Illusions of Death (3 page)

Chapter 4

He looked at the bald, strapping man lying helplessly on the dirty linoleum floor. His wrists and ankles duct taped to restrain him. More duct tape over his mouth. His eyes wide now in panic that his new drinking buddy wasn’t much of a buddy to him at all.

He flipped through the wallet. A couple of gas cards. A VISA and MasterCard. A Costco card. Eleven bucks in cash. He pulled out the driver’s license and held it close to the man’s face, comparing the picture with his specimen on the floor.

“Randolph? Hmm. Your mama and daddy stuck you with a pretty pretentious name for such a happy-go-lucky guy. No wonder you introduced yourself to me as Randy.”

Randy whimpered behind the tape.

He returned the license to its slot and tossed the wallet aside. He wasn’t a thief. He didn’t need the money.

What he needed was the kill.

He looked back at his specimen and smiled. “Well, Randy. I’m happy to share with you that you’re Number Eight. I’ve worked my way through all seven colors of the rainbow.”

Randy’s eyes widened in panic.

“Oh, I see you’re familiar with my work. I’m sorry I didn’t clue you in from the beginning. They’re calling me Roy. Roy G. Biv—for the colors of the rainbow.”

Randy started this funny-as-all-get-out scoot. Wiggling his fat ass and trying to push his heels in. Trying to get away. From what was ahead.

“Oh, come on big boy. You’re going to be famous.” He smiled at the truck driver. “I have become quite the news story in Atlanta.” He raised both arms and air-quoted, “Rainbow Killer Strikes again.” And laughed.

Randy kept scooting.

“I’ve had the time of my life on this spree, my new friend. An Asian hooker. A gay white architect. A retired teacher.” He thought a moment. “She was a black widow.” Laughed at his own little pun. Thought a moment. “Who was next? Hmm. I know. The Hispanic plumber with five kids and one on the way. Oh, then another gay. Atlanta’s full of ‘em these days. He was a black bookstore owner. Then it was the white accountant. Divorced. Cried for his kids in the end.

“And I finished up with the white immigration lawyer last week. No, she was married to an immigration lawyer. I think she did tax law. Anyway, she was a handful, let me tell you. Talked dirty—and fought dirty when the time came. She was an awesome specimen.”

Randy had run out of crawling room. He’d hit a line of cabinets that formed an L. Backed into nowhere.

He took a step forward and watched the fright dance in Randy’s eyes. God, he loved his job!

That’s what he thought about killing. It was his job. His calling. His raison d’etre. He couldn’t imagine anything more fun or more satisfying.

“So I thought that would be the end. That I’d move on to something else. I’d gone through the entire cycle of colors. But I’m really enjoying this, Randy. This time I’ve gotten more press than ever before.” He chuckled. “I suppose I’ve become addicted to the fame.”

He took out his knife. And the piano wire.

“But you know what comes next. If you’ve been listening to the news. Or reading the papers. Or trolling the Internet.”

Randy blubbered behind the tape, tears leaking from his bloodshot drinker’s eyes.

He crouched next to his specimen. Ran the knife’s blade against his temple. Watched the thin red line of blood form.

“I’m just sorry that brown isn’t one of the colors of the rainbow. You know—painting you brown. How appropriate that would’ve been for a UPS guy.”

He drank in the terror. Let it wash over him like a balm.

And then got to the business at hand.

Chapter 5

Logan glanced at his watch and logged off his work computer as he turned to his partner.

“I’m outta here.”

Brad flipped another page of
Sports Illustrated
. “Got a hot date?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Cruising down to Peachtree Plaza to rendezvous with Mila Kunis. We’ll pick her up a little slinky something at Victoria’s Secret before grabbing drinks. Then we’ll head over to the
W Hotel
and crash in a suite where we’ll have wild animal sex all night long.”

Brad tossed the magazine into his lower desk drawer. “I love it when you talk dirty.” He paused. “But that sounds like one of
my
nights, Choir Boy. Not yours.”

Logan stood. “I’m going to my parents for a home-cooked meal.”

“And break up Mahjongg night? Or is it pinochle?”

Logan flashed a grin. “Hey, we’ll be old, too, someday. That’s probably all the action we’ll be able to handle.”

