Hour Game (7 page)

O
UTSIDE THE POLICE STATION, THE PALE BLUE
VW B
EETLE
drove slowly past and stopped at the intersection. The driver glanced at the one-story brick building that housed the police department. They would have gotten the letter by now. They might have also deciphered the contents. It wasn’t like he’d made it very hard. The hard would come later, as in trying to stop him.
Try impossible, Mr. Policemen.

Next they’d call in the state police’s criminal investigative unit. They’d want to keep things quiet, no sense panicking people. No doubt an application for profiling assistance would be submitted to the FBI’s vaunted VICAP. Important people would be contacted to see that the matter was expedited, and a profile on the killer, on him, would be quickly forthcoming.

Of course it would be totally wrong.

He’d driven past the morgue earlier, where the M.E. was probably pulling her red hair out over three bodies that represented very different things yet had common themes. The clues would be minimal. He knew what to look for and thus to remove, but no one was infallible and forensic science could dredge up much from microscopic wreckage. She’d find some things, draw some correct conclusions, but on the key points she’d come up empty. The no-see-ums wouldn’t trip him up.

He drove through the intersection as several police officers ran out of the building and climbed into their patrol cars and sped off. They were probably running down irrelevant leads,
wasting energy and time, which didn’t surprise him considering the weak attributes of their leader, Todd Williams. However, Sylvia Diaz was first-rate in her field. And at some point, as the killings mounted, the FBI would be called in to take over the investigation. He was actually relishing the challenge.

He drove to another intersection, pulled up to the mailbox and dropped the letter in before speeding off again. When they got his next communication explaining the circumstances of Steve Canney’s and Janice Pembroke’s deaths, the police would know they were in for the fight of their lives.

King picked up Michelle from the morgue and filled her in on the details about the Zodiac letter. She, in turn, brought him up to speed on the autopsy results for Pembroke and Canney. Unfortunately, reciting the details didn’t make the puzzle any less inexplicable.

“So it seems the killer wants to make clear that even though he’s somewhat copying the Zodiac crime with Rhonda Tyler, he’s
not
the Zodiac,” she said. “What do you make of that?”

King shook his head. “It seems these murders are just the opening salvo.”

“Do you think we’ll see another letter?”

“Yes, and soon. And though Todd’s not convinced of it, I’m sure it’ll deal with Canney and Pembroke. He’s going to talk to Lulu Oxley and obtain more info on Rhonda Tyler.”

Michelle looked out the windshield. “And where are we headed?”

“To the Battles’. I called and set up an appointment.” He glanced at her. “We’ve got a paying job, remember?” He grew silent and then added, “You’ve already been through a lot today. Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“After what we’ve seen, how bad can the Battles be?”

“You might be surprised.”

T
HE
B
ATTLE ESTATE WAS SET ON TOP OF AN IMPOSING HILL.
It was a sprawling three-story structure of brick, stone and clapboard surrounded by acres of emerald grass and dotted with mature trees. It screamed old money, though the mounds of cash that had built it were only decades old. King and Michelle stopped at a pair of massive wrought-iron gates. There was a call box set on a short black post next to the asphalt drive. King rolled down his window and tapped the white button on the call box. An efficient voice answered, and a minute later the gates swung open and King drove through.

“Welcome to Casa Battle,” he said.

“Is that what they call it?”

“No, just my idea of a joke.”

“You said you know Remmy Battle?”

“As well as most people do, I guess. I also used to play golf occasionally with Bobby. He’s gregarious and dominating, but he has balls of iron and a really nasty temper if you happen to cross him. Now, Remmy’s the sort who only lets you see bits and pieces, and strictly on her terms. And if you cross
her,
you’ll need a urologist and a pack of miracles to put you back together.”

“Where’d she get a name like Remmy?”

“It’s short for Remington. The story I heard was that was her father’s favorite brand of shotgun. Everyone who knows her thinks the woman was aptly named.”

“Who knew so many interesting people lived in such a small
town?” Michelle looked ahead at the imposing home. “Wow, what a fabulous place.”

“On the outside yes. I’ll let you be the judge of the interior.”

When they knocked on the front door, it was opened almost immediately by a large, well-muscled middle-aged man dressed in a yellow cardigan sweater, white shirt, muted tie and black slacks. He introduced himself as Mason. Mrs. Battle was finishing up a few things and would meet them on the rear terrace shortly, he informed them.

As Mason led them through the house, Michelle looked around at an interior that was breathtaking. That the things she was seeing were costly there was no doubt. Yet what was also present was a sense of understatement that for some reason surprised her.

“The interior is beautiful, Sean,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t talking about
that
interior,” he mumbled back. “I meant the ones who are breathing.”

They arrived on the rear terrace to find a table laid out with both hot and cold tea and some finger foods and snacks. Mason poured the beverages of their choice and then left, closing the French doors quietly behind him. The temperature was in the seventies with a warming sun and the air a little muggy from the recent rains.

Michelle sipped her iced tea. “So is Mason a kind of butler?”

“Yes, been with them forever. He’s actually more than a butler to them.”

“A confidant, then? Perhaps good for our purposes.”

“Probably too loyal for that option,” King answered. “But then again you never really know where loyalties lie until you ask, preferably with something to give in return.”

They heard a splash of water, and both went to the iron railing that partially enclosed the terrace and looked out over the exquisite rear grounds.

The sprawling outdoor entertainment area visible here included a stone pool house, a spa that could easily accommodate a dozen
adults, a roofed-in dining area and a massive oval-shaped pool outlined in brick and flagstone.

“I always wondered how the really rich lived,” said Michelle.

