Phobia KDP (3 page)

“I think her mouth may have been taped,” Lee said. “Looks like there’s residue of adhesive around her lips.”

“He wanted to keep her quiet,” Herne said.

“But why remove the tape later?” Tucker asked.

“So he could enjoy her dying gasps.”

Silence met this statement. Herne noticed Saxon’s sideways glance at him, her blue eyes seeming to assess him again.

Lee cleared his throat. “No signs of sexual assault,” he continued. “At least, not that I can see right now. None of the obvious. No semen, no condom, no blood in the vaginal area or anus. Again, I’ll know more when I can examine her properly.”

The crime scene photographer snapped her last photograph. A small woman with a sullen mouth, the camera appeared gigantic in her tiny hands. Herne knew her immediately. She had been the photographer at Tucker and Elizabeth’s wedding ten years ago. Crimes were so rare in Hurricane that she freelanced for the police in her spare time. She nodded to Herne before slipping out the bedroom door like a silent waif.

Saxon and Lee prepared to place Amanda’s body on a gurney for transport, handling her flesh with the same callous movements of a butcher slapping steak on a metal scale.
But Amanda was more than a piece of meat to the killer
, Herne thought.
She was special
.

Herne closed his eyes, imagining Amanda’s horror as she lay trussed and helpless on the bed. He could hear her panicked breath flare her nostrils, and he saw the terror that widened her blue eyes. And then, when the snakes finally struck, the killer had performed his final act of mercilessness: he had simply stood back and bathed in the pleasure of Amanda’s muffled screams and the tears that seeped from her eyes.

Herne could feel the agony of her doom as if it had seeped into the air of the room.

Saxon approached Tucker. “The cleaning woman is still here, Chief. She’s in the kitchen. I asked her to stay until you had a chance to question her.”

As Tucker and Herne headed for the kitchen, they stopped at the top of the stairs to examine a bronze sculpture of a naked dancing woman. “Amanda had expensive taste,” Tucker commented.

“Did you know her?” Herne asked.

“Not really. I saw her at some social events. Police charity dinners and things like that. She’d wear diamond jewelry and silk dresses. She was fucking gorgeous. When she walked in the room, women would clutch their husbands’ arms.”

“Do you think this is related to her family’s wealth or power?”

“They have money, but not as much as they want people to believe,” Tucker said. “Somewhere else, like California or New York, they’d barely make it into the upper class bracket.”

“She may have made enemies through her job. She was a defense attorney.”

Tucker shrugged. “It’s possible some asshole wanted to get revenge because she lost his case. Or maybe she snagged the attention of the wrong woman’s husband. But do you think Amanda’s murder is really that simple?”

Herne didn’t answer. They found Camilla seated in the dining room, her chair pulled close to the carved mahogany table. She sat with her back straight and tall, her eyes focused ahead. Only her calloused hands, clasped so tightly together that her fingertips turned red with blood, betrayed her anxiety. Herne guessed her to be in her forties, although stress and fatigue made her appear much older.

“Mrs. Diaz?” Tucker asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was harsh with years and bitterness.

“You discovered Amanda’s body?”

Camilla nodded.

“I’m Chief of Police Rex Tucker. This is Artemis Herne, a police consultant. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She nodded again, meeting their eyes with a steady gaze. It was the look of a woman who’d been questioned by the police a time or two before. A woman who didn’t fear their authority.

“Can you tell us, in your own words, what happened this morning?”

“I got here about eleven o’clock. I clean Miss Todd’s house every Saturday morning. Especially the morning after her party, you know.”

Both men nodded. They knew of Amanda’s parties.

“It was the usual mess. Leftover booze, cigarette butts, old food. When I went to the master bedroom, I saw something move on the bed. I thought it was Amanda and her boyfriend—”

“Did she have a boyfriend?” Tucker interrupted.

