Authors: Erica Spindler
Tags: #Contemporary Women, #General, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Fiction
Justice for Sara (7 page)
No helping this one.
He refocused on McCall. “I’ve got to go inside now. Officer Guidry here will stay with you. If you need anything, you just let him know.”
He stood and crossed to the door. She didn’t move, didn’t watch him go. But he had a sense she was smiling. He shook that off. Crazy. Why would she do that? “Miss Katherine?”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Maybe you should call your cousin Jeremy.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Guidry will call for you.” He paused. “How did you call 911?”
“I used Sara’s cell.”
“You don’t have one of your own?”
“She took it away from me. I don’t know where she put it.”
He and Guidry exchanged glances. Every one of his internal alarms sounded. Two murders. One night. A rebellious teenager, being punished by her guardian.
Could the two murders be related? Could Wally have seen something?
Tanner forgot about all that when he stepped into the house. A scene from a horror movie greeted him, one of those gory flicks to which teenagers flocked.
Sara McCall had been beaten to death. There was blood on the walls, floor, ceiling. Bits of flesh and bone and brain matter.
It looked as if her attacker had continued to pummel her after she was dead.
The breakfast sandwich he had wolfed down an hour ago began to come up. He struggled to hold it back. A guy twenty-five years on the job didn’t puke at the sight of blood. He would never live it down.
It kept coming anyway. He darted back out to the porch and heaved over the side. As he did, he imagined the sheriff’s detectives he’d met with over Wally laughing at him.
“Chief?” Guidry said, sounding shaken. “You okay?”
He couldn’t speak. Tears stung his eyes and he cursed them.
I didn’t sign up for this shit. That’s not why I live here.
Tanner considered just walking away. Saying good-bye to this crime scene, Liberty, police work. But it was too late. He’d never be able to wipe the sight of Sara McCall’s pulverized face from his brain.
Behind him he heard Guidry crossing to the door, stepping through. He wished he could spare him what he was about to see, but he couldn’t.
“Holy Mary, mother of God!”
A moment later, Guidry was beside him at the porch rail, bent over it, heaving.
And still, Kat McCall sat motionless on the steps.
Anger surged up in him. He wanted to shake her. Demand to know what had happened, who had done this?
If she had done it.
He wiped his mouth and crossed to her. “What happened?” he asked.
“I told you.”
“Who did this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dammit, Miss Katherine! You tell me what happened, right now!”
From the street, he heard the slam of a car door. He looked over his shoulder. Jeremy Webber, striding up the walkway, expression panicked.
Tanner stood and went to meet him. “Jeremy, thank you for coming.”
“Of course I’d come. What the hell’s going on? Officer Guidry called. He said Sara—” His gaze shifted to Kat on the porch step. He leaned closer. “That Sara had been murdered. Is it true?”
“I’m sorry.”
Tears flooded his eyes. He blinked them back. “Does Katherine … does she know?”
“She found her and called 911.”
He nodded, visibly pulling himself together. “Excuse me.”
A moment later, he was drawing the girl into his arms. “Katherine, sweetheart, are you all right?”
She buried her face into his shoulder and began to cry. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Of course not.” He rubbed her back. “It’s going to be okay, Kit-Kat. I promise.”
Tanner watched the two and thought that it most definitely was
not
going to be okay. Problem was, he was unsure whether he was thinking of Katherine’s life or his own.
Tuesday, June 4
7:30
P.M.
What a day it had been, Kat thought. So many memories confronted. Being back. Seeing Ryan. And Dab.
She sat on her front porch, night falling around her, the darkness gathering. She’d long ago drained her glass of pinot grigio, but hadn’t gotten another. Instead, her thoughts had kept her anchored to the spot. Every argument the prosecution had used against her was burned onto her brain. Day after day of the trial, she had been pummeled with the “facts” of the case.
At the time, she had wished she could close her ears and eyes, pretend it wasn’t happening. Escape. Now she gave thanks that hadn’t been possible.
Those inescapable facts, branded on her psyche, would lead her to her sister’s murderer.
The pathologist had set the time of death between 10:00 p.m. and midnight. He’d made that determination from three postmortem factors: rigor mortis, lividity and the body’s internal temperature at the morgue. He had explained to the jury that the longer a body sat, the harder to pinpoint the exact time of death.
