No Ordinary Killer (14 page)

“You see, that’s
definitely bothering me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Burton Oliver, private dickhead. He’s like the joke
of PIs. Whoever hired him wanted me to know about him. His way of saying ‘
I’m still here, bitch
’.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. You are in danger. Who
is after you, Dallas?” Cooper pulled up to his apartment building and turned
off the ignition. He faced her in time to see fear flash in her eyes. “Who is
stalking you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Dallas. I’m here for you and I want to help.
I can’t if you’re going to shut me out.”

“I’m telling you … I … don’t … know.”

Her tears surfaced and he held back. “Let’s get
inside. Once we are, you and I are going to have one hell of a talk. You
hearing me?” Her slight nod was all he needed.

Once he locked the front door, Cooper canvased the
apartment with a steady gaze. Nothing seemed out of place … except … he
motioned Dallas to stay put. “Did you see Sparks’ face when we surprised him
tonight? I think he almost—“ Cooper whipped his gun out and moved toward the
drapes and pulled hard on the cord.

“Well would you look at that,” Dallas said.

Cooper stood back and read; “
My, my, careless little IA agent Dallas, let the handsome detective see
your malice. You may think you’re the target dear, but it’s not really me that
you should fear. Watch and don’t allow yourself to believe, or you’ll be snared
into the hell I’ve weaved.”

“That’s my lipstick. He must have stolen it at the
B&B. He’s that many steps ahead of us? We are in some deep shit, aren’t
we?”

“He can’t be any smarter than we are. We just need to
try and figure out what he’s really saying.”

“He’s saying that if I believe you, he’ll make sure
I’m framed right along with you. Which in essence he’s saying you’re innocent
and he’s the one framing you. Now we need to establish the why.”

“Tell you what … I’m too fricking tired to worry about
why tonight.” Cooper pulled his fingers through his short, red hair. “Let’s
sleep on it and we’ll tackle it in the morning. I’m hitting the shower and then
the bathroom is all yours.”

“That’s a plan. I’ll get a couple of snapshots of that
lovely poem with my cell phone.”

“Good idea. Don’t know if you’re hungry, but if you
are I think there’s some leftover pizza from a couple nights ago … uh … you
might not want to touch that. There is some soup or whatever. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

Cooper tossed his dirty clothes in the hamper and
jumped into the shower. He allowed the hot water to pound his skin, easing the
tension that hadn’t left his body for two days. What had he gotten himself
into? Who was Megan’s lover? Did he have anything to do with these murders? Was
she in danger? What about Tina and Tucker? Would Megan have hired Burton to
follow Dallas? Was her hatred that warped? He’d ask Sparks to check on her.
Damn he couldn’t, she’d gone to Helena. Or had she? He had so many questions
his head swam. Cooper rinsed his hair out and turned the faucet off. He heard
the TV in the living room. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he walked
into the kitchen.

“I left a set of towels on the sink for you.” Cooper
grabbed a bag of trail mix and headed for the bedroom. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I was just jotting down some notes.”

The rustling of bags told him she was going through
her purchases. “You find everything you needed at the store?”

“That was a poor excuse to have to buy new underwear
and socks. There is nothing I hate more than to shop. I’d rather—“

“A woman who hates shopping? I don’t think I heard
right,” Cooper laughed. He strolled to the living room and watched her pile her
clothes and toiletries on the coffee table.

“Damn, I forgot pajamas.”

“Want one of my t-shirts?”

“Sure, that’d be great. My, don’t you look dashing in
a towel?”

“Oh, damn, Dallas. I wasn’t thinking. I’m tired and …
and … I just—”

“Stop being so embarrassed. I happen to think you look
… well … mighty fine in a towel. Go get me that t-shirt and I’m off to the
showers.”