“How should I know?” Camilla asked. “I just cleaned up after the lady. Maybe she had a boyfriend and maybe she didn’t. Sometimes I’d find rubbers or whatever. It looked like, you know, like maybe someone had been around. But I never saw anyone. For all I know, she had a different man every night.”

“What happened after you entered the bedroom?” Tucker asked.

“I saw the snakes.” Camilla crossed herself with her hand, an unconscious Catholic gesture that seemed meaningless to her. “I could tell Amanda was dead. I’ve seen dead people before. She wasn’t moving and she wasn’t breathing. I ran out of the room and called the cops.” Camilla shrugged. “That’s it.”

“Was the front door unlocked when you entered the house?”

“It was locked. I used my key. But actually, most of the time, the door is open. I don’t think Amanda cared too much about security.”

Or perhaps an overnight guest slips out in the early hours of the morning and forgets to lock the door
, Herne thought.

“Are we done?” Camilla asked. “I’ve got to get home. My husband doesn’t like to wait for his supper.”

“You’re free to go,” Tucker said. “Does Lieutenant Saxon have your information?”

“She’s got my name, address, and phone number,” Camilla said as she hoisted herself out of the kitchen chair. “I don’t have a fancy email address.”

They watched her leave in silence. Alone in the kitchen, Tucker turned to Herne. “What do you think?” he asked.

For a brief moment Herne closed his eyes and was transported back into the bedroom, and he could hear Amanda’s tortuous gasps.

“I don’t think this is going to be simple,” Herne said.

And, God help him, he hoped he was right.

He wiped his fork with a dishtowel and placed it in the drawer. His kitchen, naked except for the barest essentials, looked stark in the late afternoon sun.

After he finished cleaning, he moved through the house, locking doors and closing windows as he prepared for bed. He checked each latch twice to ensure that all the locks were secure, though he realized they would do nothing to protect him from the horrors that lurked in the nighttime.

He knew they had discovered her body by now. A prominent attorney like Amanda Todd was not the type to go missing for long. He could almost sense the panic in the police officers’ minds, their cries of uncertainty. They didn’t understand his talents and skills. Not yet. He had healed his first patient, but they would only see death and horror.

They’ll understand it all soon
, he thought.
I’ll make sure they understand it
.

The sun hung low in the sky, and his pace quickened as he turned off the television and walked into the bathroom. He squeezed a thin line of Crest across his toothbrush and ran the plastic bristles over each tooth, one at a time. A quick rinse with Listerine finished his bedtime ritual.

There was no need to perform any other type of personal hygiene. His face had always been smooth and clear, even in adolescence. It was the type of face that attracted women, not that he’d ever had a real relationship. Real relationships required dates during the evening hours, and things like candlelit dinners and late night movies. Things he couldn’t offer.

He felt the darkness approaching, so he hurried to his tiny bedroom. He dropped to his knees beside the small brass bed and clasped his hands together, bowing his head and praying, as he did each night, for his mother’s soul. She died from lung cancer, and he’d been the sole heir to her meager possessions, including the house where he now lived.

He prayed for his father’s soul, too. Prayed the old bastard would burn in hell for eternity.

As he slid between the worn cotton sheets, he glanced at the window. The sun just touched the top of the mountains that dotted his view. He still had time. Time to slip into the blissful oblivion of sleep. Time to fall into unconsciousness before the darkness arrived.

CHAPTER THREE

Pamela Todd—known as Bitsy because of her petite frame and delicate features—held the cigarette between her fingers with such grace that Herne almost expected her to pull out an old-fashioned cigarette holder, the kind that was popular in 1950s movies. She sipped brandy from a crystal snifter as if the expensive liquor gave her permission to booze. But Herne knew the truth. No matter how they were displayed, cigarettes and brandy were nothing more than a smoke and a drink.

His stomach clenched with the familiar cry of his body craving the numbing comfort of nicotine and alcohol. He had to restrain himself from deeply inhaling her secondhand smoke like an addict seeking any type of fix, even if it means sharing a bottle of grain alcohol with a wino.

