The Fifth Victim
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“Hello, there,” Reba called to the secluded twosome. Reaching them, she said to Cindy, “You must meet these lovely people. This is Dr. Galvin MacNair and Mrs. MacNair.” Reba stared at the wife. “What is your given name, dear?”
“Nina,” the young woman replied, a hint of a smile on her lips.
“Galvin has taken over Dr. Webster’s practice at the clinic,” Reba said. “He’s fresh from his residency in—where was it now? What city?”
“Bowling Green,” Galvin replied.
Cindy chatted with the MacNairs for several minutes after Reba moved on to charm more of her guests. She liked the young couple, the wife more than the husband, who seemed oddly quiet. She even made a date with Nina MacNair for lunch at the Country Club on Thursday.
Checking her watch, Cindy noted that it was nearly nine. She’d promised Dillon she would find a way to meet him tonight, even if only for an hour. When she’d made that promise she thought she would be able to fake a headache and stay home from the party, but Jerry Lee had seen through her ploy immediately.
“Get yourself dressed and be ready to go to the Uptons in twenty minutes,” Jerry Lee had told her, his round face red with rage. “If you aren’t ready by then, I’ll dress you myself—after I prove to you once again who’s the boss around here.”
Jerry Lee could be violent if pushed, and on several occasions he’d gotten rough with her. He’d never broken any of her bones, but he’d left her bruised and sore at least half a dozen times in the past four years. She thought about leaving him, dreamed of some other man whisking her away, but no one had come along to rescue her. Not until now. Not until Dillon. They’d been sleeping together for a month, ever since she’d joined the little theater group. He had moved to Cherokee Pointe late last summer after being hired by the city to oversee the local theater that produced plays to draw in the tourist trade.
What would Jerry Lee do if she went to him now and told him she had a splitting headache and needed to go home? He wouldn’t want to leave the party. Whenever either the Uptons or MacKinnons threw a party, Jerry Lee Todd was one of the first to arrive and the last to leave. Her dear husband knew how to suck up better than anyone she’d ever known. He was a brownnoser par excellence.
As she strolled out into the foyer, seeking relief from the incessant chatter that had reached a deafening roar in the parlor, Cindy noticed Dr. MacNair and his wife accepting their coats from the maid. They were leaving early.
Before she realized what she was doing, Cindy rushed toward Nina MacNair. “Would y’all mind giving me a lift into town? I have a dreadful headache and I don’t want to bother Jerry Lee. He loves these parties so.”
“Yes, certainly,” Nina reached out and patted Cindy’s arm. “We’d be happy to drop you off at your house. And if you’d like, Galvin can give you something for your headache.”
“Oh no, really, that won’t be necessary. I have something at home I can take.” She turned to the maid. “Would you get my coat, please? And once I’m gone, tell Mr. Todd that I wasn’t feeling well and caught a ride home with Dr. and Mrs. MacNair.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said and hurried to get Cindy’s coat.
Half an hour later, Cindy stood outside Dillon’s apartment. She’d walked there in the freezing rain, the three blocks from her house on Chestnut Street to the two-story apartment building on Baker’s Lane. Drenched to the skin and out of breath from running up the stairs to the second floor, she punched the doorbell repeatedly. She had an hour at most. An hour to find comfort and caring before she’d have to rush home and feign sleep when Jerry Lee returned from the Uptons. With luck the party would go on until at least eleven, even if this was a Monday night.
Dillon threw open the door and surveyed her from head to toe. “My God, sugar, come on in and get out of those wet clothes.”
Dillon wasn’t a handsome man, but there was an inexplicable sexiness about him. He stood about six-one. Curly dark hair tumbled about his broad shoulders. And when he did nothing more than grin at her, her pussy moistened.
Smiling, she moved past him and into his cluttered living room. Many creative people were known for being messy and disorganized. Dillon was certainly both. Newspapers and magazines lay strewn about, an empty cup rested on the edge of the coffee table, and two pairs of sneakers and dirty socks lay discarded on either end of the sofa.
“You’re earlier than I thought,” Dillon said as he helped her off with her damp coat. “Did Jerry Lee go to sleep early tonight?”
