Authors: Vicki Hinze
“We couldn’t wait, Parker. We’ve discussed this. They’re
not about to let two people off the street come in and view a corpse. You’ve got to pretend to be Sandy.”
“What if the attendant knows Sanders? The guy’s been
around since God was a baby.”
“I’ll sense it,” she said calmly. “You’re going to have to
trust me on this.”
Parker wasn’t a man given to trusting easily. But he in
tended to try. Caron wrung feelings out of him that he didn’t know he had. After all he’d done
against
her, the
least he could do
for
her was to try to trust her. “Okay.”
“Really?” She gave him a smile that wrenched his heart.
He’d given other women diamonds and not seen as much
pleasure in their eyes.
“Really.” He squeezed her hand.
The guy on duty was named John Davis. He was about forty, and stoop-shouldered, and he was chewing the fire out of a toothpick, reducing it in spots to splinters. He was pleasant, and hard-nosed, too, Parker imagined, considering his line of work.
After a brief conversation, Caron gave Parker a go-ahead nod. John Davis didn’t know Sanders. Relieved, Parker cut
the chitchat and got down to business. “Detective Sand
ers,” Parker identified himself to Davis. “Can we have a look at Forrester?”
“Sure thing. She’s right over here.”
They walked into a room that was even chillier than the office. White walls, white floor, square silver refrigerated
tombs with long shiny handles.
John stopped at the third one, middle row. “Forrester,” he said, checking the name marked on the orange paper inserted in a slot just above the door. “Move a little to the
left, please.”
Caron urged him, and Parker moved. Sarah had been just two silver doors down.
John rolled the toothpick to the opposite side of his
mouth, then opened the door and pulled out a sliding tray.
On it was a woman’s sheet-draped body. Parker read the tag
attached to her toe, which was sticking out from under the
edge of the white shroud. “Forrester.”
“Ready?” the attendant asked, looking at Caron.
Parker heard her swallow, watched her nod. How many times before had she done this alone? He reached over and
took her hands.
The man lifted back the corner of the sheet.
Parker stiffened, half-afraid that when he looked down
it would be Sarah he’d see. He wouldn’t let that happen. He
couldn’t. He forced himself to lower his gaze, then frowned.
A thin line of choke marks dappled her neck. Her face
wasn’t damaged. She was blond and beautiful. But she was
not
the woman he’d met at the café.
Caron squeezed his hand. “Is it her?”
“She was a redhead.” Strained, his voice grated.
“A wig?” Caron suggested again.
“No. I’m sure. Her face was shaped differently, more square than oval. And her lips were thicker. It’s not her.”
Parker was in a cold sweat. He nodded, and John Davis
pushed the tray back into the wall and closed the door.
“I thought she’d lost a lot of blood,” Caron said.
“She did,” Davis said with a nod. “Blunt force trauma.
The back of her head
was pounded hard with a heavy object.”
Caron thanked him. Parker couldn’t seem to find his voice. His mind was too full of memories of Harlan, and how he’d reacted on seeing Sarah here. The man had crumpled right before Parker’s eyes. And the moment Harlan had fallen to his knees was the moment Parker had decided to burn down the building where Sarah had died.
He couldn’t bring her back. And he couldn’t collar the guy who’d murdered her; he’d already been arrested. But there was something Parker could do to comfort her husband and his friend. Parker could see to it that no other woman ever suffered as Sarah had suffered in that hellhole. He could see to it that when Harlan drove by that building—as any husband would countless times—he wouldn’t ever have to look at that building again. Parker could do those things for his friend. And he had.
Caron frowned. What was Parker thinking? His expression had closed, and his eyes had grown hard; whatever it
was, it was wicked, and he’d had to bury his emotions deep.
Before they’d arrived, she’d suspected that coming here
would be hard for him. Only now did she realize how hard.
Parker’s father came to mind. Had Parker had to identify
Charley in this room? She hoped he would talk to her about
it, but she wouldn’t push. When he was ready, when he
trusted her, then he’d talk. And that would be soon enough.
She led him outside, through the parking lot, and to the car. “Give me your keys, Parker. I’ll drive.”
He passed them to her without a word.
Caron got in and shut the door. Parker was sitting there, looking as wooden as the cigar-store Indian in front Decker’s corner grocery where he went for beer and chips. She considered
waiting, then decided against it, and reversed her earlier
decision not to push him. The more time that passed be
tween now and whenever he talked to her about this, the
deeper he would bury his emotions. And she knew firsthand how important it was to give emotions free rein.
Burying them spelled disaster.
She covered his hand with hers. “Was it Charley?”
He seemed surprised that she’d noticed, and he tried to
pull his hand free. But Caron held on tight. “Don’t run
from me, please. We’ve been through too much together for
you to run from me.”
He didn’t answer for a long time. When she figured he
wasn’t going to, he did.
“She was...more than a friend.”
“You identified her in that room.”
He nodded. Caron’s
heart ached, and she wrapped him in her arms and held him
close.
She sensed more than felt or saw his tears. Though his
eyes were dry, the tears were real, welling up from his heart.
“God, I’m so sorry.”
He needed rest. They both did. They were running on
sheer adrenaline, and that, as she’d learned from Sarah’s case, was a breeding ground for mistakes.
Caron started the engine and headed toward home. Misty
was safe for now. They could afford a few hours’ sleep.