Brad shook his head. “Not me. Never gonna get married. Just like James Buchanan, our only bachelor president. In fact, never gonna fall in love. Or play board games. The only cards I’ll ever pick up will be for strip poker.”

He stood. “Besides, I’m the one who plans to zip down to the city and catch some action tonight.”

Logan shook his head. “Just keep tomorrow’s hangover to yourself, okay?”

“Right, Mr. Boy Scout. Will do.”

They both pulled their suit jackets from the back of their chairs and slid into them as they walked out of the station. Logan watched as Brad climbed into his year-old Corvette, midnight blue and as fast as the devil. He figured Brad had family money, based upon how frequently he traded in expensive sport cars, as well as his fashionable wardrobe. No way could he look like he did on a small town cop’s salary.

He never asked, though. Brad was all smiles and charm, but he didn’t advertise his personal life. Logan understood because he kept most of his bottled up. That made them a perfect team.

He started up his modest sedan and pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto Franklin. Within five minutes he’d arrived at his parents’ ranch-style house. Violet and white pansies bloomed in the flowerbeds. The paint job he and his dad did last fall still looked good.

Logan rang the doorbell. His mother answered, drinking him in as if she hadn’t seen him in months.

“Oh, sweetie, how are you?” She wrapped her arms around him. “I made lasagna. Hope that’s okay.”

“Sounds good, Mom. I’ll be sure and take any leftovers off your hands if Dad’ll let me.” He followed her into the kitchen, where the table was set for three.

Mitchell Warner tossed a salad. “Hey, son. Thanks again for coming.” He lifted his nose in the air and breathed deeply. “Smells delicious.”

“Oh, Mitch, you act as if I starve you.” Resa swatted her husband’s butt with a dishtowel. “Tell Logan the truth. After forty-two years, you’re tired of my cooking. You’d rather eat out or zap a microwave pizza or Hot Pocket.”

“Whatever you say, honeybun. Why don’t you check the sourdough? Should be warmed by now. Logan, open that wine, please.”

They gathered around the table, the food rapidly vanishing as the conversation flowed.

“So you closed those B&E’s. Anything else new?”

“Broderick Campbell collapsed today in the middle of the road.”

Resa gasped. “My goodness, is he all right?”

“We called an ambulance. It might’ve been a stroke.”

Mitchell Warner perked up. “Stroke, you say? Did he go to Our Lady?”

He nodded. “Brad and I went to his house and drove Mrs. Campbell to the hospital. I haven’t heard how he is.”

His mother sighed. “My book club wanted Martha Campbell to join when she first moved here. She expressed no interest, which I found odd for an author’s wife. She does come in every eight weeks for a color and cut, but she doesn’t say much.”

Resa shook her head. “Quiet, that one. Haven’t gotten to know her in all the time she’s come to the salon. She’s thoughtful, though. Brings me a little Christmas treat each year, like a candle or a box of Godiva chocolates. Nice lady. I sure hope her husband will be all right.”

“I see him out walking every morning when I head to work,” Mitchell Warner volunteered.

“Maybe he walks and thinks about his books,” Logan suggested. “He’s written enough of them. I remember junior year we read
Time Marches On
. Symbolism out the wazzoo. Mrs. Donovan raved about it, but it was worse than Faulkner. Way over my head.”

“Yeah, dumb jocks like you don’t get literature,” his dad teased. “But then again, you only minored in English Lit in college.”

Logan laughed. “I get Hawthorne and Hemingway. I can even jazz up a conversation about symbolism in
The Waste Land
. But Broderick Campbell remains over my head.”

Resa patted his hand. “That’s why he’s so famous, dear. No one can understand him. Everyone buys him, but I doubt anyone ever finished one of his books.” She grinned. “Even Mrs. Donovan.”

“Sounds like a scam to me,” Mitchell proclaimed. “Now how about some hot peach cobbler?”

They dished up cobbler and vanilla ice cream and sipped on decaf coffee for the next few minutes, gossiping about what was going on in the Springs.

Then his father changed the subject.

“I saw where another of those Rainbow Murders happened north of the city. First time outside of Atlanta.”

Logan grew somber. “People expect crime in a big city. Not in a small town like Mortonville. Especially with it being just a few towns over from the Springs.”

“I hope it never happens here,” his mother said. “I couldn’t stand you being involved in something so sordid, Logan.”