The room was designed for visitors. No dust or fingerprints marred the polished black marble and shiny brass.
Probably cleaned by Camilla Diaz
, Herne thought, seeing Pamela’s soft, manicured hands. Original oil paintings of ocean scenes and bright flowers hung on the walls. A glass case of antique hair receivers sat in a corner, and matching copper Nepalese statues stood on each side of the doorway. In the old days, the room might have been called a “parlor” or a “sitting room.” It was not a place where families would gather to play games or unwrap gifts on Christmas morning. It was neither warm nor inviting. But it was the perfect backdrop for Pamela Todd.

Herne settled into the leather sofa and allowed Tucker to ask most of the questions.

“Did Amanda have any enemies?”

Pamela nodded. She leaned into a velvet chaise lounge, her legs curled beneath her cream Chanel suit. She had kicked off her Jimmy Choo shoes after hearing of her daughter’s death. The movement, Herne believed, was meant to disguise her pain. He suspected that Pamela Todd came from the kind of folks who believed that emotions should remain frozen and hidden, only to be revealed in anger.

He had not seen her weep or sob or gnash her teeth like most bereaved mothers, and he wondered what would happen later, perhaps weeks or months later, once the booze lost its power to numb her grief. Would she finally find her tears? Or would she do as he had after Maggie’s death, and simply try a stronger anesthesia?

“Of course she had enemies,” Pamela said. “She was one of the most prominent defense attorneys in Carlisle. She was the mayor’s niece. She flaunted our family wealth, treated service people like servants, and discarded lovers like they were yesterday’s trash.” Pamela paused to inhale deeply on her cigarette. Again, Herne felt an almost uncontrollable urge to ask for one of his own. “She had lots of enemies.”

“Anyone specific? Anyone you can name?”

Pamela waved her hand, the one holding the drink, almost spilling the amber liquid from the glass. “Could’ve been anyone. She hurt a lot of people. My little girl didn’t care about anyone except herself.”

Herne detected a slight slur in her speech.
Either her booze is 100 proof
, he thought,
or she was drinking before we arrived
.

“She was a good girl, though,” Pamela said, with a nostalgia Herne recognized as alcohol induced. “She liked to party a bit. And she looked out for herself first. But her father taught her that. She got that from him.”

Herne doubted that paternal influence was the sole cause of Amanda’s selfish instinct. But he said nothing.

Pamela downed the rest of her drink and stood, raising an eyebrow at the two men. Herne hesitated before shaking his head. She shrugged and poured more brandy into her glass from the decanter on the marble bar.

“Is her father still alive?” Tucker asked.

Pamela grimaced. “I hope not. That bastard deserves to die a slow, horrible death. But I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since the night he went out for cigarettes and never returned. So cliché, isn’t it? But that was Frank. A walking, talking cliché.” She settled back into the chaise lounge, cupping her snifter in her hands. Only the tremble of her lips betrayed her emotions.

Herne saw Pamela’s past in his mind. A little rich girl with too many privileges, too much time on her hands. She fell in love with a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. A boy who liked NASCAR and drinking beer and maybe even hunting deer. Her family wouldn’t have approved, but she married him anyway. And then, as if to prove her family right, the boy ran away, leaving a wife and daughter behind.

A wife that buried her sorrows in booze.

“How did Amanda die?” Pamela asked.

Tucker hesitated. “There were snakes in her bedroom,” he said. “We think she died from the snakebites, but we aren’t completely certain yet.”

“Snakes?” Pamela’s eyes opened wide. “Real snakes?”

Tucker nodded.

“Christ,” Pamela said, exhaling a plume of gray smoke. “Amanda’s had a fear of snakes since she was a little girl. We couldn’t even take her on a hike in the woods. Not that I did a lot of hiking. That was more her father’s hobby.”