the one woman there he could depend on to do right by his mother, be honest with him, and make sure his mother wasn’t mistreated.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello, this is Precious.”

“It’s Agent Hamrick. How’s my mom doing today?”

“She’s had a good day. I took her outside for a stroll. She responds well to the fresh air.”

A sharp pang squeezed at Dane’s chest. “She used to walk three to four miles a day. She always claimed she had that disorder where she needed the sunlight.”

“Everyone needs sunlight,” Precious said, a tenderness to her voice. “I’m glad you told me that. I’ll make sure she gets out more often, every day when the weather permits.”

An uncharacteristic swelling of tears burned his eyes at her kindness. Funny how sadistic people didn’t touch him, but the kind word of a stranger could stir his emotions.

“Thank you, Precious. You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

“No problem. Your mother is strong. I believe she can hear everything you say, and that she just needs to rest for a while, but one day she’ll come back to you.”

He hoped she was right. “Has she spoken at all this week?”

A moment of silence, then a soft sigh. “I’m afraid not. She smiled a little when we took that walk today. I told her that she looked pretty with her perm. We had her hair done yesterday in the salon.”

Dane’s heart stuttered. “She always prided herself on her appearance.” One reason it hurt him to see her go downhill the past few years. She hated hospitalic gowns and used to have her hair done weekly.

“You are heaven-sent,” Dane said, his heart aching as he used his mother’s expression. She had been a woman of faith. Even when he’d balked at attending church, she’d grilled her beliefs into Dane until Betsy’s brutal murder. Then she’d lost her faith, and he hadn’t been able to hang on to it either.

“Please call me if there’s any change or if she asks to see me.”

“You can visit anyway, Dane. She may not act like she knows you or appreciates your visit, but deep down she understands that you love her.”

Dane swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn’t so sure about that. She blamed him for not protecting Betsy.

“Tell her I’ll stop by soon.” Although he wanted some real information to tell her first. That he’d gotten justice for Betsy.

Then maybe his mother could forgive him for letting them both down.

Josie bit back her distaste over Porter McCray. So far, he was the best candidate for Billy Linder’s part. He frightened her. Judging from the way Olive squirmed in her seat, he made her uneasy, too.

Worse, Josie’s gut instinct warned her that giving him the part would feed his misguided ego, and he might take the role too far.

“Yes, he’s studied Linder,” Josie said. “He approached me about practicing with him, role-playing. He wants to get into Linder’s head.” That meant understanding Linder’s dark thoughts and desires. The pleasure he took in carving up animals. His insecurities with women.

His sense of desperation, anger, and power when he wrapped his hands around a woman’s neck and choked the life from her.

Olive thumbed her bangs back from her forehead. “Jesus, Josie. If you think this guy is some freak, say so. I’ve worked on a number of true crime shows and reenactments, and they always draw the crazies.”

“I don’t know yet,” Josie said. “Either he’s an excellent actor or he is a little off himself. Then again, I was abducted by the real Billy Linder, so just hearing his words and looking at him reminds me of the night he held me at his cabin.”

Olive squeezed her arm. “I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to sit with me today and watch the auditions.”

“No, I appreciate the invitation,” Josie said, grateful for a friend. “This is therapeutic for me.” She didn’t want Olive to fall into the same trap she had when she’d trusted Billy, so she gestured toward McCray. “I may be paranoid, Olive, but I’d be cautious around him.”

“Point taken.” Olive’s phone buzzed, and she answered it while Josie headed outside to her car. Dane had called, so she pressed his number.

When his voice mail picked up, she left him a message saying she was headed home.

Night had set in, the temperature dropping, the winds picking up and carrying the scent of more impending rain. Most of the crowd had dispersed from the quadrangle, the parking lot nearly empty. Although a few protestors still remained, their chant of discontent echoing in the breeze.

A tall man in a dark coat shook his hand at her, and she picked up her pace and crossed the quadrangle.

An eerie whistle rent the air behind her. A man?

Instantly Josie’s nerves snapped to alert. She had been caught off guard the night Billy Tasered her.

She wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

She slipped her keys from her purse and gripped them in her hand, ready to use them as a weapon, then scanned the grass and sidewalk in search of anyone lurking around.

A couple walking their dog passed. Three women rushed toward a blue SUV and hopped inside, laughing. A man in a dark jacket and hat sat on the park bench with a camera.

Her chest ached with the effort to breathe, but she focused on the techniques she’d learned in therapy and inhaled deep breaths.