You Don't Want To Know

  “It’s all too weird,” Khloe said. “I don’t even remember Jewel-Anne dating. Ever. So if she’s Noah’s mother, I mean like really his mother, who’s the father?”

  “She wouldn’t say, and I’ve been wracking my brain and coming up empty.” Ava snorted. “Maybe there’s not enough gray matter up there to wrack.”

  Khloe smothered a laugh. The truth was, Ava was just about out of ideas. She’d been trying to remember anyone Jewel-Anne could have slept with sometime over four years ago. She’d considered people who lived in Monroe: a male physical therapist, her own husband . . . maybe even Kelvin, though at the time he’d been engaged to Khloe, and Ava couldn’t imagine him cheating on Khloe for a fling with his first cousin. Would he really? Didn’t sound like Kelvin.

  Khloe’s cell phone rang. Pulling it from her jeans pocket, she made a face. “Simon.” Rolling her large eyes, she whispered, “He’s been in one of his moods ever since his birthday. A real bear.”

  “Why don’t you just leave him?”

  “It’s not that easy,” she said as the phone rang a second time. “Ava, what if you found Noah and the news was just . . . awful?” Khloe posed.

  “Noah’s alive. I just know it.”

  “Okay, I’m just saying you should prepare yourself. Even if he is alive, you may never find him and you could end up looking for him, never knowing what happened to him, for the rest of your life. Is that what you want to do?”

  “If I have to,” she said.

  Khloe’s phone rang a third time and she turned to the door and said, “Guess I’d better answer it.”

  For a few seconds after she left, Ava sat silently. Then she set down the laptop and climbed onto her bed. Khloe’s words had sunk deep. Her throat grew hot and swollen as she considered a life of not knowing what happened to her boy.

  There was a chance Khloe and everyone else was right. What if the truth was worse than not knowing? Immediately, she scratched that thought. No. Nothing was worse than not knowing.

  She glanced at the nightstand. Another day’s worth of medication was set out for her already. Someone—Khloe? Graciela? Wyatt?—had made certain it was ready. And the pills were seductive; they could take the edge off, help cocoon her from the pain.

  “Damn it,” she whispered, and pulled her legs up as she lowered her cheek to her knees and let the tears run. She sobbed softly as she thought of Noah and the so obvious truth that she might never see him again. It broke her heart to think of him forever missing.

  Again she glanced at the pills.

  Her fists curled. She wouldn’t give up.

  Never!

  Climbing out of the bed, she again put on the ludicrous act of swallowing the pills before flushing them away. She had to start at the beginning. If Jewel-Anne was Noah’s mother, who the hell was his father? Could this mystery man be Jewel-Anne’s accomplice?

  Ava set her jaw. She had to find out who Jewel-Anne’s secret lover was. Maybe that man was the key to finding Noah.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Son of a bitch!” Snyder slammed down his phone and reached for his shoulder holster in one move. Ten seconds later, he was shrugging into his jacket and making his way to Lyons’s desk. He found her, headphones in place, furrows marring her forehead.

  As he closed the distance, she held up a finger to keep him from speaking. “Just a sec.” She said it a little louder than she should have. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” She punched the cassette button and replayed a section one more time. As she listened, the look of confusion on her face gave way to one of surprise and dawning comprehension. Shutting down the recorder, she yanked off her headphones. “We just found out the name of Jewel-Anne’s baby’s daddy. Give it a guess.”

  “We can play twenty questions in the car. Right now we need to investigate a possible homicide, and I used the term possible lightly. The first responder has no doubt.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Evelyn McPherson.”

  “The psychologist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “To Ava Garrison?” Lyons gave him a long look, which he ignored.

  “One and the same. Found at her house. The neighbor noticed a change in routine and called; then when no one answered, she investigated and saw McPherson’s car in the garage. She tried the bell several times. When no one answered, she called the city cops.”

  Kicking her chair back, Lyons climbed to her feet and reached for her coat, scarf, and sidearm. “What a co-ink-i-dink, as they say. Any other details?”

  “Not yet.”

  She flashed him a determined smile as she unlocked her desk drawer and retrieved her purse. “Let’s go get some. I’ll drive.”

  Together they walked through the building to the back parking lot where they dashed through the spitting rain to Lyons’s car. Once inside, she fired up the engine and hit the defroster.

  He rattled off Evelyn McPherson’s address and snapped his seat belt into place. “Okay,” he said as Lyons slipped the car into gear. “I’ll bite. Who knocked up Jewel-Anne Church?”