Cindy ran her hands up and down her arms in an effort to warm herself. “We had to go to that party at the Uptons’.”
“So that’s why you’re wearing such a fancy dress—why you look exceptionally pretty tonight.”
“Oh, God, don’t lie to me,” she told him. “I look like a drowned rat and we both know it.”
“You’re beautiful, even soaking wet and with your makeup smudged.” He ran the back of his hand across her cheek. “Why don’t you go in the bedroom and strip off all those wet things.”
She grabbed his hand. “Come with me. I don’t have long. I don’t know for sure what time he’ll get home tonight.”
Dillon turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. “You go ahead and I’ll be right there. I’ll pour us a couple of drinks. Some Jack Daniels should warm you up pretty quick.”
She didn’t want the whiskey; she wanted him. But she did as he’d requested and scurried off to his bedroom, which was as cluttered as the living room. Clothes were strewn hither and your. A laundry basket filled with what she assumed were washed but not folded towels and underwear perched atop the chest of drawers in the corner. An unmade bed lay before her, the comforter sloping halfway onto the carpeted floor. She doubted the sheets had been changed in weeks, but she didn’t care. She’d rather share a dirty bed with Dillon than sleep on satin sheets with Jerry Lee.
Hurriedly she stripped off her dress, then kicked off her shoes and removed her pantyhose and bra. She was in the process of sliding her panties down her legs when Dillon came into the bedroom. She let the black bikini panties drop around her ankles as she faced him.
He stared at her appreciatively for several minutes. Heat rose up from within her as her body clenched and unclenched. She knew she looked all right naked. She wasn’t that old. Thirty-three. Never having gone through childbirth, her breasts were small but perky, her stomach flat, and by exercising like a maniac she’d been able to keep the cellulite at bay and her muscles toned.
Dillon came across the room toward her, his movements lazy and deliberate, like a dancer in slow motion. He held out a half-filled tumbler. Her gaze met his, the two joining together for endless moments. After lifting one foot and then the other, she kicked her panties aside and took the glass of whiskey from him.
“Not knowing when your hubby will get home, you’re taking a terrible risk coming here this way.” Sipping on the liquor, he eyed her over the rim of his glass.
Why had he reminded her? Didn’t he want her here? Had he decided having an affair with the mayor’s wife was too dangerous?
“Being with you is worth the risk.” With shaky hands she lifted the tumbler and tasted the whiskey. A hot blaze zipped down her throat and hit her belly like a ball of fire. She coughed a couple of times, but never took her eyes off him. “I thought you felt the same way.”
Dillon gulped a couple of swigs from the glass, blew out a warm breath, and set the tumbler aside. Before she knew what was happening, he reached out and grabbed her. She gasped when her naked breasts crushed against his bulky knit sweater.
“I’ll show you how I feel.” He took the glass from her and set it alongside his atop a discarded pair of jeans on the chest at the foot of the bed.
Her heartbeat accelerated the moment his hands cupped her hips and pressed her against his erection. With frenzied motions, she ran her hands up under his sweater to touch his sleek chest. Together they quickly divested him of his clothing, all the while kissing and touching. Moments later, he tossed her onto the bed and took her without any real foreplay. He rammed himself up inside and began pumping her like mad. Luckily she was already dripping wet and pulsating with need. They went at it like a couple of animals and both came within a few minutes.
Later—five minutes or ten, Cindy wasn’t sure—she eased out of his arms and off the bed. She went to the bathroom, cleaned herself, and came back into the bedroom to gather her clothes. Dillon scooted up in the bed, leaned his back against the headboard and watched her perform a reverse striptease.
Her clothes were damp and clammy, but it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t dare stay long enough for them to dry.
“Dillon?”
“Hmm?”
“If I leave Jerry Lee, will you … would you be here for me?”
Dillon stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise. “You’ve told me yourself that he’d never let you leave him. That he’d kill you first.”
“Not if I had someone to protect me.”
“Is that what you want? You want me to protect you from your husband?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. I want someone who cares enough about me to take me away from Jerry Lee and keep me safe.”
“Sugar, I’m not sure I’m that man. I care about you, but—”
“But not that much.”
