The White Carnation (5 page)

“Do you really think that's necessary?”

“I do, and if the killer thinks you know something …”

Physically and emotionally exhausted, Faye nodded and almost burst out laughing at the look of surprise that crossed his face. He'd fully expected her to argue the point. In the three years they'd been together, she'd never once given in without a fight. Before he could comment, his cell phone rang again. He scowled and answered, his voice clipped.

“Halliday … Are you certain? ... I'm on my way.” He ended the call. “I have to go. Promise me you'll stay put.”

Something in the way he reacted to the call set her reporter senses on high alert. “What is it? Was that call about the case? Something's upset you, Rob. I know you well enough to know that.”

“No. It wasn't about this case, but I do have others, you know. It was the lieutenant. They've found a body.”

“The Harvester?” she asked, feeling the flush of excitement at the prospect of an exclusive heat her cheeks.

He sighed. “You know damn well I can't answer that. Promise me you'll leave your cell phone off until we know more about Lucy's murder. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I know you don't have to work. It might be a good time to take a vacation—get out of town, maybe go see your mother in Maine for a few weeks. I don't like the idea this guy may come after you. We'll talk about it in the morning.” Before she could answer, he left the apartment, closing the door forcefully behind him.

Faye shook her head. Secrets, always secrets. They'd never stood a chance. Why hadn't she realized that? Placing the dirty glass and mug on the tray, she carried it into the kitchen. It was almost eight. She opened the fridge and groaned. She'd forgotten to stop at the market. She settled for a sandwich and a glass of milk. Another night of feasting on peanut butter, and she'd go squirrely. When she finished her not-so-gourmet meal, she washed what few dishes she had, wiped down the counters, and turned out the light. She'd love to indulge in a glass of chardonnay, but fine wine was a luxury she could no longer afford. She settled for two fingers of cheap Irish whiskey.

Outside, the lights of Boston glowed eerily through the fog caused by the falling rain. The night was as dreary as she felt. Memories of Lucy Green lying on the floor, her head twisted at an odd angle with the large red gash at her throat, crowded Faye's mind, and her stomach roiled, threatening to return the sandwich she'd just consumed. What could the killer have been searching for? And Mary—missing? Pregnant? It was all too fantastic to be real. She felt like she'd stepped into an episode of
The Twilight Zone
.

She turned around and pulled her address book out of the drawer in the coffee table to look up Mary's home phone number. Faye had her number in her contacts on her cell phone, but she was loathe to turn it on, Rob's admonition still echoing in her mind. With stiff fingers, she keyed the number into the portable phone connected to the landline. The phone rang five times.

“Hi! Muffin and I are busy out doing some fun thing that dogs and people do. You know the drill.” Mary's voice was cheerful. Who else but Mary would name an English bulldog Muffin? Faye was getting ready to leave a message when a tinny voice came on and announced, “Mailbox full
.
” The call ended abruptly. Faye shivered.

It made no sense. Mary religiously checked messages. Faye opened her email inbox. Nothing. Her friend always answered emails within minutes. Could she be missing like Rob had said?

Mary, where the hell are you?

Faye took a generous mouthful of the whiskey and let the smooth, slightly smoky taste warm her. Walking to the window, she stared out into the blackness of the night, seeing Rob as he'd looked less than an hour ago. Having him here had ripped the scabs off barely healed wounds. She could smell his aftershave lingering in the room just as it had fifteen months ago.

They'd met when Mahoney, a bitter mobster who'd blamed her for the death of his son, had stabbed her. Rob had been doing a stint in major crimes and was first on the scene. There'd been something about him she couldn't resist, and when he'd asked her out a few months after the trial was over, she'd agreed.

God, that man could make her body sing! Lust, not love. She'd mistaken the one for the other, and after multiple proposals, despite her gut feeling, she'd caved and agreed to marry him. But their relationship had been anything but smooth sailing. How many times had they argued about her commitment to the story, to her career? He'd been assigned to vice, and often their professional paths crossed, creating problems in their personal lives. But the make-up sex was great. Against her better judgment, she'd chosen a date, but then the corruption case came up, pitting them against one another.

Faye knew he'd do anything to make detective, but she hadn't realized that meant sacrificing her and his almighty principles. She'd never forget that oh-so-public scene at the police station. She'd been furious and humiliated when she'd discovered the information she'd published, using the material Rob had given her, had blown the top off months of undercover work into corruption in the mayor's office. The DA had backed down under accusations of entrapment. Receiving roses from O'Malley, the Irish mobster exonerated by her story, had put paid to her career. The man denied sending her the flowers, but of course he would. The card read,
I knew I could count on you
,
with no signature, but someone had drawn a shamrock, O'Malley's trademark symbol, in the corner. In an election year, the implication of wrongdoing on his part had been enough for the mayor to ask for her head. Thank God the DA hadn't filed charges against her for obstruction or the publisher hadn't fired her outright. Being demoted was bad enough. There was always a chance she could get her old job back one day—a slim chance, but slim was better than none.

The hell of it was she'd begged Rob for information. She'd been positive the mayor's aide was in bed with O'Malley, and when she'd found the photographs in the file Rob had given her, she'd been too excited to do anything but gloat. He'd finally come through with something she could use. Too bad she hadn't realized the damn pictures had been Photoshopped and she'd been set up. O'Malley was in New York City when the photograph was supposed to have been taken. He threatened to sue the DA, the newspaper, even her personally for libel. The paper published an apology and a retraction in the next edition.

She'd stormed into the precinct and into the vice squad room just in time to see Rob's fellow detectives congratulating him. Tears brimmed her eyes. It wasn't just the loss of her hopes and dreams that caused this horrendous pain, it was knowing Rob had been a willing participant in it. The one lesson she'd learned from her father had been never to trust a man. Men always put their wants and needs above others', even a wife and daughter.