  She slid him a glance out of the corner of her eye. “None other than the hero of Anchorville’s very own favorite ghost story.”

  He stared at his partner as if she’d lost her mind. “Lester Reece?”

  “Yessirree.” She flipped on the wipers and gunned it out of the lot, taking a corner fast enough to make the tires screech. “The timing’s right, if you figure it out. Jewel-Anne and her family were living on the hospital grounds. She’d met Reece and could have been fascinated. From what I understand, lots of women were.”

  Snyder said, “You’re thinking she got involved with him, got pregnant, and then helped him escape.”

  Lyons responded, “From what I’ve read on the case, there’s always been speculation that someone helped him, but the focus has always been on his nurse. But what if it was Jewel-Anne? She’s certainly smart enough.”

  “That’s a pretty big leap,” he said, glancing out the window to the naked, wet trees lining the street, but as he thought about it over the crackle of the police band radio and the hum of the car’s tires on wet pavement, he thought it might just be a possibility.

  She said thoughtfully, “You know, his name just keeps coming up.”

  “And?”

  “People keep saying they see him, and all of a sudden we have two women who are killed very similarly to how ol’ Lester took care of his victims.”

  Snyder didn’t like it, even though it made a certain amount of sense.

  “I know it would be easier for you to think Reece is dead, his body rotting in the ocean, but there’s a chance he’s not.” She slid him another look. “This, Evelyn McPherson, could be his work.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “I’m just sayin’. Y’know? We need to keep our minds open.”

  “Okay.”

  The drive took less than fifteen minutes through rain-washed streets that glistened under the pale light of the streetlamps. As the cruiser rounded the corner to the block where Evelyn McPherson resided, they were greeted by county and city vehicles huddled around the duplex with their lights flashing, strobing the nearby houses. A cluster of neighbors had collected on the sidewalk one house down, and a couple of officers were just finishing stringing yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the yard.

  “Already a circus,” Snyder muttered under his breath as Lyons pulled into a parking spot across the street from McPherson’s residence.

  “Bound to get worse.” She cut the engine and pocketed her keys, then climbed out. They both avoided puddles as they walked through the rain to the front door.

  “Careful,” the officer signing people into the scene warned as they each slipped covers over their shoes. “Crime scene guys aren’t here yet.”

  “We won’t disturb anything,” Snyder assured him.

  After signing the logbook, they walked carefully inside. It was always disconcerting stepping into a murdered person’s home, and Snyder had never really felt comfortable sifti
ng through the personal effects of a life cut so violently short; it seemed like an extra violation of privacy even though he knew he was the victim’s advocate. Today, he carefully stepped through McPherson’s house, where a single half-drunk glass of wine and a plate of sliced cheese sat on the kitchen counter. The knife she’d used to cut the cheese had been left near the remains of a wedge.

  “Snack for one,” he observed.

  “Maybe dinner.” When he arched a brow, she said, “I’m a single woman. I recognize a meal when I see one.”

  “If you say so.”

  The living room was untouched, extremely tidy, everything in its place, like a staged room out of one of those decorating magazines. No struggle here.

  They made their way into the bedroom and adjoining bath. Evelyn McPherson, fully dressed in slacks and an expensive-looking sweater, lay on the floor, staring sightlessly upward, her eyes already becoming opaque, the deep slit beneath her chin dark red and gaping, blood pooled beneath her and splattered around the small room.

  Here’s where the struggle had taken place.

  And it had been violent.

  The shower curtain had been thrown open, smeared dirt showing where someone had stood in the tub, waiting. Blood had sprayed on the walls, mirror, sink, and counter, some running down the cabinetry in red streaks to pool on each drawer. Bottles and jars of makeup and cleansers were scattered on the floor, glass broken on the tiles, lipstick tubes red from having rolled through the blood.

  “Not much of a question of homicide,” Lyons said, her jaw tight as she surveyed the scene.

  “Nope.” Such a waste, he thought, not stepping into the room where Evelyn McPherson had breathed her last.

  “Look familiar?” he asked his partner.

  She was nodding, as if reading his thoughts. “Looks like the Reynolds scene. Victim two of the same killer.” She glanced up at him. “Both of whom were close to Ava Garrison.”

  “And possibly a lot of other people.”

  “Possibly,” she allowed, but they were both thinking along the same lines. The obvious connection between the two victims was a one-time mental patient who was obsessed with finding her missing son, a boy who most people assumed had wandered out of the house, down to the dock, and into the water where he’d drowned and been swept out to sea as his parents reveled at their Christmas party. Snyder figured Ava Garrison’s obsession with finding her son was all about guilt, though, hell, he wasn’t a psychologist and the one she’d been seeing was now very dead.