The mosquitoes began to bite, motivating her to finally go inside. Kat flipped on the foyer light. Her gaze went to the shadowy stains on the wooden floor. She crossed to them, bent and trailed her hand over the darkest of them, picturing Sara—or what had been left of her—sprawled across the polished cypress flooring.
Sara had known her killer. That’s what the prosecution’s experts had said. With no signs of a breakin, she had opened the door of her own free will. Judging by the location of the body, she hadn’t simply opened the door, she had invited her murderer into her home.
Kat closed her eyes, remembering. The foyer at the edge of the front room. Facedown. Head toward the door. Blood. Everywhere.
She shook her head.
Don’t dwell on that, Katherine. No emotion. The facts as the prosecution had presented them.
Sara had been struck from behind, which suggested her killer had been in the front parlor and that she had been walking him, or her, out. Kat shifted her gaze to the corner where the bat had been propped. Right there, by the entry between the foyer and parlor.
After their fight, Sara had set it there. Kat didn’t know for certain why. Perhaps to remind herself of Kat’s lie? Or to remind Kat of why she was grounded? Or maybe she had simply set it there, meaning to store it away later.
But later hadn’t come.
Kat’s throat tightened. Would her sister be alive today if the bat hadn’t been there? Had the murder been a crime of opportunity? If the weapon had been something other than a bat, could Sara have fought her attacker off?
Kat dragged her hands through her hair, hating the questions. Ten years of them, battering her. Day and night, invading her sleep, stealing her quiet. Robbing her of any, every moment of peace.
The time had come to answer the questions.
Kat stood, turned toward the front door. Sara had invited the person in. Not a huge deal in a town like Liberty, even at night. Liberty wasn’t Atlanta or New Orleans. Everyone knew everybody. Everybody trusted everyone else.
This crime had been highly personal. Isn’t that what the experts had said? You didn’t attack someone that way unless it was. That’s why her face had been obliterated. It’s why the killer had continued to beat her after she was dead.
That narrowed the field. Not just an acquaintance. It had to be someone with an axe to grind. Big time.
Hatred. Rage boiling over. Someone who wanted to erase Sara McCall from the face of the planet.
Kat remembered the prosecution’s lead attorney saying just that during his opening arguments. Then he’d pointed at her.
“And no one had more anger directed at Sara McCall than her sister, Katherine McCall. No one had as much to gain at Sara’s death as her sister. Take a good look at her, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t be fooled by her youth or pretty face. She wished her sister dead.”
Kat squirmed, remembering that moment. Every eye in the courtroom turned to her in accusation.
Until that moment, she had naively believed the police would realize their mistake. She didn’t kill Sara. She couldn’t kill anyone, especially her sister.
Innocent people didn’t go to jail.
Until that moment, Kat thought again. When the prosecutor had pointed at
her.
And all her lies had come crashing in on her. Her defiance and rebellion. The circumstances. How it all looked.
She remembered numbly thinking: How could they
not
think I’d done it?
Kat opened the door and stepped out onto the porch just as Iris Bell’s front-room light snapped on. The killer was someone from Liberty. And she would bet that the person still lived in the area. People from Liberty planted roots. You didn’t settle here if you were a corporate executive who moved every couple of years.
She didn’t know why she was so certain of that, but she was.
Maybe because her life had stopped with her sister’s murder and she thought the killer’s should have as well.
Kat sensed that her neighbor was watching her and lifted her hand in greeting. Mrs. Bell had testified against her, as well. But how could she hold that against her? Just like Dab, she hadn’t lied.
Kat dug her cell phone out of her back pocket, checked the time and walked back into the house. There, she dialed the Liberty P.D.
“This is Katherine McCall,” she said. “Is Sergeant Tanner still in?”
“I’m sorry, who did you say—”
“Kat McCall.”
“Kat? This is Cindy Widmer. Well, LaGuarde, now. I married Rene.”
An image of Cindy popped into her head. Short reddish blond hair, freckles. They’d been friends in junior high.
“Wow, Cindy,” she said. “How are you?
“Good. Pregnant with my first.”
Another one. What was with the water in Liberty?
“Congratulations.”
“We’re really excited. My mom’s over the moon. You know how—”
She fell suddenly and abruptly silent. As if she had just remembered who she was talking to and that this wasn’t a social call.