Before she embarrassed herself even more, Cindy ran from the room. She picked up her coat off the sofa in the living room, slipped into it, and rushed out into the hallway. Taking several deep breaths, she forced herself not to scream; but she could do nothing to prevent the tears from cascading down her cheeks.
When she walked out onto the sidewalk, she realized it was snowing to beat the band. Heavy snow, so thick she couldn’t see ten feet away. God, she’d freeze to death before she made it home on foot.
Suddenly she saw the headlights of a vehicle creeping down the street. Maybe she could hitch a ride. In a town this small there was a good chance she’d know whoever was driving.
The vehicle slowed and then stopped. The passenger door swung open.
“Cindy, is that you?” he asked.
She sighed with relief. “Yes, it’s me.”
“What are you doing out on foot on a night like this?”
“Visiting a friend,” she replied. “Hey, would you mind giving me a ride home?”
“I don’t mind at all,” he said. “As a matter of fact, it would be my pleasure.”
Chapter 3
Jacob sat in a booth at the back of the empty room in the restaurant part of Jasmine Talbot’s two businesses on Loden Street. Jasmine’s was a nice family restaurant that catered to locals and tourists alike. Jazzy’s Joint, in the adjoining building at the end of the street, was an old-fashioned bar/juke joint. Appealing to vastly different clienteles, the establishments had separate entrances and thick, double brick walls separating the two. When he was off duty, sometimes he’d mosey on over to the wilder side, but tonight, he wasn’t looking for excitement. Just a decent meal and some time to collect his thoughts.
He was facing his first murder case since being elected sheriff of Cherokee County, and it wasn’t just an ordinary killing—a gunshot wound or a stabbing. The victim hadn’t been involved in drugs, a domestic quarrel, or a revenge scheme. Susie Richards had been barely seventeen years old. A good kid from a good family, according to everything he’d learned about her. A straight-A student, president of the junior class at Cherokee Pointe High, and liked by everyone who knew her.
Just as Jacob finished off the last bite of apple pie and shoved the plate aside, Jazzy appeared beside him, a full pot of fresh coffee in her hand. He glanced up and smiled. She was a sight for sore eyes. A good-looking woman could always improve any bad situation. And Jasmine Talbot was about as good-looking as they came. Tall, long-legged, and big-boobed, she was definitely built like the proverbial brick shithouse. She had a short, unruly mane of fiery red hair, the color so striking he knew it came out of a bottle, and a pair of cat-green eyes that seemed to possess the ability to look right through a man.
They had dated a few times, shared a few kisses and gropes, but hadn’t crossed over the line from friends to sex partners. And he was glad. They genuinely liked each other, but the sexual chemistry just wasn’t right between them. If they had screwed around, it would have been harder to remain buddies.
“More coffee?” Jazzy asked, but before he could reply she filled his cup, placed the pot on the table and sat down on the other side of the booth directly across from him.
“Thanks.” He lifted the cup to his lips.
“It’s decaf,” she told him.
He frowned. “I don’t drink decaf.”
“You do tonight. I figure you’re pretty wired already, what with all you’ve had to handle today. And my guess is that you’ve been swigging down high-octane coffee all day. The stuff has probably replaced the blood in your veins.”
“You know me too well.”
“You should go home and get a good night’s sleep. You look like hell.”
He grinned. “That’s one of the many things I like about you—your brutal honesty.”
“Good thing you’ve got a place in town,” Jazzy said. “That snowstorm Genny predicted has already started. There are probably a couple inches of ice under the three or four inches of snow that’s already fallen, and it’s only ten-thirty.”
Jacob nodded. “I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight.”
“Yeah, I don’t suppose I would either after getting a good look at Susie Richards.” Jazzy turned over a clean empty cup on the table and poured herself some coffee. “Rumors are flying like crazy around town. I know you can’t tell me anything much, but … you can’t put off making another statement to the press much longer. Brian MacKinnon’s going to make a big deal out of this murder. It’ll be headline news in the Cherokee Pointe Herald for weeks, especially if you don’t nab the killer soon. He’d like nothing better than to find reasons to put you in a bad light.”
“Brian’s a prick.” Jacob grunted. “He’s another one who thinks money can buy him anything he wants.” He looked Jazzy square in the eyes.