During the ride, Parker didn’t say a word. Not when, unfamiliar with standard transmissions, Caron ground the
Porsche’s gears. Not when, testing the handling of the car, she nearly had them airborne. And not when, sidetracked
by a kid shooting across the street on his bike, she bumped
the curb parking at her apartment. But it wasn’t until he
climbed the stairs without griping about the graffiti and the
rickety banister as he usually did that she started worry
ing.
Inside, she tossed her purse onto a chair in the living
room and walked straight into the kitchen. From the fridge,
she called out, “Hungry?”
Parker paused at a mirror in the hallway. On the way back to Caron’s, he’d seen nothing but the flames of the burning building. But he was okay now. Tired-looking
around the eyes, and bone-weary, but back on solid ground
emotionally. “Yeah, I am,” he said.
Grabbing a slice of pizza from the fridge, Caron bit off the tip. Parker put water into the kettle and rolled his eyes back in his head. “God, she’s
trying
to make me sick.”
“I am not. If you don’t want pizza, help yourself to whatever you do want.” Caron looked at the phone. The red light on the answering machine was blinking.
“How old is it?”
A wrinkle furrowed her brow and she shrugged. “Not
sure.” She grabbed a can of cola from the fridge and tapped
the button on the answering machine.
A recording of a woman’s voice filled the kitchen. “Caron, ain’t you ever gonna get home, child?”
“Ina,” Caron told Parker.
“Call me right away, you hear? No matter what time it
is. Right away!”
“What’s that all about?”
“Beats me.” Caron set the pizza on the counter and
punched in Ina’s number.
Ina answered the phone on the first ring.
“Caron?”
“Yes, Ina, it’s me.” Caron straightened and reached for her cola. “Are you all right? You sounded—”
“I have something to tell you,” she said, breathless.
“Whew! I was in the tub.”
“Take your time.”
“I’m fine now.” Ina breathed deeply. The phone crackled. “I called Tuesday. Where’ve you been?”
“Everywhere.” Caron glossed over the whirlwind she
and Parker had been living in. “What’s up?”
“I said I’d call if anything unusual happened at Deck
er’s. Well, something did. Just after one—Tuesday, I’m
talking about—Linda came over to see Decker, like usual.
But she was madder than a horny bull penned up away
from the cows. Stomping and spewing curses on Decker’s
head—some I never even heard of before.
“Then this man drives up in a shiny Lincoln. He was dressed to the hilt. Quite a looker. But I didn’t think much of him for long. He gets out of the car yelling. Then they all start arguing. Have themselves a free-for-all right there
in the driveway outside the garage.
“Mr. Klein was outside giving Fluffy a bath with the water hose, and he heard the whole thing. They didn’t see him, of course. Mr. Klein wouldn’t embarrass nobody, let
ting on he’s hearing family business.”
“What were they arguing about?” Caron had missed them by minutes. Mere minutes!
“I couldn’t hear, and Mr. Klein won’t say. ‘A body’s
dirty laundry ought be kept behind closed doors,’ Mr. Klein
told Mrs. Klein. She says he’s a stubborn cuss. He’ll take it with him to his grave. But Lily Mae was out watering her begonias—not that they need watering, what with all the rain we been having. But she heard the man—that Forrester fellow, she says—tell the others that if they didn’t all
keep their mouths shut, he’d kill them.”
“The others?”
“Linda and Decker. Ain’t you listening, child?”
“Her own husband?” Shock streaked up Caron’s back.
“That’s right,” Ina said with an indignant snort. “Lily
Mae knew it was Forrester, because he drove up in that shiny Lincoln. Mary Beth had told her all about it.”
The first time she’d been to Decker’s, before she’d met
Parker, there had been a black Lincoln in the drive. “Have
you seen Decker since then?”
“He’s been home. Killer treed Fluffy on the shed roof,
and she got muddier than a slopped pig—that’s why Mr.
Klein was giving her a bath on Tuesday. Well, the fool cat still ain’t learned her lesson, ‘cause last night she was right back up there, treed again on Decker’s shed.”
Caron rubbed her temple. “But have you seen
Decker?”
“Sure did, just last night. You really ought to pay closer attention, child. The fool emptied a double-barrelled shot
gun, trying to shoot Fluffy off the roof.”
“Good God! Did he hit her?”
“Naw, he missed her by a mile. Put a hole the size of a
penny through the side of Lily Mae’s garage, though.” Ina
sighed. “Decker never could shoot worth a switch. Mainly
‘cause he’s usually drunk.”
“Mmm, too much beer, I suppose.”
“Exactly.” Ina harrumphed. “I called the police. Decker
knows it, too. I been keeping watch, but he ain’t stomped
my irises again, least not yet.”
Caron smiled. “Have the new ones taken root?”
“You know they have. Fred put ‘em in, didn’t he? They sure are pretty. You tell your Parker I said that, you hear? Fred’s a nice man. Likes my lemonade. Most say it’s too tart, but Fred had two glasses. Fine man, yes, indeed.”
“Good.’’ Caron took a drink of her cola and polished off
the last bite of pizza.
“Have you found the young’un?”
Caron imaged Ina crossing herself. “Not yet. But we
think we’re getting close.”
“Fred tells me Parker won’t have family around for Christmas. His mama and sister are still in Europe. I’m
figuring you won’t, either.”
“No, I won’t.” Caron fought the memories of last year. She’d been unconscious all through Christmas, and her
mother hadn’t even called.