“Luke’s already left for the day,” she said, sounding like a stranger this time. “Is this an emergency?”
“Not at all. But I would like to speak to him tonight.”
“You can catch him at home. Or on his cell. I can give you that number, if you like?”
In the end, Cindy gave her his address, too. As she stood on his front porch, she wondered if he had an Iris Bell living across the street. If he or she was peering out the window, taking notes. The quintessential small-town pastime.
Luke swung open the door. Dark hair slightly mussed, hint of a five o’clock shadow, wearing shorts and bright white T-shirt. Seeing him that way caused the strangest little hitch in her breathing. She noticed he didn’t look surprised to see her.
What the hell was she doing?
“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”
She corralled her runaway thoughts. “I have a proposal for you. Can I come in?”
A slow, sexy grin spread across his face; he swung open the door. “How could I say no to that?”
Tuesday, June 4
8:00
P.M.
Luke Tanner’s house was cozy and cluttered and smelled really good. Like a Sunday afternoon with something in the oven. She sniffed. “What is that?”
“Jambalaya.”
“You can cook?”
“I learned out of self-preservation. Pizza and burgers got old pretty quick.”
She followed him to the living room. He cleared a bunch of files off the sofa. “Have you eaten?”
She hadn’t. And she was hungry. But showing up at his house without warning felt sketchy enough without eating his food, too.
He laughed when she told him so. “Look, I have plenty and I’m starving and won’t eat in front of you, so I’m fixing you a plate, sketchy or not.”
When they reached the kitchen, she saw it was small but well organized. “I see you’re a clean-as-you-go cook.”
“I am.” He opened the fridge and held out an Abita Amber. “Beer?”
“Thanks.”
He popped the cap on the bottle and handed it to her. Then got one for himself. “I have to say it, Kat, that was an odd thing to notice.”
She laughed. “I work in a commercial kitchen. There’s no room for slobs or creative tornadoes. I had to go against my nature to learn that.”
He took a swallow of the beer. She watched him, finding something sensual about the way he brought the bottle to his lips, the tip of his head, the arch of his neck.
She jerked her gaze away, not wanting him to catch her staring. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Just take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
He gathered up the utensils they would need, then served up two bowls of the jambalaya. He placed them on the table, then took a seat. “Dig in.”
She tasted, then fanned her mouth. “Spicy!”
He looked sheepish. “Sorry, I should have warned you. I like my food hot.”
She took a gulp of the beer. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
He laughed. “Liar.”
“I do. Actually, I really missed Louisiana food when I moved to Oregon. I just need to build my tolerance back up.”
“Small bites and big sips, that’s the way to go. In my opinion, anyway.”
She tried it and it worked, though she emptied her beer in record time. She switched to water, standing and doing it herself.
“Tell me about your bread,” he said when she sat back down. “What makes it special?”
“That it’s delicious
and
healthy.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, right.”
“It is. I promise. Here’s the deal—” She leaned forward, warming to the subject. “I make it with all whole ingredients, as close to nature as possible. Nothing processed. Grains are nutritious. Chockablock full of B vitamins and folates. Fiber and protein.
“The reason bread gets a bad rap is because we’ve stripped everything nutritious out of it, stuffed it with preservatives and shoved it into a plastic bag.” She paused. “And don’t even get me started on the whole plastic thing.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
She frowned. “You’re laughing at me.”
“Hell, no. We should all feel so passionate about what we do. And I’m a believer now. Get your store up and running, I’ll be your first customer.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
His smile faded. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I know you didn’t come here for jambalaya and small talk.”
“No.” She regretfully laid down her fork, reminding herself of why she’d come here in the first place. “Like I said, I have a proposal for you.”
He leaned back in his chair and waited. She knew she should choose her words carefully, wrap it all up neatly with a bow. Instead she just blurted it out. “I think we should work on this case together.”
“This case?”
“Finding my sister’s murderer.”
“That wasn’t the proposal I was hoping for,” he said lightly. “Give me another.”
When she didn’t reply, he frowned. “You’re not serious.”
“Dead serious.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not? It makes perfect sense.”
“It makes no sense.” He leaned toward her. “I’m the cop. You’re not. End of story.”
“What if I have information that could help?”
“Then you’re obligated to hand it over.”
“I help you, but you don’t help me? Not happening.”