Cooper stepped into his bedroom and opened the top
bureau drawer and pulled out a Packer t-shirt. Exhausted he tossed the shirt
toward the couch. “There you go. Need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Cooper left the bedroom door slightly open and waited for her to close the
bathroom door. Hearing the shower he ventured back to the kitchen and poured
himself a glass of orange juice. He took it and his notes to the bedroom, slid
under the covers and wrote:
have Sparks
check to make sure Megan went to Helena; have team dissect poem on my window;
verify lipstick is Dallas’s; receipt from crime scene.
Cooper ate a handful
of berries and nuts and washed it down with juice. He leaned back against the
pillow and closed his eyes.

Maybe it was the warm body snuggled against him or
maybe it was the matching steady breathing that caused him to wake. Cooper opened
his eyes and found Dallas in his bed. A quick glance at four AM on his clock
told him morning would be coming too soon. With it he hoped for some answers.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Carolina Bed and Breakfast was rather impressive.
Megan smiled at the young man running to open her car door.

“My name is Adam. May I park your car, ma’am?”

“Only if you’ll call me Ms. Reynolds. Thank you,
Adam.” Megan popped open the truck, then handed over the keys.

“Charlie will get your bags. Are you the writer that’s
staying on the whole third floor?”

“Yes, that’s me. Why?”

“Oh, just wondering Ms. Reynolds. Everyone is excited
you’re staying here to write. We have orders to keep quiet so we don’t disturb
you.”

“How very thoughtful.” Megan nodded as Charlie piled
her four suitcases on his cart. She adjusted her jeans down over her heels and
walked into the lobby. A lovely bouquet of flowers added a touch of class to
the inviting B&B.

“I have the Courtney Rose Suite, I’m Megan Reynolds.”

“Welcome Ms. Reynolds. I’m Colleen Cox, the owner of
The Carolina. Everything for your two weeks stay with us has been taken care
of. I’ve chilled a chardonnay and it will be brought up to your room within the
hour. If there is anything else you will need, please let us know.”

“I’d love some Swiss and perhaps mild Colby cheeses
and some crackers for a slight snack with that wine if at all possible. After
that, I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Your agent requested that we cater your lunch and
dinners for you. We have placed several menus in your room for you to choose
from. If you could let us know your choices several hours before you wish to
eat, that would help us immensely. “

“How nice of him … and you of course.”

“We serve breakfast at 7:30 and again at 8:30. You may
enjoy breakfast in our lovely dining room or at private tables located in the
sun room, garden area or our lovely front room. Our three-course breakfast
features a combination of fruit and a hot savory main course. Examples you may
expect to taste include Cranberry Cobblers, Carolina Scones, Eggs Benedict,
Sour Cream Buttermilk Pancakes, Egg Sandwich Strata, German Crepes served with
lemon custard and Country Omelets. Please notify the kitchen staff ahead of
time about alternative times and dietary requirements. Your needs will be
accommodated to the best of our ability.”

“It looks like I’ll be very happy here. Thank you.
Where is the elevator?”

“We have no elevator. But I promise you the walk will
be well worth the effort.”

“Three floors and no elevator, I find that rather strange.”

“Not if you understand historic buildings. Our home is
officially listed on the National Historic Registry as the C.B. Power Mansion.
This mansion was commissioned by railroad contractor Peter Larson whose home
was located across the street and would later become Montana's first Governor's
mansion. Mr. Larson commissioned the home in 1904. It was completed three years
later in 1907 and presented as a wedding gift to Larson's daughter Mable and
future son-in-law, Charles B. Power. Charles was the only child of Thomas C.
Power, Montana's first senator and business mogul. Charles and Mable, their two
children and five servants lived in this house until 1914. Extensive efforts to
restore the house to its original glory were undertaken in the early 1990's by
former owners Mike and Debbie Corak. Their dedication to this effort received
National recognition, when in 1998 the home was featured on Bob Villa's Restore
America. Of course my husband and I did additional remodeling when we purchased
the house in 1999 with the dream of establishing a bed and—“

“Yes … yes … I get it. Thank you for the history
lesson. I have way too much work to do. I’m wasting precious time.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Reynolds. Charlie is back from taking
your bags up and he’ll show you to your suite. We wish you a lovely stay. Do
let us know if there is anything we can do for you.”

