Murder on Lovers' Lane (Brody and Hannigan Mysteries) (9 page)

"I was hoping you'd call," he said.  "I had a thought on the killer.  I tried to reach you, but your cell phone kept going to voicemail."

"I turned it off," she answered, knowing that statement would ring warning bells for him if nothing else did.  She never turned off her cell phone, except on planes or in blast zones.  Brody knew that fact better than anyone.

"Then I'm doubly glad you called," he answered in a tone entirely too casual to be true.  But would Silor know that?

"You said you had a thought on the killer?"  She realized, with a faint rush of pleasure, how easy it was to trust him not to say the wrong thing.  In the span of seconds, and a few shared words of innocuous conversation, she'd heard what she needed to know from her partner.

He knew she was in trouble.  He knew who was behind it.  He had her back.

"I went back to the collage you put together, and I remembered something from that first class.  Remember Alan Dombrello, that skinny kid in the front row?"

She didn't, but she knew without question that there was a skinny kid named Alan Dombrello who'd sat in the first row of Dr. Flanders' class, because Brody knew that Silor would know, and he wouldn't say anything to tip the man off.

"I think so," she answered.  "He's our suspect?"

"One of them," Brody replied.  "I think we may be dealing with a serial pair."

She heard a soft huff of breath beside her and glanced at Silor.  He was looking at her, merriment shining in his eyes.  The sound, she realized, had been a quickly stifled laugh.  He was delighted at her partner's mistaken premise.

It took all of Hannigan's self-control not to grin back at him.  Wouldn't that throw the pervy bastard for a loop?

"Why don't you come by tonight?  We can talk about it."

"Tonight?"  For the first time, Brody sounded unsure.  It was a purposeful hesitation, though she imagined it would sound spontaneous and natural to Silor.

The dean pressed the butt of the Smith & Wesson revolver more sharply against her rib cage.  She darted a look at him, and saw him mouth three words. 
Get him here.

"Yeah, tonight," she said aloud.  "I'll make some of that mocha latte you like."  He hated lattes, of course—hated flavored coffees on the whole—but she'd laid a clue for him if only he'd take it.

"That's an incentive if I ever heard one.  Be there before you know it."  He hung up, leaving her feeling utterly alone. 

Lifting her chin, she dropped the phone to its cradle and looked at Silor.  "You got what you wanted."

He smiled, triumph shining brightly in his eyes.  "Not yet," he answered.  "But soon."

Hannigan hid an answering smile of satisfaction. 
Sooner than you think, Dr. Silor.

Sooner than you think.

"Mocha latte," Brody muttered, trying to parse through Hannigan's possible meanings.  She knew how much he hated flavored coffees, because he'd ragged her for most of their first month as partners for her own addiction to the sweet, milky confections that no self-respecting coffee-lover would put up with for a minute.

"I'm not a coffee lover," she'd said flatly after a month, shooting him a glare that warned him to shut up about the coffee.  He mostly had, and she'd never offered him anything but black coffee with one packet of sugar from that moment on.  He'd reciprocated by overcoming his aversion to coffee-flavored chocolate milk and buying her favorite hazelnut mocha latte whenever it was his turn to pay for the morning cup of Joe.

She had given him a clue.  It was his job to decipher her meaning.

Mocha latte.  No mention of hazelnut.  Did that mean anything?  It had to mean something.  Hazelnuts were the fruit of the hazel tree.  Sometimes called Filberts.  Did he know any Filberts?  Any Hazels? 

Witch hazel.  There was a witch hazel shrub growing at the back of the house.  He teased her about it all the time because, despite being about the most level-headed person he knew, she was also a minor expert on herbs and natural plant medicines, thanks to her grandmother on her mother's side, who fancied herself a natural healer. 

"She's damned lucky she never killed anyone, at least as far as we know," Hannigan had drawled, her pragmatic side clearly winning over whatever mysticism genes she might have inherited from her mother's side of the family.

He'd mentioned witch hazel just the other day, when they were talking about her navel ring.  So witch hazel meant something.  But what?