His mom had no idea of the horrors he’d witnessed in Atlanta on a daily basis. Aside from the knifings, rapes, and assaults while a patrolman, he’d seen a slew of murder victims during his time in homicide. Images haunted him even now.

Especially the last ones of Ashley and Alex.

His dad must have realized where his thoughts had wandered. “More cobbler, son?”

“No. I better hit the road. Thanks for dinner.”

His mother slid the remaining lasagna into a Tupperware container and handed it to him. “Your sister will be in town next weekend. Will has a soccer tournament. Try to make a game if you can. Cathy complained that she never sees you.”

“I’ll try.”

His dad walked him out to his car. “Good having you over, Logan. Don’t be such a stranger.”

He waved as he pulled out. The lasagna now sat like a hard lump in his stomach. He knew he should get over it. Cathy’s two boys were great kids, but he found it hard to be around them. All he could think about was Alex and Ashley playing with their cousins. How old they’d be now. What they would be doing. Playing soccer? Taking piano lessons? Wearing braces? Begging for a cell phones?

Five years had done nothing to heal the rip through his heart.

Especially since Carson Miller had never been caught.

Chapter 6

Karlyn’s temples throbbed as she exited the airport in her rented car. She was a poor flyer, and plenty of bumps occurred between La Guardia and Hartsfield. The plane being held on the tarmac for an hour hadn’t helped her growing headache. Hertz losing her car reservation iced the cake and brought the pounding to the forefront.

Now she was driving a sleek BMW convertible that screamed money, which was the last thing she wanted as she drove to a place she’d only visited once. Karlyn remained frugal despite her writing success. Driving an ostentatious sports car made her uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it was either the convertible or a monstrosity that resembled a cross between a Hummer and an army tank. Since she rarely drove, she decided the BMW would be the lesser of two evils.

She headed north toward Walton Springs and popped another two Aleve and guzzled the remaining half of her bottled water, fortifying herself for what lay ahead.

Ambivalence filled her. The South—and Walton Springs—weren’t home. Her parents moved there from the Pacific Heights area in San Francisco while she was away at college. Karlyn made excuses not to come visit—Maymesters, a year of study abroad, a summer internship in Boston and then one in New York that was vital to her degree and career goals.

Besides, why bother? Home never had been home, not in a traditional sense. Home conjured pictures of leisurely family dinners. Doing chores together. Parents putting together bicycles on Christmas Eve so Santa wouldn’t disappoint.

All that was as foreign to Karlyn as a homeless orphan from Harlem being adopted by a doting billionaire and thrust into life in Beverly Hills.

Dinners in the Campbell home consisted of a tray in her room. Her father was always in his study writing, the unspoken
Do Not Disturb
sign keeping him from meals. That or book tours and the lecture circuit all added up to no time spent together.

Besides, Martha Campbell didn’t cook, so Karlyn’s dinner usually consisted of a sandwich she made herself.

And vacations? Unheard of. Her classmates went from the Grand Canyon to the Grand Caymans, New York City to Disney World. But Broderick Campbell was too famous to go anywhere. He’d be recognized, and he hated that. He cherished privacy over riding on Space Mountain with his only child.

So when she twirled her baton at a football game or danced a ballet solo, no loving adult in the audience cheered her on.

Just like no one cheered on her fast-rising career in publishing.

Her father remained critical of her writing. Karlyn stopped showing him anything by the time she turned fourteen. When she actually published her first historical romance novel, she flew to Georgia with the first copy off the press, signed and dedicated to her parents. Her father swiped the paperback from her hands, vanished into his study, and emerged three hours later uttering one word.

Rubbish
.

Nothing but that one, scathing word of criticism.

At that, something broke inside her. All the hurt and anger built up from childhood crashed. And then the void arose, a black hole as vast as the Bermuda Triangle. Karlyn felt absolutely nothing for the two people that supposedly raised her.

She’d raised herself—and hadn’t done a bad job. She graduated from a prestigious Ivy League university. Landed a job within a month of graduation. Published her first novel at twenty-three. Everything seemed to be golden in her life as her writing career took off faster than a Triple Crown winner.

Except when it came to men. Total strikeouts in that area. From unrequited love to broken love affairs and now the huge disaster of divorce. Men were the oil to Karlyn’s water. They just didn’t mix.

As she cruised down the highway, she spoke aloud a vow she intended to keep.