“Yeah, I know Jamie’s back in town. Sally and Ludie told me. And no, I have no intention of getting involved with him again.”
“Your life. Your decision,” Jacob said. “Jamie’s not my problem, but Brian, on the other hand, is. He doesn’t like me because I don’t approve of him sniffing around Genny. He’s too old for her and she’s too good for him, and I told him so. More than once.”
Jazzy laughed, then lifted the cup to her lips and sipped on the hot coffee. “Brutal honesty. A trait we have in common.”
“Something about Brian bothers me. Always has, even when I was a kid. He’s too slick, too smooth. What you see is not what you get with him. I think Genny senses it, too, and that’s why she hasn’t encouraged him.”
“A guy like Brian doesn’t need much encouragement. He’s used to getting what he wants, and believe me, he wants our Genny real bad.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got some competition now with that Pierpont guy after her, too. Can’t say he’d be my choice for Genny, but he’s an improvement over MacKinnon.”
“Royce Pierpoint seems nice enough.” Jazzy topped off both their cups. “He is more Genny’s type. Gentle. Sensitive. Soft-spoken.”
“Maybe he is. But we don’t know much about him. How long has it been since he came to town and opened that antique store of his? Three or four months?”
“Back before Thanksgiving sometime.”
Jacob took another swig of coffee, then stood, pulled his wallet from his pants pocket, and took out several bills. He handed the money to Jazzy. “I think I’ll stop back by the office before I head home.”
Jazzy stood up beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist. “You’ll solve this crime. I have every confidence in you.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
He gave her a quick hug, then lumbered out of the restaurant and into the frigid night. Damn, he could barely see the streetlight in front of Jazzy’s Joint. It was snowing so hard he couldn’t see much of anything. He flipped up the collar on his jacket and stomped through the snow, making his way back to his office a few blocks away.
The streets were deserted, making Cherokee Pointe look like a frozen ghost town.
Dallas Sloan cursed loudly! How the hell had this happened? Nobody had said anything about a winter storm. All the weather forecasters had mentioned was some freezing rain and sleet. A trip that should have taken him about an hour had taken him three times that long. Of course making a wrong turn fifty miles back hadn’t helped any. He wasn’t even sure he was on the right road now. Cherokee Pointe was located in a valley in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, so being on a road on the side of a mountain seemed logical to him. What didn’t seem logical was the fact that he’d wound up in a ditch. He wasn’t the type to take wrong turns or lose control of a vehicle. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong ever since he’d stepped off the plane in Knoxville.
He was slightly distracted, his mind mired in the details of Brooke’s murder and the similarities between her brutal killing and the slaying of a seventeen-year-old named Susie Richards. Brooke had been fifteen, the oldest of his sister’s three children. She’d been the first grandchild in the family and everyone had doted on her, even her Uncle Dallas.
He had found out quickly that when a case was personal, you couldn’t handle it with the same cool detachment you managed to use to your advantage when the victim was a stranger. It hadn’t been easy doing his job the past eight months, but he’d tried. And he had succeeded, at least part of the time. He’d been following a lot of leads that led nowhere, but he had a gut feeling about this one. Okay, so he’d already used almost all his vacation and sick-leave days and called in favors from everyone he knew at the Bureau. So what? No one questioned his right to act the way he did. After all, anyone else in his shoes might have gone ballistic and become totally obsessed with finding their niece’s killer. Sometimes it was difficult to maintain control, to make sure he didn’t move beyond determination into obsession. But Dallas prided himself on being in firm control. He’d never been a man to allow emotions to overrule common sense. If he was going to find Brooke’s killer, he couldn’t allow sentiment to get in the way.
Dallas punched in the sheriff’s number on his cell phone. No reception. Was he out of range of a tower or was the crappy weather messing up signals? So what should he do now? He couldn’t call for help, and he might freeze to death if he stayed in the car all night. But what was the alternative? If he got out and went in search of help, he’d probably get lost in this damn storm. Okay, maybe he could figure out a way to get the rented Saturn out of the ditch and back on the road.