“You’re not a cop, Kat.”
“I have to know the truth.”
“I understand that. I do. I’m reopening the case. That should make you happy.”
“It does. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop. I’m doing this with or without you.”
“Do you really think you can do something the law couldn’t ten years ago? Or do something that I can’t now?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Really? Why’s that?”
She dropped her hands to her lap and curled them into fists. “Because ten years ago your dad decided I did it and never looked any further. And everyone else associated with the ‘law’ went right along with him.”
She could tell that got his back up. “My dad was a good lawman. He has the respect of this community. A community he served for thirty-five years.”
“Bully for them and you, but he doesn’t have mine. My sister was murdered; her killer is still free.”
“And you assume he, or she, still lives around here.”
“Yes.”
“Because of the letters?”
“Yes. And other things.”
“And what if you’re wrong? What if we don’t nail the bastard? What if her killer is long gone? What will you do then?”
She paused. “The truth?” He nodded. “I haven’t even considered that an option.”
“Maybe you should.”
She stood. “Thanks for dinner.”
He followed her to her feet. “Kat. Wait.” He motioned her to sit back down. “Please.”
She hesitated a moment, then sat.
“You’re talking about going after a killer. Someone who has held their secret for ten years. They’re not going to give it up easily.”
“You’re not going to change my mind.”
“What makes you think they won’t kill you if you get too close?”
She hadn’t considered that. In her head, it was all very easy, clean. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
She tilted up her chin. “They won’t.”
“Now you’re just being stupid.”
Kat flushed and stood. “What was stupid was thinking you’d help me.”
He caught up with her before she reached the front door. “I have all the files here. The crime-scene photos. Do you want to see them?”
She looked him square in the eyes. “Yes.”
“Really? You’re that positive?”
“They’re not new to me, remember? I sat through every minute of the trial. I saw every piece of evidence. I see those images in my dreams. Do you?”
He led her to the living room. He told her to sit, which was a good thing because she was stubborn enough to try to stand and her legs were already rubbery.
He sat on the couch beside her and handed her the envelope of photos.
She’d been wrong, Kat acknowledged moments later. It felt as if she were seeing them for the first time.
She broke down and cried. A few tears at first, but before long, a river of them. Sara, her sweet sister. Reduced to … that. She couldn’t bear it.
Arms around her middle, she doubled over, sobbing.
He came and sat beside her, drew her into his arms. She clung to him and cried for what seemed like forever. To his credit, he didn’t squirm or stiffen, didn’t try to move away. He simply held her.
Comforting. Solid and strong.
Her sobs came to a slow, shuddering stop. Still she clung to him. She breathed in his clean, male scent and wondered if she would always associate it with him and this moment.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head no.
How could she have acted so disassociated at seventeen?
Kat curled her fingers into his T-shirt.
No wonder everyone thought she’d done it. No wonder they hadn’t moved on.
No wonder she hadn’t.
“What are you thinking?” he asked softly.
Kat softened her fingers, smoothed them over the crumpled fabric, feeling the strong beat of his heart. She drew regretfully away. Met his eyes. “That this doesn’t change anything.”
He caught her elbow, stopping her. “You’re putting pressure on someone who’s very dangerous, Kat. This person won’t hesitate to attack if they feel threatened.”
The baseball bat. Waiting for her. A warning.
“Let me do my job.” He searched her gaze. “I promise I’ll do it well, to the best of my abilities.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can.” He closed his hands over hers. “I won’t be able to protect you.”
She pulled herself together. “I’m not asking you to.”
“You are. By putting yourself in harm’s way.” As if realizing her mind was made up, he sighed and released her hands. “Where are you going to start?”
“That’s called cooperation, Tanner.”
“You still want to look at the files?”
She did, and for the next two hours, they sat side by side, reading. He looked at her when she caught her breath. “What?”
“I forgot about the bloody footprints,” she said. “How they abruptly stopped. It was so creepy.”
“Not magic, just a smart killer.”
A smart killer,
Kat thought later as she let herself back into her house. Dangerous. Desperate to keep his secret.
She stopped in the foyer, gaze going to the spot where her sister had died. Where her blood had poured out. Anger rose up in her. Fury. White-hot.
“Not smart enough,” she said, fisting her fingers. “I promise, Sara. The son of a bitch isn’t getting away with it.”