“I, Karlyn Campbell, do solemnly swear I will not get involved with a man for the next ten years. Minimum. Look briefly at a good ass—maybe—but that’s as far as it will go.”

She glanced into her rearview mirror and saw the determination on her features. If anything, her stubbornness would allow her to keep the promise to herself.

And then she remembered the one good man in her life.

She added an addendum. “All except the amazing Matt Collins, of course. And any other interesting, fictional man I can create and have total control over.”

She brusquely nodded for good measure. “I promise I will create good men who will make even better women happy. Furthermore, I swear to kill off any man that is mean, unfaithful, or uninteresting.”

Karlyn chuckled at her resolve. She supposed a shrink would say she was killing her father over and over again in her suspense novels. If she were, it was certainly fun. And profitable.

She glimpsed the sign for Our Lady of Mercy Hospital and exited the freeway, following the blue signs rather than her mother’s vague directions. She parked and found the information desk in the lobby.

“Hi. I’m here to visit my father, Broderick Campbell, but I don’t have the room number.” Thanks to her mother, who hadn’t bothered with details.

The slender receptionist stared at her open-mouthed. “You’re . . . you’re . . . Karlyn Campbell! Oh, my god, you’re like my favorite author ever. And I saw on
E! News
where Matt Collins is going to be a movie. That is so awesome!” She hesitated. “Uh, can I have your autograph? No one is going to believe I met you. You’re like . . . a goddess.”

Karlyn smiled and took the offered pen and memo pad. “Only if you give me my father’s room number.”

“Sorry.” The young woman’s fingers flew over the keys. She frowned. “He’s in ICU. That’s the sixth floor. Room 638.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ava.”

Karlyn scribbled a moment and handed over the pen and paper. “Thank you, Ava. I appreciate your kind words. I enjoy meeting my fans.”

“Hey, would you use my name in your next book? That would be so cool.”

Karlyn pursed her lips and thought a moment. “Ava. Sounds like a woman with a past. And a juicy secret. You’re on, Ava. Keep buying my books. You’ll see your name one of these days. I can’t promise if I’ll keep you alive. Dead seems to work better for me.”

She walked away as the receptionist squealed. Karlyn pulled out her phone to make a note about it. She did like the name. It was old-fashioned and yet sexy. Maybe Ava could be the heroine in her next romantic suspense, but that would have to wait. Completing the screenplay loomed over her, as well as trying to finish the novel she’d begun a few months ago. And now this thing with her father had come up. Karlyn didn’t know how long she’d be in Walton Springs, much less why he wanted to see her after so many years of silence.

She made her way to the bank of elevators. She gritted her teeth as she stepped inside. She liked being in control of a situation, and she had no idea what she was about to walk into.

The doors opened, and a bedraggled Martha Campbell appeared in front of her.

“Oh, Karlyn.” Her mother rushed into the elevator and clutched her tightly, her body shaking.

“It’s okay, Mother.”

“He’s going to die, Karlyn, I know it.”

The doors started to close.

“Let’s get out.”

She maneuvered her mother out of the small box and tried to put on a brave face, which was hard because her mother was a mess. Karlyn was used to Martha being the most put-together woman in any room, but she looked as if she’d slept in her clothes. Her hair was flat, and most of her make-up had worn off. Martha Campbell without make-up spelled the end of time.

“What do I need to know before I see him?”

Her mother’s face crumpled. She dissolved into tears again. Karlyn pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it over. Martha dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose at a surprisingly loud, unladylike level.

“Let’s get some of that bad coffee hospitals are famous for, and you can catch me up.”

She led them down the quiet corridor until they reached a small lounge with vending machines.

“Nothing for me, dear,” her mother said. “I’ve had enough coffee to float to China. I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight. Not that I did here last night.”

Karlyn put in some change and pressed a few buttons. Her coffee with milk and some kind of sweetener appeared. She probably wouldn’t drink it, but she needed something to keep her hands busy.

Martha led them over to a couple of empty chairs, and they sat. Neither spoke.

Karlyn refused to be the first to continue the conversation. She’d flown in from New York, she’d asked about her father’s condition, and her mother had fluttered around and told her nothing.