“Thank you.” Megan desperately needed to get that book
started. Two weeks … hell she needed two years. Her shoes clicked on the
hardwood floors. The Courtney Rose Suite was beyond lovely. She tossed her
heels off and walked across a plush floral area rug, then dropped into an
overstuffed leather chair and closed her eyes.
Now what?
Megan asked herself.

She jumped and grabbed the ringing cell phone.
“Hello?”

“See you found the place. I took the liberty of
setting up a computer with keyboard in the library. Never could understand how
a writer could type on a laptop. You’ll need to get crackin’. I’ve provided you
with some notes. You might start the book out the same way you started
Malicious Intent
. What do you think?”

“I think I’m fucking crazy.”

“My, such language just doesn’t suit you. You can
whine all day or just get busy. You know what will happen if you don’t meet
that deadline … don’t you?”

“No, what exactly will happen?”

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?” Megan listened intently. Good God, it
couldn’t be! “You have the twins? You bastard. Why? I’ve done everything you’ve
asked me to do. I—“

“Calm down. They aren’t with me right now, but they
were with me earlier today. I just want you to know that I have access to them
whenever I want. You keep that in mind when you don’t feel like working on our
book. So, hang up and start fucking writing.”

Megan stared at the phone, then dropped it. What had
she done? What would happen if she went to the police? The phone rang again …
she hesitated before answering, “Yes?”

“Don’t go to the police. By the time they reach Tina
and Tucker … it’ll be too late.”

What the hell … can he read
my mind?
Shaking Megan set
the phone down and headed for the library. As promised, a computer awaited the
first word. She sat and stared at the white screen for a moment, then glanced
at a stack of papers to her right. In bold green print was
Bannack Murder
.
She read through the notes and swallowed hard. She could do this … she had to.
Megan typed….

 
Doris Shane stared at the handsome man she
thought she knew. He was the first man she’d wanted to be with since her fiancé
died two years ago. “I believed you,” she said, tears trailing down her cheek.

“Two month chatting on-line
and you think you know me? You are a naïve little tramp, aren’t you?”

She pulled on the ropes that
bound her to the chair. “What are you going to do with me? Why are you braiding
my hair?”

“Questions … questions, so
many questions. I have big plans for you.” He picked up a knife and split open
her blouse. “You can scream all you want, the place is closed down. But, let me
advise you to save the screaming for when you really need it.”

“I don’t understand. All I
wanted was a relationship and love.”

“Me, too, lovely Doris. But
now you must help me in a way no one else can. That must make you feel good.”
He turned the gas stove burner on and placed a scalpel into the flame. “You
should see the size of your eyes. They look like they might bulge right out and
drop to the floor.” He laughed, loud and vibrant.

“Let me go and I won’t tell
anyone about this. I promise.”

“I wish I could. Truly I do.
But you see, Doris, I have a timetable that I have to meet. I must stay on
schedule. I gotta do this. I’m sorry, but it has to be you. I want you to know
I think you’re lovely and if I was looking for a relationship and love, you’d
be that girl.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“Breathe deep … because this
is going to hurt.” He pressed the tip of the hot point into her forehead,
carving a perfect three. Her screams were like a symphony. Dragging the knife
the width of her nose created a dash. Things were moving along nicely.

* * *

“Good morning, team. Hope everyone got at least a
couple hours of sleep,” Cooper said, walking into the evidence room. “I’m sure
that’s all I got,” he added. “I’m sharing with you some advice I was once
given. “Treat the boundaries of the crime scene like two squares, one framing
your murder and the second a block square around the first one. Now limit your
investigation to what is presented within each square. Most important … trust
what you see. Remember, all you have is what the killer left behind.”

Maxwell sipped his coffee. “I’ve given this board some
real thought and scrutiny. We need to find this killer’s obsession. We figure
that out and the rest of all this will make sense.”

“Well, since we’re sharing ideas here, let me add
mine.” Arnott tapped his pen against his palm. “Yesterday, Cooper said this guy
is no ordinary killer. I think that’s our killer’s obsession.”

