Death's Door

CHAPTER THREE

“THERE’S NO SUCH THING as a perfect crime. Little things—the unexpected—stand in the way of a flawless murder.” The killer spoke the words in an undertone, although there was no one around to hear.

Erin Wycoff’s murder had made headlines. People feasted on the brutality of the crime and lapped up every gory fact. It was to be expected. Death was fascinating, especially if it wasn’t yours. The details had captured the city’s imagination. Many identified with the victim and felt lucky to have escaped her fate.

“The devil is in the details. Always has been, always will be.”

Not many people realized blow-dryers were no longer instruments of death. He certainly hadn’t. He’d been too consumed by his life’s work to read the papers or watch mindless television that might have given him the information he needed.

An enterprising manufacturer would advertise the fact. But the truth was most people didn’t recognize their potential—big corporations included. Never mind. The blow-dryer didn’t electrocute Erin, but the mission had been accomplished in spite of the unexpected development.

The killer stared out at the series of waves tumbling one after another onto the white sand, remembering and reliving the instant the blow-dryer hit the water and hissed like a cat with its tail on fire. The killer had anticipated a guttural scream, then a body collapsing into the water. Dead.

The earsplitting cry had erupted from Erin’s throat as expected. But instead of dying, she’d vaulted from the tub and streaked out of the bathroom with wild, unfocused eyes, reminding him of a rabid dog. She had to be stopped, had to be shut up before she awakened the neighbors.

Luck was always with those who planned and noticed details. The red sash for her robe had been right there on the bathroom door. She’d fought like a hellcat, but she was a small woman. Her struggle had been exhilarating but brief.

A strange twist of fate. Death was always exciting but not this thrilling—so stimulating that nothing could match the experience. It was the struggle that was so captivating. The others had died well-planned deaths—they hadn’t even been listed as murders. This time there was no mistake.

When you didn’t anticipate having to physically attack, the chance of leaving incriminating evidence grew exponentially. Still, the killer had considered the situation many times and decided there was no way the police could solve this crime. Certainly, there was no chance they could link it to the previous murders. They wouldn’t figure out the common denominator between the victims.

PAUL TANNER WAITED in the Porsche as Madison pulled into the driveway of the Fisher Island home where she was house-sitting. She still had the golden retriever with her. He shut off the air-conditioning and got out of the car. His leg hadn’t quite healed and it was stiff from being in the small enclosure for so long. Madison’s head swung in his direction, a puzzled expression on her pretty face.

Paul had known she would be surprised to see him. No doubt she was wondering why he was here and how he’d gotten into an enclave famous for its exclusivity. The small island was linked to the mainland only by ferry service. He’d driven off the boat with a gaggle of Rollses and Bentleys. Parking valets washed the salt spray off the overpriced cars while uniformed guards checked visitors’ credentials. He’d flashed his badge and implied this was official business even though his mission didn’t have a damn thing to do with the murder.

Madison opened her car door and tugged on Aspen’s leash. It took the dog a minute to gauge the distance from the driver’s seat to the ground. His eye problem must really be bothering him.

“How’s his eye infection?” Paul asked as he walked up to them.

“The vet gave him drops.” It was evident the used-carsalesman’s smile Paul was practicing on her wasn’t working. She beelined to the front door. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” She rammed her key into the lock of the Mediterranean-style villa. “I’ve already given the police a statement. Now I have to plan a funeral. Erin doesn’t have anyone else to do it.”

“If you’ll give me a minute—”

She spun around to face him with a look that could have frozen lava. She was exhausted, grief stricken, and probably wanted to curl up somewhere to cry. Her shoulders unexpectedly sagged and he could almost feel the fight go out of her. His entire body tensed with the urge to reach out and put his arm around her, but he resisted.

He didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home and heard Madison’s five-alarm scream followed by anguished, keening cries like those of an animal caught in a trap. He’d seen several pictures of her in the file his father had given him. Nothing had prepared him for the woman he’d found when he’d rushed through the back door. She’d been on the verge of debilitating hysteria—who could blame her?—but she’d fought him with more courage than most guys he’d taken down.