“You low-down, conniving bastard. I knew you were jealous of my career, but this? You set me up. I fell for it—lock, stock, and barrel. I've barely managed to hang on to my position at the paper, and from now on I'm on the local page. Are you happy?” She flung the engagement ring at him, catching him in the chin, and saw the drops of blood form on his skin.

“Faye, what the hell's wrong with you?” He touched his chin, the ring lying forgotten on the desk pad where it had fallen. “We busted Madame X. My promotion and transfer came through. I'm now a detective sergeant in homicide. The guys want to meet at Cheers.”

“Sure, why not?” she responded, so angry she shook. “So tell me, Detective Sergeant, who paid you to feed me that information? Someone in the mayor's office? Or was it O'Malley himself?” She laughed bitterly. “A vice cop in on a corruption scam. I didn't see it coming. I should have. You had me fooled.”

Her words and body language finally got through to him, and he frowned.

“What the hell are you talking about? What am I supposed to have done this time?” His voice was deadly calm as the accusations sunk in.

“Is this your handwriting?” She tossed the sticky note on the desk where it landed upside down. He reached for it and turned it over, confusion evident on his face.

“Of course it's mine. I stuck it on the caterer's file that I left for you. How'd you get it? The file's still on my desk.” He pointed to the manila folder.

“It wasn't on that file. You stuck it on the other file—the file with information on the O'Malley corruption case I've been working on—the information I used in my story, the story the paper published this morning. The police commissioner and the mayor are gunning for my head. Damn it, Rob, I trusted you, and you threw me under the bus, for what? A promotion?”

He grabbed her arms and held her. “Faye, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I am not jealous of your career; I just wish you'd give other things, like us, equal time. You get on a story, and I could drop dead, and you wouldn't notice. For the record, I am not on anyone's payroll, and I resent your suggestion I'd do something illegal to get ahead. That isn't the way I work, and I'd have thought you'd realize that. I spent the last day and a half testifying in front of the grand jury. I haven't been here in almost forty-eight hours. I haven't even been home to change, and I most definitely haven't seen the newspaper. What. File. Are. You. Talking. About?”

She pulled away from him, yanked the offending manila folder out of her bag, and thrust it at him. “I hope you're satisfied. You've ruined my career. No. You've ruined my life. You managed to do what Mahoney couldn't accomplish—you've broken me. I never want to see you again.”

She turned and headed toward the stairs.

“Faye, wait! I've never seen this.”

She hastened her steps and rushed out to her car, driving off without a backward glance.

The memory faded, and she downed the last of the whiskey, surprised to find the taste of her tears mixed with it.

She hadn't seen him again until today. He'd tried to call, but she refused to listen to him. Her mother had begged her not to be rash, but she'd cancelled the wedding, sent the dress to consignment, and tried to ease the pain of a heart left shattered in a million pieces by burying herself in whatever work they gave her, no matter how menial it was. But it hadn't worked. That was okay—it matched her career, and every debutant knew your accessories had to match.

Mary had come up to Boston, a forty-ounce bottle of her favorite Irish with her, and they'd cried and cursed men and popular rock stars who failed to realize how much their fans adored them.

Faye turned away from the window and swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Rob had sworn he hadn't left that file for her, but her name had been on the damning sticky note. He'd admitted writing the message. Who else would have done it? It was true it wasn't the caterer's quotes she'd expected, but he'd promised there would be a surprise inside the folder for her, too. It was definitely a surprise.

Sure, she knew how stupid she'd been. At the very least, she should've called him and confirmed that she had the right file, but not when she thought she had a scoop. Even a rookie would have known enough to verify the information, but she'd been so sure—especially since it came from Rob and fit the theory she had about who might be involved in the corruption scandal. It had been too good to be true, and when something was too good to be true, it usually wasn't.

She'd said such terrible things at the time, accused him of being a dirty cop, for God's sake. There was no way she could take that back, and apologizing for saying it in the first place meant admitting she'd gotten it all wrong, and she wasn't ready to do that either. He wasn't off the hook. No one could explain where the damn file had come from, and since he hadn't even bothered to look into it …

What she wanted to do now was have a good, old-fashioned pity party, but she didn't even have any ice cream. How could you have a pity party without ice cream?
Get over yourself, Faye. It wasn't the first time you got screwed, and it probably won't be the last.

Her computer chimed. Hoping it was a message from Mary, she hurried across the room. There were two emails—the first from Sloan, reminding her to give Tina Jackson her research and to have the engagement story on his desk by noon. She took great pleasure in blowing a raspberry at the computer before deleting the message. The second message was from Jimmy and consisted of two photos of deer—one a doe and a fawn, and the other a close-up of the fawn nursing.

She laughed at Jimmy's message:

Faye closed the email program, but logged on to the newspaper's server. While Rob hadn't confirmed the body found tonight might be another of the Harvester's victims, she knew he was working the case. In fact, knowing Rob as well as she did, his comment was as good as a yes. That monster was the most notorious serial killer since the Boston Strangler. She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave. She reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey and added some to her glass.

The
Examiner
had coined the nickname Harvester six months ago after the last body had been found. The police were being incredibly tight-lipped about details, but apparently, all of the victims had gone missing in their third trimester and died shortly after giving birth. Abel had likened him to a farmer reaping a crop, only the crop was newborn babies, and since no infant bodies had turned up, people were speculating like crazy. Most believed he was selling them overseas. Healthy children commanded quite a price on the black market.

A frisson ran through her. Rob claimed Mary was pregnant, but he hadn't given her a time frame. She hadn't seen her friend since October, so Mary could be anywhere from six weeks to six months. Faye downed the whiskey in a gulp.