From his crouched position beneath a low-hanging magnolia tree, he saw a marked police car drive slowly past the house.  No lights, no sirens, as he'd asked.

He edged toward the street, staying out of easy sight of his partner's bungalow.  The police cruiser pulled up next to where his Taurus was double parked by Silor's Lexus.  The cruiser barely had room to pass. 

The patrolman lowered the window when Brody flashed his badge.  "You need back-up, no lights, no sirens?"

Brody explained what he believed was going on in Hannigan's house.  "If we try to bust in there, he'll kill her.  I'm pretty sure he has a gun on her right now."

"We could call in a negotiator."

Brody shook his head.  "That's not going to work.  There's nothing you can offer this guy that'll sway him.  Killing people is the only thing he really wants.  He's made himself a god of his own universe.  You can't bargain with a god.  He makes all the rules."

The patrolmen exchanged looks, making Brody wonder just how far and wide his reputation for eccentricity had reached.

The driver turned back to him.  "What do you want us to do, Detective?"

That was the question, Brody thought.  What did he want them to do?

"I need to talk to my partner," he said finally.  He thought he knew what clue she'd sent him, but he couldn't be sure, and he wasn't going to waste time on a wild goose chase.

Besides, he needed to hear her voice again.

"Will he let you talk to her?" the officer asked.

Brody nodded.  "He wants me in there.  And I'm willing to go."  He'd go anywhere for Hannigan. Any time.  "But first, I have to figure out what my partner is trying to tell me."

"Where do you want us?"

"I'm going around to the back yard.  There's something I need to check.  I need one of you here in the front and another in the back alley, in case he tries to get away.  I'm pretty sure this son of a bitch has killed at least eight people.  We need him in custody.  Tonight."

Without waiting to see if they complied, he edged back down the side of Hannigan's yard, keeping close to the tree line for cover, until he was safely out of view from the front windows.

He crept around the back, staying low in case Silor was keeping an eye on the back windows as well.  He located the witch hazel shrub with some difficulty; the plant wouldn't sprout its distinctive flowers for another month or two, so he could only go by his memory of the tall, leafy shrub with the short, rounded, crinkly-textured leaves.

I've found you
, he thought as he crouched at the base of the tall shrub. 
Now what?

He pulled out his phone and dialed the landline, shivering a little as he heard the phone ringing through the kitchen window.  So close, he thought.  He was so damned close.  If he could just get inside without making a sound—

"Hello?"  Hannigan's voice was loud in his ear, making his nerves dance. 

"Hey, it's me.  You didn't mention hazelnut.  You know I can't drink mocha latte without hazelnut.  Do I need to stop by the store and pick up some hazelnut creamer?"

"No, I have some here.  Remember, I picked some up the last time the power went out at your place and you couldn't get your coffeemaker to work on battery power.  You nearly went nuts when you found out all I had was vanilla."

"Right," he improvised.  "You were a complete witch about it, as I recall.  Teasing a man about his need for a good hazelnut mocha latte."

"I thought you liked my witchy side," she said in a soft tone that sent a rush of relief through him.  He'd been right.  Witch hazel was right.

"That I do," he answered warmly.

"Did you ever get that generator you were talking about?" she asked.  Her tone held an extra hint of urgency.

Generator.  Power.  "Yeah," he answered, easing the small flashlight from his pocket.  The narrow beam of light wouldn't attract any attention from inside this house as long as he kept it below the window line.  He flashed the light through the thick branches of the witch hazel bush until he saw it.

The power lines running from below ground to a box affixed to the side of her house.

"How long until you get here?" she asked.

"I'm two minutes away," he answered, pushing the light-up dial of his watch.  Ten-twenty-five and ten seconds.  At ten-twenty-seven and ten seconds, he'd cut the power to the house, now certain it was what she wanted him to do.  "Count on it."

"I'll leave the door unlocked.  You just come on in."

"Will do."  He hung up before the tension in his voice gave him away.  Unlocked, he thought.  She needed him to unlock the back door for her.

He edged away from the witch hazel bush and tried the back door, taking care not to let the knob rattle.  It was still locked, but he had a key. 

Could he get it unlocked without making any noise?