He hadn’t gotten a good look at her until they were outside. Then a mind-numbing attack of…of what? Aw, hell. He might as well be honest with himself. A jolt of sexual awareness had shot through him, despite the inappropriate time and place. There was something undeniably appealing about that storm of blond hair and those baby blues. He’d instantly wanted to help her. This from a man who was about as sentimental as Attila the Hun. Okay, so a lot more than help had crossed his mind. But he’d tamped those thoughts down and reminded himself that this was business.

He had no illusions about his profession. Homicide—his usual line of work when he wasn’t temporarily sidelined and helping out his father—occurred at all hours, night and day. A detective couldn’t hope for much in terms of a private life—a lesson he’d already learned. You took women where you found them and walked away. Romancing a woman like Madison Connelly wasn’t in the cards.

“Sorry,” she said now in a tight, pinched voice. “You were great this morning. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to thank you. I appreciate the way you helped me.”

He nodded, noticing she hadn’t yet asked him why he’d followed her to Erin Wycoff’s home. Undoubtedly she was too shaken by finding her friend dead to make the connection. “Glad I was there. No wonder you weren’t thinking clearly. You had a great shock.” He reached around her and shoved the door open. “Let’s go inside and talk for a minute.”

The air conditioner was on and ceiling fans with paddles shaped like palm fronds circulated the cool air in the semicircular living room with walls entirely of glass. The house faced the ocean and the faint tang of salt air drifted through the room even though he didn’t spot any open doors or windows. The area he could see was bigger than his entire apartment.

She bent over and unhooked Aspen’s leash. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

He hesitated, reluctant to hit her with this immediately and trying to decide the best way to break the news. Hell, he’d had plenty of time to think while he’d been waiting for Madison. He’d prepared enough bullshit to bury Fisher Island, but being face-to-face with her was different.

Something cold gripped his gut. Why me? he asked himself. He should have convinced his father to send someone else. He would have if he’d known he was going to find himself at the scene of a brutal murder beside a knockout blonde who didn’t deserve to be clobbered with another problem right now.

“The police think I have something to do with Erin’s murder, don’t they?”

“Why do you say that?” His was voice guarded now, her question surprising him.

“They took my fingerprints, then kept grilling me, asking the same questions over and over and over.”

“Was there something you didn’t tell them? Something they were fishing for?”

“No,” she replied just a little too quickly.

What wasn’t she revealing? he wondered. Paul had taken a careful look at the scene and he’d been at Madison’s side within seconds after she discovered the body. He knew she hadn’t killed her best friend.

“Do you have any idea what happened? They won’t tell me anything.” She sank down onto the sofa, the retriever at her feet.

“It’s not my case,” he replied, set to sidestep her questions, but her pleading eyes got to him. Then he decided gaining Madison’s trust might help him when he delivered his news. “This is off-the-record, okay? You didn’t hear it from me.”

She measured him with those melt-your-heart baby blues. “All right. Tell me.”

“From the looks of the crime scene, the killer caught the vic—your friend—taking a bath. He threw the blow-dryer into the tub.”

“Oh Lord, no!” She slapped her hand over her mouth, then sucked in a stabilizing breath. “It’s a wonder she wasn’t electrocuted.” Her eyes went empty for a moment, then she asked, “Aren’t blow-dryers fitted with a gizmo that makes them shut off if they’re in water? Seems to me that I read something about it.”

“She received a shock before the dryer quit. That’s why her knee was so swollen, but she managed to get out of the tub.”

“Oh my God. Poor Erin.” Madison gasped and he could see her struggle anew to comprehend the violent and brutal death. She didn’t know the half of it; she hadn’t seen the bathroom. “Do you have any idea…how long she fought?”

“Several minutes at least. Long enough for blood to keep pumping and the knee to swell.”

“Once the heart stops beating the body shuts down, right?” she asked, and he nodded. It took her a minute to add, “Erin must have been terrified.”

Paul couldn’t disagree. “Throwing a blow-dryer is the kind of thing a woman would do.”

“Why? Couldn’t a man have done it?”

“Absolutely, but a killer’s method can often tell us about his or her identity. For example, women use guns at times, but if someone is killed with a less direct method like poisoning or lethal drug doses, the responsible party is usually a woman.”

