What Doesn’t Kill Her (29 page)

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said, maybe a little embarrassed.

Then he was gone, and she was alone.

Shit!

She should be thrilled that Mark had apparently caught the intruder, and he probably thought he deserved more gratitude than she’d shown, maybe another kiss or even more.

Only she didn’t want the intruder’s ass in jail—she wanted his throat in her hands!

Maybe she could go down there for that lineup tomorrow morning and say he wasn’t the guy, and they would release him, and she could…

Yes.

That would do nicely.

She curled up on the mattress and slept more soundly than she had in a very long time.

Mark contemplated whether it would be more satisfying throwing his cell phone against a wall or pitching it off a high bridge. He’d been on the go all day, and had forgotten to recharge the thing last night, and now the g.d. battery was dead.

Had he been in an unmarked, he could have called in to the dispatcher to say he was on his way to see Phillip Traynor. But he was in his Equinox, and the trip from Jordan’s apartment to Phillip’s house at 38th and Chatham hadn’t been enough for his phone, plugged into the cigarette lighter, to raise a single bar.

The neighborhood was a quiet one, and midevening, relieved only by occasional streetlamps, this area looked little different than it must have decades ago. Perhaps some of the houses seemed somewhat long in the tooth, peeling paint when their owners hadn’t upgraded to siding. But the house on the corner, a twenties- or thirties-era two-story clapboard, sported a fairly fresh coat of white paint, and the smallish yard was immaculately well tended, lawn recently cut, bushes trimmed. No car parked out front, but an alley and likely a freestanding garage would be out back.

The physically and emotionally exhausting day seemed to press down on Mark as he trudged up the winding walk to a door at the far right side of the house. He climbed the five steps to the porch, and raised a finger to the doorbell, but before he even touched it, he was bathed in white by a switched-on porch light.

The door opened, framing Phillip there, the man smiling his rather horrible, lipless smile and nodding, looking oddly formal for this time of night.
As had been the case at the coffee-shop meeting Mark had attended, Phillip wore a white shirt, a navy-blue cotton tie, and pressed navy slacks, his slippered feet the only sign of any at-home relaxation.

Then Phillip’s smile disappeared and a concerned expression took its place. “Detective Pryor—I hope nothing else has happened.”

“Sir, I’m sorry to just drop by—I realize it’s getting late. I tried to call, but my cell phone is dead. I only need a few moments of your time.” Mark gestured around the open porch. “We can talk right here, if you like.”

“Don’t be silly, Detective,” Phillip said, gesturing graciously. “Come in. I’m anxious for an update.”

Mark stepped inside and his host closed the door behind them. The foyer was small, with oak stairs and a heavy banister almost immediately rising before him, leading to a landing that made a quick left turn to the darkened second floor. A hallway to the left of the stairs led back to the white glow of the kitchen. To his left, separated from the foyer by a half wall and two oak columns, the formal living room seemed like something from another era. On the half wall nearest Mark, a baseball bat sat atop a short stand. He couldn’t help taking a closer look—the darn thing was boldly autographed by Albert Belle!

“Some collectible,” Mark said.

Phillip’s grin was unsettling. “Quite proud of that. Got it online—cost me something of a small fortune, I’m afraid. Are you an Indians fan, Detective?”

“That’s an understatement,” Mark admitted.

“What about this year? You think they stand a chance?”

“Little soon to tell. They’ve got some good young talent, especially the pitching. If everything falls together, who knows?”

“I like your optimism,” Phillip said, and gestured for Mark to enter the living room, which he did, followed by his host. They walked across an area rug full of grays and maroons that looked antique but was so plush and clean, it might have been brand-new.

The large space recalled his grandmother’s house, with its similarly massive fireplace, framed photos neatly arranged across the mantel in both cases. Separated by a curtained window onto the front lawn were a pair of
Victorian-looking, deep red velvet-cushioned chairs. To his right, open pocket doors revealed a dining room with a long dark oak table with carved decorative flourishes, runner, and centerpiece.

The place had a certain “old lady” tidiness—did Phillip live with an elderly mother?

As if a barrier between Mark and the dining room doorway, a wide brown couch squatted, facing the chairs. On a low-slung coffee table, Phillip’s laptop lay open, screen facing the sofa.

Phillip offered him one of the two chairs, then sat in the other. Mark sat. A tree stump would have been more comfortable.

“It’s been a difficult day,” Phillip said, sighing, shaking his head. “This is why I normally avoid getting close to people—it opens one up for sorrow.”

The man’s mode of speech was precise, but ragged breaths interspersed themselves between most words. Mark found it difficult to look at the man—he wasn’t proud of that, but there it was. The damage that had been done to Jordan stayed within her; poor Phillip had to wear his for the world to see.

Phillip was saying, “I’d become very fond of Levi.”

“He was a nice kid.”

“He was a lovely boy, very intelligent. Such a senseless loss. Tragic.” He nodded toward the laptop. “I tried to get some work done on the case, but I’m afraid I’ve been rather worthless today.”

“You’re apparently the last person to speak to Levi. Did he say what he was working on?”

“I just sensed that he’d had a breakthrough.” Phillip’s sigh was a rattling thing. “I wish I had more for you.”

“You worked closely with him, this last week. What was he working on, do you know?”

Phillip was sitting with both feet on the floor, hands folded in his lap; there was something almost prim about it. “I know he was looking into that assistant at Havoc’s gymnastics school—Stuart Carlyle? He was digging in deep, and that young man could make the Internet dance. I think to Levi, Carlyle was the chief suspect.”

“That’s something that I hope will give you some sense of relief, Mr. Traynor—I arrested Carlyle today. I believe he’s our man.”

He filled Phillip in on the details.

“Jordan will go down to the county jail tomorrow,” Mark said, “and identify him.”