The moment he opened the car door, the fierce wind bombarded him with a stinging mixture of sleet and snow. Blinking several times to clear the moisture from his eyes, he got out, slammed the door behind him and scanned the vehicle from hood to trunk. The right half of the car rested in the deep roadside ditch, with the left half perched on the shoulder of the winding mountain road. As he stomped toward the rear of the car, his feet slid out from underneath him. Reaching out, he grabbed the left rear bumper, but his gloved hands slipped and he completely lost his balance. His backside hit the ground, sending a cloud of newly fallen snow flying into the air all around him.
Dallas cursed a blue streak. He should have known a dangerous blanket of ice lay beneath the innocent-looking snow. After getting to his feet, he glanced at the road, first in the direction from which he’d come to see if he’d missed any sign of a house, and then he looked ahead, searching through the blinding snow. He wiped his face, blinked, and zeroed his focus on one specific spot. Was that a light he saw shining through the darkness? It couldn’t be the moon or a star, not in this kind of weather. It had to be a manmade light. Another car? Or was it a house out here in the middle of nowhere?
Cautiously Dallas climbed out of the ditch, his leather shoes slipping and sliding. He grabbed hold of a low branch on a small tree growing by the roadside, then hoisted himself up and onto the road. He moved carefully down the road, continuously wiping the snow from his eyes so that he could see. After going no more than thirty feet, he caught a glimpse of the house sitting high above the road. The porch light burned brightly, like a beacon in the night. Within minutes he reached the driveway leading up to the big white clapboard farmhouse. Damn, but it was a steep climb. How the hell could he climb an iced-over drive that appeared to go straight up? Suddenly he noticed the bright red mailbox a good eight or nine feet from the drive.
Steps! Stone steps led from the mailbox upward, hopefully all the way to the front yard. If he had to, he would crawl up those steps. When his feet touched the first stone-covered niche, he saw the long iron railing that ran the length of the primitive stairway. Hallelujah!
Good thing he was in prime physical condition, otherwise he would have been huffing like a steam engine by the time he reached the expansive front yard. He couldn’t remember when anything had looked as welcoming as that porch light. But why would anyone have a light on this late at night, unless they were expecting someone or unless they were gone? He sure hoped the people who lived here were at home; if not, he’d have no choice but to do something illegal—break in.
The moment he set foot on the porch, he shook the snow from his head and brushed it off his overcoat. After a couple of seconds searching for a doorbell, he realized there was none, so he lifted his hand and knocked. Instantly the sound of deep, rumbling growls alerted him that there was a dog in residence. From the sound of its powerful bark, a very large dog.
The door swung wide open. His gaze bounced back and forth from the massive dog, who vaguely resembled a wolf, to the small, black-eyed woman standing beside the animal, one hand tenderly stroking the fierce beast’s head. The howling wind blocked out soft sounds, so when the woman spoke to him he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.
He leaned forward. The dog bristled and bared his sharp teeth. The woman soothed the animal with words Dallas couldn’t understand.
She motioned to Dallas to come inside, which he did immediately, entering to the woman’s left, since her pet stood guard on her right.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Dallas said as he waited just inside the doorway. “My car skidded off the road not far from here and my cell phone isn’t working, so—”
She slammed the door closed, bent down and whispered something to the dog, then turned and looked directly at Dallas. “Please, come into the living room by the fire and warm yourself.”
Dallas stared at her, into the darkest, most hypnotic eyes he’d ever seen. Eyes the color of rich, black earth. Why was this woman not afraid of him? Did she think her dog could protect her from any and all harm? Surely she knew there was a killer on the loose in Cherokee County. Perhaps he should identify himself and put her totally at ease, just in case she had any qualms about having a perfect stranger in her house.
“I’m Special Agent Dallas Sloan, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He unbuttoned his overcoat and reached inside his sports jacket for his ID and badge, then held it up so she could inspect it.
She glanced at his ID, then smiled. “You’re the agent who called Jacob, aren’t you?”
“Jacob?”
“Sheriff Jacob Butler.”
“Yeah, I’m the one who called him. You know the sheriff?” He supposed in a rural area like Cherokee County everybody knew everybody else.
“Jacob is my cousin, but we’re more like brother and sister.”