“But Erin was strangled. That hardly counts as less than direct. The police should be looking for a man. Ninety-three percent of all murders are committed by men.”

That stopped him cold. She was correct. He knew she and her ex had developed a wildly successful online trivia game. Obviously, Madison was a trivia buff herself to know the statistics so well.

“Odds are a man killed your friend,” he conceded. “But most people don’t know blow-dryers have shock interceptors in them and have had since 1991. The perp tried to electrocute her. Strangulation was a last resort.”

Paul studied her closely for a moment. He could almost see Madison’s brain working, imagining her friend running, desperately fighting for her life. Her tormented expression hit him like a sucker punch to the gut when it shouldn’t have. He’d seen more than his share of devastated family and friends. Madison Connelly should be just another woman. Except she wasn’t. He’d read her file and knew the woman better than she knew herself. What he couldn’t predict was how she would react to his news.

“The killer strangled Erin with the sash from her robe that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door.” He kept his voice pitched low in an effort not to upset her more than necessary. “Your friend was a very small woman. A bigger woman could have overpowered her.”

Madison frowned at him for a moment, then asked in a voice so thick with emotion that it was difficult to understand her, “Not bringing a weapon to the crime scene—doesn’t that mean the killing wasn’t premeditated?”

Madison didn’t miss a damn thing. He’d been prepared for a smart woman. One look at the file his father had on this woman made that clear. But she was a lot sharper than he’d expected. A hell of a lot.

“Often lack of a weapon suggests a crime of passion or a crime of opportunity. But this case is unusual. You wouldn’t bring a blow-dryer to the scene if you knew one was already there. It still could have been premeditated.”

“The killer was hiding, lying in wait, watching.” A frown crinkled her smooth forehead. “But how did he know she would take a bath?”

“Good question. He could have spied—”

“Erin loved a long bath. She was a big believer in the relaxing powers of various sea salts and herbs. She would light candles with special fragrances and soak in the tub. But her fondness for aromatherapy wasn’t common knowledge.”

“Her boyfriends must have known, and other close friends like you.”

Madison released a long, frustrated sigh. “I gave the police the names of every guy I knew about. Erin didn’t have any close female friends except me.”

“Why not?”

Madison shrugged. “I don’t know. It was just her personality.”

Paul had the feeling there was more to it, but he didn’t press. He settled himself at her side on the plush white sofa, facing the panoramic view of Biscayne Bay and the sea burnished to a honey color by the setting sun. Neither of them said anything. The retriever reached up and licked Madison’s hand.

“I found Erin’s body. How could I be a suspect? One look and you knew she’d been dead for hours. The others must have realized this. Why would they suspect me?”

“Sometimes killers ‘discover’ the victim to throw off detectives and provide a reason for their prints and other trace evidence to be at the scene.” He watched her slowly nod. A heavy beat of silence followed.

Finally, she asked the question he’d been waiting for. “You were at my office, then you followed me to Erin’s. Why?”

He hated to bring up such a sensitive issue right now. It didn’t seem fair, but what did his father always say? Where did you get the idea life is supposed to be fair? He was being paid to do a job. He couldn’t guess what Madison Connelly’s reaction was going to be, but putting it off wouldn’t change things.

“This is about computer security, isn’t it? That’s what your card said.”

“Not exactly. My father owns a company that specializes in corporate security. I’m helping him out while I’m on disability leave. I should be cleared to go back to active duty on Miami PD in the next few weeks.” Her expression clouded, and he wondered what she was thinking. For some reason, he touched the wound still healing on his thigh. “I took a couple of slugs in an arrest that didn’t go down the way it should have.”

Either she didn’t care or what he’d told her about himself didn’t register. She asked, “Your father wants my business?”

“No. This has nothing to do with your business. This is a personal matter.” What in hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he come to the point? He was progressing with the speed of a glacier. “I need to talk to you about your family.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why. My father died two years ago of cancer. My mother’s remarried.” She was regarding him with outright suspicion now, wondering, no doubt, what his angle was. “It’s a pretty typical story.”

“Would you consider yourself typical?”