“You sound confident.”

“Well, she
was
somewhat hesitant to make a positive ID of Carlyle, based on a cell phone shot I grabbed of him. She said it
could
be the man.”

“He surely changed over a decade. And it’s been ten years since that attack, which left Jordan an emotionally overwrought young woman… literally a mental case, not to be unkind. If she identifies him, will she be taken seriously?”

“I think so,” Mark said. “But she’s only part of it. The department will be launching a full-scale investigation into all of these family murders. Very soon the FBI will be involved. It’s all changing.”

Phillip chuckled dryly. “No more off-duty investigations by a rookie detective? No more kaffeeklatsch amateur inquiries?”

“No,” Mark said, with a serious smile. “The real detectives will take over.”

“You seem convinced that Carlyle is your man.”

“I am. But… frankly… I’ve been wrong before. Right now I’m operating on the assumption that our man may still be out there.”

“You mean, you believe in the presumption of innocence. That Carlyle isn’t guilty until the justice system, including a jury trial, says that he is.”

“Well… not exactly. If he’s not the guy, it will start with Jordan saying he isn’t, and then the evidence will speak. We’re still looking for that third coach—Slavens—and there’s some very suspicious activity on his part.”

“How so?”

“I’m not at liberty to give you the details. But let’s say, suspicious enough that I don’t rule him out—or the possibility that he and Carlyle were a killing duo.”

And so much was left for this new official investigation—getting tests back on the shell casings for a start. If the Glock found near Kay’s late
brother-in-law matched the New York shell casing, and the gun turned out to be Carlyle’s stolen pistol, then a slam dunk was coming.

Mark said, “I do think there’s enough doubt that it would be advisable for you to have police protection. Let me make a call from here, and I’ll get a patrol car out front. Right away.”

Phillip shook his head. “Not necessary.”

“If it means anything, Jordan sent me over here specifically to ask you to reconsider. I was at the crime scene. I saw what this monster did to Levi. Trust me, you don’t want to take any chances.”

The lipless smile made a terrible crease in the ravaged face. “Detective, meaning no offense, especially not to you personally—but we both know this individual certainly has the capacity to circumvent a simple parked police car. After all, he’s been outsmarting the police for over a decade.”

“I can’t argue with that, sir. But that was before. This is all catching up with him. And, all due respect, I believe police protection can create a wall between you and this madman.”

“I appreciate your concern, young man. I really do. But, no. I can protect myself.” He gestured toward his flattened features. “I was attacked once. My guard has not been lowered since.”

“I can understand that, but—”

He gestured vaguely around. “There are weapons salted here and there in my home. I am prepared for any contingency.”

This was an extraordinarily dangerous attitude, but Mark had said his piece. Ultimately, it was up to Phillip.

Shifting in the uncomfortable chair, Mark said, “I understand you’re a professor of religion.”

“Well, an instructor.” Phillip gave up a wry chuckle. “It’s hard to be a ‘professor’ online.”

“Still, that makes you an expert. Any other thoughts on that Bible verse the killer quoted to Jordan?”

“It’s amazing that she spoke to you of that.”

“Well, she did. Told me about that entire terrible night in detail.”

Phillip shook his head and formed what Mark guessed was a half smile. “She must trust you, Detective Pryor. She held that in for a very long time.”

“What about the verse?”

“Well… I can tell you that Levi thought it was the key. We spoke at length about its various interpretations, found opinions and even articles on the Net.”

Mark sighed, nodded. “I’ve done that myself, not that I’ve gotten anywhere much.”

“I’d be happy to hear
your
views, Detective.”

“Okay. Well. Deuteronomy is a book about the law…
God
’s law.”

Phillip chuckled. “That’s a statement that could be made about most books of the Bible.”

“There was a theory the coffee-shop team flirted with, early on, Jordan said… but that got tossed by the wayside. It might apply.”

“What theory is that?”

“That these were hate crimes.”

A ghastly smile appeared on the lipless lips. “You think this individual has appointed himself, what… God’s sheriff?”

“Couldn’t it be that simple? Take Jordan’s family. Her brother, Jimmy, was openly gay. Many conservative Christians consider that a sin, though I don’t believe it’s really in the Bible anywhere.”

“Leviticus,” Phillip said, correcting him. “20:13. ‘If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.’ ”

Mark smiled. “I thought I knew my Bible pretty well, but I’m out of my league talking to you.”

Phillip shrugged. “Bad habit teachers have—correcting everyone, even outside of class.”

Mark sat forward. “No, I appreciate the help. Like… I’m still having trouble with Deuteronomy. What the heck does this mean—‘Thou shalt not wear garments of divers sorts; as of woolen and linen together?’ Any ideas?”

Phillip leaned back, gathering his thoughts. Mark watched him, the lipless mouth, the smashed nose, the loud breathing, all so hideous, and yet the vibe he got from Phillip was one of peacefulness. The man seemed… what word best described it? Serene.

When Phillip spoke, it was as if he were tasting each word before uttering it. “What if it’s a racial interpretation?”

“Racial? But it’s about clothing, isn’t it?”

“Different kinds of cloth… different races? Not to be mixed?”

Mark was nodding. “The Riveras were a mixed marriage. David Elkins’s wife is African-American. You might be on to something.”

Phillip raised a gently lecturing finger. “But I would hesitate before I went looking for a racist, some Ku Klux Klan nincompoop. This would not be an individual who considered any one race superior—just someone who respected God’s law that racial lines not be mixed.”

“But that falls apart with Levi.”

Phillip shrugged. “Levi was gay.”

“That might have been a partial motivation for Levi’s murder. But he was deeply closeted, as to his sexuality, back when his parents were killed. And they were both white, so the racial motive is out.”