Three hours before dawn, their energy depleted and while Noah took a power nap, Dallas slipped downstairs to the kitchen where she rustled together cheese and crackers, strawberries, chunked papaya ― Noah’s favorite ― to nibble on and a chilled bottle of Chardonnay to wet their parched throats.
When she re-entered the bedroom, Noah was waking. She set the tray in the middle of the bed and made herself comfortable beside him.
“I heard The Crucifix Killer struck again,” Dallas said and bit into a plump, ripe strawberry.
Noah told her what evidence they had, which amounted to nada. “It looks like it’s two for two. Like the judge, the scene was as sterile as an operating room.”
“The killer’ll slip up. They always do.”
“I hope it’s before he takes another life.” He speared a chunk of papaya with a swizzle stick, popped the piece in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“Nothing to connect the lawyer with the judge?”
He blew air into his cheeks, then let it out through pursed lips. “Cain had some cases before Miller, but they all dead-ended.”
“What does the Doc have to say?”
“You know Max, as close mouthed as a clam in low tide until the formal autopsy.”
“How’s Joe doing?” They had so much to catch up on, and she wanted to know everything.
“Still the Don Juan. He quit smoking.”
“Because he thought it was harmful to his health?”
He laughed. “It was either that or give up his five-liter.”
“Ah.”
“This feels like old times.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed.
She smiled, thinking how easily they had slipped back together as though the past several months had never happened. Again she realized her good fortune. She had not dared to hope they would some day reunite, but hope had come through for her anyway.
“Joe made an interesting observation today.”
She raised her brows. “Really?”
He laughed. “He has his moments. He remarked on the scant amount of blood on both vics, like the heart had already stopped pumping when they were stabbed.”
She perked up. “They were dead when The Crucifix Killer struck?”
“It’s been at the back of my mind for awhile.”
“But too preposterous an idea to consider fully, huh?”
He pushed himself to a sitting position. “Cardiac arrest prior to, or in the moment of ― what are the odds?”
“Not so far fetched. People have suffered heart attacks before and during car accidents. What was their state of health?”
She listened to him hum and haw and determined he was reviewing his mental notes on the cases.
“They were both old geezers. The lawyer was a heavy smoker, and the judge had a weak ticker, as his wife put it, and liked his Cuban cigars.”
She took her legs from under her and grinned widely. “This is looking very interesting.” She grabbed her laptop from the nightstand.
Noah eyed the computer. “I thought we could….”
She slapped his hand off her breast. “In a minute,” she said, pulling the sheet around her body and googling the judge and lawyer.
“Already she tires of me,” he said in his best woebegone voice.
“Never!” She air-kissed him and read through the four items where both victims’ names were mentioned together. The third one, a fraud and embezzlement case, seemed promising.
While waiting for the article to open, she nibbled on a morsel of cheese.
Noah, ever the persistent man, spread kisses across her shoulders. His touch sent goose bumps along her spine. “You’re killing me.” She tried to squirm out of his reach, but half-heartedly. She scanned the article. Nothing jumped out at her. “Cain didn’t only practice criminal law.”
“Hmmm.”
She giggled. “Don’t bowl me over with your enthusiasm.”
“I am enthusiastic. Can’t you tell?”
She looked at his groin, gawked at the mountain-like peak in the sheet and laughed. “The wine must be boiling.” She threw off the covering and snatched the bottle from between his legs. “I’ll have more, please,” she said. “The wine, I mean.” She handed him her wine glass and called up the next article with her other hand.
Quickly, she read the first few lines with interest, then scrolled down. “This fellow here,” she tapped a fingernail against the screen, “Jacob Dunn, accuses his partner of embezzlement.” She continued reading. Like a dandelion in a room full of roses, a name leapt to her attention. “What was the name of the man Calliope was getting the chill pills for?”
Noah frowned.
Clearly, he had only sex on his brain. Dallas didn’t mind. “The guy, the cantankerous bastard.”
“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Thornhill.”
“Frederick Q. Thornhill the Third?”
“Yes, that’s the man. Why?” He read over her shoulder.
“It says here Dunn and Thornhill were partners in a very profitable construction business, landing big contracts as far away as Washington according to this.
“Thornhill filed the charges and Dunn claimed Thornhill was the embezzler.”
“Smooth move on Thornhill’s part if Dunn is innocent. How much money was involved?”
“A million and change.” She read more. “Apparently, Dunn’s nephew went off the deep end, vowed vengeance, attacked Thornhill as he left the court room after the verdict, landing a right hook squarely on Thornhill’s jaw. The cops hauled him off to the whooscow with him screaming he would be back to reclaim what was rightfully his. According to the last update, the poor man spent six months in Mother of Grace Psychiatrist Hospital.”
“Poor man?”
“Well, yes. Isn’t it obvious he’s the underdog?”
“No. Convince me.” He nuzzled her neck and pulled the sheet over them. “Plead your case, woman!”