“They live just like you and me except a whole lot better.”

Emerging from the clear blue and obviously heated waters of the pool was a young woman in a very revealing string bikini. She had long blond hair, was about five-seven, and her curves and bosom were solidly in the range of eye-catching. There were defined muscles in her legs, arms and shoulders and a belly ring in the navel of her flat stomach. As she bent over to pick up a towel, they could also see a large tattoo on the back of one of her partially exposed butt cheeks.

“What’s that tattooed on her butt?” asked Michelle.

“Her name,” answered King. “Savannah.” King watched the young woman towel off. “It’s amazing what they can write on skin, and in cursive too.”

“You can see that from here?” Michelle asked with raised eyebrows.

“No, I’ve seen it before.” He quickly amended this answer. “At a pool party I attended.”

“Uh-huh. Her name on her butt, what, so the guys don’t forget?”

“I’m trying very hard not to think of the reason.”

Savannah looked up, saw them and waved. She wrapped a short see-through robe around her, slipped on some flip-flops and headed up the brick steps toward them.

When she reached them, she gave King a hug that seemed designed to drill her large bosom right into his chest. Up close her facial features were not quite as flawless as her body; her nose, chin and jaw were a bit too sharply outlined and irregular, but that was nit-picking, Michelle decided. Savannah Battle was a very beautiful woman.

Savannah looked King up and down admiringly. “I swear, Sean King, you just get better-looking every time I see you. Now, how’s that fair? We women just keep getting older.” This
came out in a southern drawl that Michelle thought was highly affected.

“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that,” said Michelle, extending her hand. “I’m Michelle Maxwell.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” said Savannah in a tone that wasn’t sweet at all.

“Congratulations on your graduation,” said King. “William and Mary, right?”

“Daddy always wanted me to go to college, and I did, though I can’t say I loved it.” She sat down and slowly dried off her shapely legs in what Michelle interpreted as a seductive gesture aimed at King. Then she dug into the tiny sandwiches.

“What’d you major in?” asked Michelle, thinking that the young woman must have gotten her degree in either cheerleading or throwing parties or perhaps both.

“Chemical engineering,” was her surprising if mumbled reply. Apparently, no one had taught the girl not to talk with her mouth full. “Daddy made his fortune as an engineer, and I guess I took after him.”

“We were sorry to hear about Bobby,” said King quietly.

“He’s tough; he’ll pull through,” she said confidently.

“I heard you might be heading out on your own,” said King.

Savannah’s expression darkened. “I expect people are having a good time trying to figure out what I’m going to do. Trust-fund Baby Battle,” she added bitterly.

“I didn’t mean it that way, Savannah,” said King gently.

She waved off his apology with a dismissive karate chop through the air. “I’ve been dealing with that all my life, why stop now, right? I have my own way to make in the world, and it’s not always easy with parents like I have. But I’ll make something of myself. I’m not going through life using my credit card to buy happiness.”

As she listened, Michelle felt her opinion of the young woman turning more positive.

Savannah wiped her mouth with her hand and said, “I know
why you’re here. It’s about Junior Deaver, right? I can’t figure why he would’ve done anything so stupid. I mean, like my mother’s going to just look the other way while he walks off with her wedding ring? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe he didn’t do it,” said King.

“Sure he did,” said Savannah as she toweled off her wet hair. “From what I heard he left so much evidence behind he might as well have just sat on the floor and waited for the police to show up and arrest him.” She shoved another piece of sandwich into her mouth and crammed in a handful of potato chips as a chaser.

“Stop eating like some damned pig, Savannah!” the voice said sharply. “And while you’re doing that, try and halfway sit like a lady, if your imagination can possibly grasp such a concept.”

Savannah, who’d been slouching in her chair with her legs spread wide like a hooker on the prowl, instantly straightened up and cemented her thighs together, stretching the robe over her knees.

Remington Battle strode onto the terrace with as much presence as a Broadway legend convinced of her ability to effortlessly dominate an audience.

She was dressed impeccably in a dazzling white pleated skirt that fell several inches below the knee. On her feet were stylish if conservative low-heeled pumps. A patterned blouse of cool blue was partially covered by a white sweater that was draped around her shoulders. She was taller than her daughter by several inches—around Michelle’s height—and her touched-up auburn hair and makeup were expertly done. Her features were strong, indeed almost visually overpowering. Michelle guessed that Remmy in her youth had probably been even more beautiful than her daughter. Now in her sixties, she was still a very handsome woman. Yet with all that, it was the eyes that caught and held you: part eagle, part buzzard and intimidating as hell.

Remmy shook hands with King and then was introduced to Michelle. The latter felt the woman run a severe gaze over her and suspected that Remmy Battle found much to find fault with
in her very casual clothes, nonexistent makeup and windswept hair. She didn’t have long to ruminate on that, though, as Remmy turned her attention to her daughter once more.

“In my day we didn’t greet guests without any clothes on,” she said icily.

“I was swimming, Mama. I don’t usually go swimming in my debutante gown,” Savannah shot back, but her fingers flew to her mouth and she chewed nervously on a nail.

Remmy gave the young woman such a penetrating stare that Savannah finally grabbed another sandwich and a fistful of chips, rose, muttered something under her breath that to Michelle sounded pretty close to “old bitch” and stalked off, her wet flip-flops smacking against the brick in a series of exclamation points.

Then Remmy Battle sat down and turned her full attention to King and Michelle.

They each drew a deep breath as her gaze bored into them. To Michelle it was quite an introduction to Casa Battle. Now she understood exactly what King had meant about judging the “interior.”