“He had another stroke, you know. Before this one,” Martha finally offered.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her mother toyed with the wadded up tissue. “He didn’t want you to know. It was three years ago. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

Martha Campbell stood. “It was mild. The doctor said if you had to have one, this was the one to have. Broderick bounced back almost immediately. Began walking again in the mornings. It never affected his speech or his coordination. Pretty soon he was writing as if nothing had happened. He finished his next novel on schedule. Even his agent was none the wiser.”

She frowned. “I wish you would’ve told me.”

Martha waved her hands helplessly. “I couldn’t go against his wishes. You know how he can be.”

Her temper flared. “That’s great, Mother. My own father breaks off all contact with me, and you go right along with him, punishing me for who knows what.”

Karlyn stood and began pacing to hide how upset she was. She should have never come in the fragile emotional state she was in. This trip to Georgia had
mistake
written all over it.

“Well, I do call you when I get a chance. I’ve never told Broderick. I can’t believe I do it, but I need to see how you are every now and then.”

“Right now, Mother, I’m not too great. I signed my divorce papers yesterday.”

“Oh, no. Poor Mario.”

Anger sizzled inside her. “
Poor Mario
? That is the story of my life with you, Mother. You think about anyone but your own daughter, and I’m burning up with hurt over it all.”

Martha looked startled. “Oh, Karlyn. You’ve always seemed so self-sufficient. Like you didn’t need me or anyone else. I thought you must have initiated the divorce. I felt sorry for Mario losing you. He’s such a handsome, sweet boy.”

“He’s a grown man, Mother, and he’s no angel.” She clammed up, determined not to describe her ex’s temper tantrums and affairs. She doubted her mother saw any rumors printed in the tabloids. Her father would expressly keep that kind of trash out of their house. Since she knew they had a housekeeper who did their marketing, Martha Campbell never set foot inside a supermarket where she could peruse the screaming headlines while in the check-out line.

Besides, Martha would be in denial about anything concerning Mario. His dark, Spanish looks and impeccable manners had charmed her mother from their first meeting.

“Well, I’m sorry, dear. At least you have that lovely apartment with its wonderful views.”

No sense in getting into that. Karlyn waited for her mother to continue.

“I suppose you want to hear about your father’s condition. He had the stroke yesterday morning. Two nice policemen found him and called an ambulance, and they brought me here.”

“So you’ve been here since yesterday morning? Have you eaten anything?”

Martha looked blank for a moment. “I don’t remember.”

“Have you called anyone?”

“No. Broderick wouldn’t want anyone to know. Like before.” She turned tear-filled eyes to Karlyn.

“Except you, dear. One of the detectives said your father specifically asked for you to be called. So that’s what I did.”

“Then let’s get this over with.” She took her mother’s arm and helped her out of the chair.

They walked down the hall, both pausing a moment when they reached the room. Karlyn could see through the window that her father was hooked up to a couple of machines, his eyes closed.

“You can only go in for the first few minutes at the top of the hour,” her mother informed her. “ICU rules.”

Karlyn glanced at her watch. “It’s five till two. I think we can bend the rules a little and go on in.”

Martha put on the brakes. “No. They only let one at a time see him. You go. I’ll wait.” With that, Martha turned and retreated down the hall.

Karlyn steeled herself. She stepped into the dim room and paused. The beeping monitor sounded at regular intervals. The only other sound beyond it was her father’s slow, even breathing. That had to be a good sign.

She moved closer and sat in the chair next to the bed. Should she take his hand? She’d never held it before. Never received a hug or a kiss from him, not upon graduation, not even when she left for college. She had even pushed Mario to elope because she couldn’t see herself on her father’s arm coming down the aisle on her wedding day. They went to Mexico and were married barefoot on the beach instead of in a church with her parents looking on. That is, if they would have come. Karlyn thought of the excuses they’d made at other momentous occasions in her life. Even her wedding wouldn’t have guaranteed their attendance.

She leaned closer and studied the great Broderick Campbell. He seemed smaller somehow, not the intimidating giant of her childhood. Reluctantly, Karlyn reached out and placed her hand over his. It was cool to the touch.

His eyes opened. “You . . . came.”

She noticed the slur in his speech. Awake, she also could see the downward tilt of his mouth. She wondered if he’d suffered any paralysis from the stroke.

“You asked for me.” She paused a moment. “I wondered why.”

“Tell you . . . how proud I am. Of . . . you.”