He looked at his watch.  Ten seconds had already passed.

One minute, fifty seconds to go.  No time to give into fear.  He had to get the door unlocked and the power cut off by ten twenty-seven and ten seconds.

She'd be counting on it.

"He's very fond of his coffee." Silor nudged her toward the sofa with the butt of his revolver. 

Hannigan moved slowly in response, glancing at the clock on the wall behind the sofa.  Two minutes, Brody had said.  Fifteen seconds had already ticked past.

"He has a coffee fetish," she murmured, using the sexually charged word on purpose.  If Silor's mind was occupied considering all the salacious possibilities, maybe he'd lose his focus enough to give her the chance she needed.

She heard the faintest rasp from the kitchen and quickly covered the sound by kicking her toe into the coffee table and faking a stumble.  Silor dodged out of the way as she fell toward him, and she nearly planted face down on the edge of the sofa, catching herself at the last second.  

"If that was an attempt to disarm me," Silor said darkly, "I wouldn't suggest you repeat it.  I don't have to kill you and your partner together, you know."

But he wanted to, she thought.  It was his signature.  Kill them together, pose them together.  If Brody was right about his profile—and she was now certain he was—Dean Silor would do all he could to avoid deviating from his script.

She pushed to her feet slowly, looking up at the clock.  A minute had passed.  Just one more minute to go.

She turned to look at the dean, keeping a careful distance.  Once the lights went out, she meant to be on the move, and the more distance he had to cover in the unfamiliar house, the better.  "Can I ask something?  Just for my own edification?"

He looked wary but nodded.  "If you must."

"Why did you go after Alvin Morehead?  He wasn't skipping class to fornicate, as you put it.  It was his night off."

"He was a scholarship student.  Did you know that?"

She nodded.  He'd mentioned it before.

"The money came from a fund meant to aid worthy students whose own money went to the necessities of life, such as food, shelter and clothing."  His expression darkened. "Procuring whores does not fall under the definition of necessities."

"But how did you know?  Did you follow him the way you followed my partner and me?

He smiled.  "No.  It was one of those moments in life when fortune shines on a person like light from heaven.  I was at the Emerson Art Gallery, attending a showing by one of our art professors.  Ghastly modern multimedia bilge, but I suppose art, as beauty, is in the eye of the beholder."

The Emerson Art Gallery was a block away from Devon Avenue, the end of the club district where higher end prostitutes sometimes plied their wares.  He must have spotted poor Alvin Morehead picking up his best chance to get lucky.

Hannigan had been on Devon Avenue just this morning, she remembered.  It seemed like a long time ago.

"I saw you near there earlier today.  At the restaurant on Devon."  She glanced at the clock.  Five seconds to go, if he'd meant the promise of two minutes literally.  And she had to believe he did.  "Looking for a whore of your own?"

She had only a second to see the look of rage on Silor's face before the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.

She didn't wait a second, dashing through the inky void toward the back door.  She heard Silor stumbling after her and picked up speed, grabbing for the metal latch of the pocket door in her kitchen.  Her fingers caught on the metal and she gave a tug as she dashed through, pulling the door out of its hidden spot inside the wall to block the entrance to the kitchen.

She heard Silor slam into the unexpected door and stifled a grin as she closed the distance to the back door.  She turned the knob, not doubting for a second that she'd find it unlocked.

She heard the pocket door sliding open behind her and dove through the back door, rolling to the side. 

Strong arms caught her and tucked her behind a solid mass of warm, male body.  "Brody," she breathed.

"Are you armed?"

"No."

"Then stay behind me."

Silor rushed through the door, his gun out.  At Brody's first movement, he swung the gun around and fired wildly.

Brody didn't duck, and for a second, terror stole Hannigan's breath as she realized he was keeping himself between her and Silor's Smith & Wesson.

The bullet missed, and the kick of the gun sent Silor's arm up, forcing him to set again to fire a second time.

It was all Brody needed.  He squeezed off two rounds, hitting the dean squarely in center mass.

Silor stared at them both, the moon overhead revealing an expression of pure disbelief on his darkened face.