“I don’t follow you,” Weaver said.

“Bear with me a minute. None of these murders really
follows a pattern other than they are a copycat of an original murder. Oh, I
see similarities. But I think the killer wants us to see them, too. Our guy is
a pleasure-seeking killer, whose thrill comes from performing a knowingly
perverted act, which is his gratification. Most serial killers follow a
pattern, take trophies and they don’t change their modus operandi. This
killer’s MO is a different crime scene for each killing. They are based on
previous murders, right down to the sequestered evidence. So what does that
mean?”

“It means we have a cop serial killer or someone who
has access to our database,” Sparks said. “He’s smart … and he’s not afraid.
This guy is burning up inside and he has an agenda. Like Maxwell here said, we
need to figure out his obsession.”

Cooper paused for a moment. “Nice you could join us,
Bicsak. Would you care to share any information you think the team would
benefit hearing?” Cooper sat on the edge of the table and sipped his black
coffee.

“Come in late, you sit on the hot seat, eh? Well, I
don’t think it’s me who has things to share. I’d say you do, Reynolds. Don’t
you have a little show and tell for us this morning, detective?”

“Art, back off,” Dallas said.

“No, that’s okay. Let me share what we have. Sparks,
put the receipt we entered into evidence this morning on the board,” Cooper
said. “It’s interesting to say the least.”

“Where did you find that?” Weaver stood, sending his
chair flying to the floor behind him.

“It was in a fake book at the second crime scene. The
eyeballs looking through the glasses sort of directed us,” Sparks said. “Damn
spooky way to point out a clue.”

“I don’t know, or didn’t know, Sandy Owens.”

“Did you buy a fancy watch and have it engraved?”
Cooper asked.

“I did … but … not on the date it shows. It was way
back in college.”

“The date does look a bit doctored,” Maxwell pointed
to a thick date at the corner. My guess is this date was written over and
changed. We can have that verified. I want the date on the receipt from the
original crime scene checked also. Take care of that for us, Delores,” Maxwell
nodded her way.

“Why would the killer want to point a finger at me?”
Weaver picked up his chair and sat down hard. “This case gets goofier by the
minute.”

“Maybe he was suggesting you’re gay?” Sparks patted
Weaver on the shoulder and everyone laughed.

“Shut the hell up. I’m not gay and everyone here knows
I’ve probably fucked more women than all of you put together.”

“Now there’s the truth. My partner can’t keep his eyes
off a nice round ass. Whatever meaning the killer had, it certainly wasn’t
suggesting my partner is gay.”

“Maybe it’s the simple fact that since we know that
Weaver here isn’t the killer … then putting a receipt in a book doesn’t make a
killer,” Maxwell paused. “You see, he’s pointing out that Michael Powers might
have been named on a receipt, but he was also innocent. Taking us back to the
scenario that the killer is proving we were all wrong. Michael Powers died in
prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Okay, let’s move on boys and girl. Next you’re going
to see a little surprise I had waiting for me last night. This is a picture of
a poem taken from my window. It is written in lipstick, which I’ll have you
know we confirmed belonged to Agent Fortune. How we know that is, not only did
this person use her lipstick to write it, he returned it back to her purse once
he was done.”

“No shittin’ way. Are you telling me the killer got
access to her purse, wrote this damn thing, and found a way to put it back
without anyone seeing him do it?” Weaver shook his head.

“That’s what we’re telling you. Let’s see what we
think of his poetry: ‘My, my, careless little IA agent Dallas, let the handsome
detective see your malice. You may think you’re the target dear, but it’s not
really me that you should fear. Watch and don’t allow yourself to believe, or
you’ll be snared into the hell I’ve weaved.’”

Maxwell studied the projected poem. “Not bad.”

The room burst into laughter. Cooper cleared his
throat and glanced around the room. “He’s pointing out he’s aware we have an IA
team working with us. He’s pointing out the obviously lovely Dallas. Do you
have a history of showing anger or blowing up, Ms. Fortune?”