She jumped to her feet and went over to the windows. He couldn’t help noticing she moved as if she were on a catwalk, not being deliberately provocative but gliding in a smooth, natural way that kicked up his pulse a notch. A second later, she pivoted in place and glared at him. “What do you want from me?” She hurried back to the sofa. “I only own half of Total-Trivia. Aiden Larsen and his wife control the other half. I can’t do anything without their approval.”

“I’m aware of the situation.” He didn’t add that he knew her ex had tried his damnedest to take the company away from her during the divorce. But she wasn’t just pretty and smart, she was a fighter. “This isn’t about your company, it’s about you.”

“Me?” Her response was a hollow echo in the high-ceilinged room.

“Yes. My father’s firm was hired to track you down.”

“Me? Why on earth—”

“Someone wants to meet you,” Paul replied, easing into what he knew would be a bombshell.

“Who? Why can’t they just pick up a phone and contact me? I’m not hard to find.” The words came out in a heated rush. She took a deep breath and added, “What’s going on? Something’s not right.”

“There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it straight out. This man might be your biological father. We’ve been doing the verification for him. That’s how we found you.”

“What?” She surged to her feet once more. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’re aware of sperm banks.” Paul expected a puzzled look, but instead hostility was etched on her face like a death mask.

“Of course,” she shot back without taking a breath. “So?”

“That’s how you were conceived.”

“My parents never used a sperm bank. They were totally in love. My mother was devastated when my father died. If they’d used a sperm bank, they would have told me.”

Paul knew he wouldn’t score any points by reminding Madison that her mother had married less than a year after her father’s death. He couldn’t see a way to sugarcoat this, and he sensed she was the type of woman who would appreciate directness. “According to my research, your mother was artificially inseminated at the New Horizons Fertility Clinic.”

“No way!” she shouted. The retriever shied to one side as if expecting a blow. “My mother would have told me.”

You’d be surprised, he wanted to respond. Being a cop had proved to him that unimaginable things could happen. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She lowered herself to the sofa again and reached down to stroke the head of the frightened dog.

Paul reached inside the jacket of the lightweight sport coat he was wearing and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to her. “Is this your mother’s signature?”

Brows knit, she scanned the photocopy. “It appears to be her signature. It’s hard to say for sure.” She thrust the paper back at him. “So? She might have visited a clinic. That doesn’t mean—”

“She received sperm donations from donor 8374 on two separate occasions. I can show you documentation to prove it.”

Madison stared at him, her intense eyes calling him a liar. “That’s ridiculous. I look exactly like my father. Ask anyone. I have his personality, too.”

He waited, giving her time to absorb the news. “The insemination dates are just over nine months before you were born.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen the so-called documentation.”

She had the same stubborn streak the rest of her biological family shared, but he didn’t mention it. “I’ll have copies of it within the week.”

“Why don’t you have them now?”

“New Horizons was an unusual facility. They specialized in Mensa donors. Men with high—”

“I know what Mensa is. Eggheads. You have to have a high IQ score.”

“You were invited to join, weren’t you?”

She tossed her head and flung her hair over one shoulder. “Who would want to hang out with a bunch of nerds?”

He kept his smile to himself. His file on Madison told him a lot about her but there was nothing like an interview to reveal personality. She had attitude in spades, just like the rest of the bunch.

“Don’t you want to know more about donor 8374?”

“No. I don’t. There’s an explanation for this mistake. That donor is not my father.”

“He was a medical student at Harvard when he sold his sperm. They paid a premium for donors who were extremely intelligent. Know what their next requirement was?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. She was gazing heavenward and he was damn sure she wasn’t praying. “Other than being Caucasian? Tall. Women seeking sperm donors want tall men. Tall, smart men.”

He waited a beat to let that tidbit sink in, then added, “You’re a lot taller than either of your parents, aren’t you?”

“So?” she shot back, her accusing gaze now directed right at him. “A lot of children are taller than their parents.” She studied him a moment as if he were some disgusting bug that had crawled out from under a garbage can. “If this donor lived in Boston, how did his…his sperm get down here? My parents met at Tulane and moved to Miami just after they were married. My father might have gone to Boston on business, but my mother never visited the city until I went to college.”