  “Sick bastard.” He started to step away, then stopped. “What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing to the bathtub. Rivulets of drying blood smudged the polished surface and a single black hair lay across the rim.

  “Oh, shit,” Lyons said, leaning down to get a closer look. “That’s our connection to the two crimes.” She glanced up at him. “Kinda makes you wonder if Ava Garrison walked off with Cheryl Reynolds’s Halloween costume.”

  “You think she could do this?” He motioned to the bloody, lifeless body of Evelyn McPherson.

  “I’m thinking whoever took the wig also took the tapes of Ms. Garrison’s sessions with the hypnotist. Who would want them other than the woman herself?”

  Snyder felt a niggle of anticipation fire his blood. “If your theory’s right, then all of the missing tapes are with the killer.”

  “Or already destroyed.”

  She straightened and crossed the master bedroom to a desk in a corner that was empty except for a spot for a laptop docking station. She pointed to the obviously empty spot. “We need to find this computer.”

  “And check her office.”

  “You read my mind.”

  They looked around for a little while longer and found no murder weapon, unless the murderer had used one of the kitchen knives and either left with it or cleaned it and put it back where he’d found it. Snyder wasn’t betting on that. Also missing was the laptop computer that fit into the docking station on McPherson’s desk, her purse, and her cell phone. None of those items had appeared in her car, which was parked in the attached garage. The house showed no sign of forced entry, either; all the doors were locked and windows latched.

  The neighboring unit was clean as well, locked up tight but vacant. Snyder assumed she’d either let the intruder in, or he’d found a key or open door and locked it later . . . Odd. Ten to one, the killer had her personal items, including her computer. They could only hope that McPherson had another one in her office or a backup disk somewhere, and once they got back to the office, they’d start checking her cell phone records and Internet accounts, her e-mail and social media contacts, and try to figure out who was the last one to see her alive.

  They talked a little with the forensic guys when they showed up, then with the neighbor who had called the city police, but learned no more than what the first responding officer had reported.

  They left deputies in charge and headed to Dr. McPherson’s office just as the first van from a local television station was parking at the end of the street.

  “You know we’re going to end up heading to the island to talk to Ava Garrison,” Lyons said as oncoming headlights illuminated her face.

  “Yeah.”

  “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” she added, almost to herself. “What’s so damned important that two women are slashed to ribbons?”

  “It’s personal,” Snyder said as he looked out the passenger side window, thinking about the violent way the women had been killed. In Cheryl Reynolds’s case, she’d nearly been strangled to death, but the killer had taken the time to finish the job with a knife that had a serrated, nine-inch blade. He was willing to bet a year’s vacation pay that once the autopsy on Evelyn McPherson was complete, they’d discover the exact same MO.

  And the killer still had the murder weapon.

  Seated at his kitchen table, Dern took a swig straight from his bottle of Jack. The TV was on, turned low, an old Clint Eastwood movie playing, not that he cared.

  From the rag rug near the woodstove, the dog cocked his head, his dark eyes focused hard on Dern. “It’s waaay after five, Buddy, so no judging,” Dern said, but he capped the bottle anyway. It had been a long day after a crazy night. He’d heard the ruckus when Ava had flown down the stairs to the nerd’s apartment and nearly beat down the door with her bare fist after, from what he’d discerned since, nearly killing her crippled cousin. Not that Jewel-Anne hadn’t deserved it, from what he could tell by comments made by Ian earlier in the day.

  “It’s a goddamned house of horrors,” Ian had confided while smoking near the greenhouse where Dern had been looking for another shovel. “Ava’s gone totally around the bend and Jewel-Anne . . . well, she’s been messed up for years. I guess having to give up a baby and losing the use of your legs can do that, but wow. She’s been terrorizing Ava ever since Ava got back from the hospital.” He relayed the events of the night as he’d heard them, though both he and Trent, after knocking down “a few drinks” in Anchorville, had slept through all the commotion. That, in and of itself, was incredible, Dern thought, but didn’t say so.

  Drawing hard on his Camel filter tip, Ian had tossed the butt into the wet grass where it had sizzled. “And it’s contagious, you know? The other day, I swear to God, as I was driving the boat back from Anchorville, I thought I saw Lester Reece, right here on the island, up at the point, kind of in the fog and staring down at the boathouse.”

  He reached into his pocket for his pack of smokes and shook out a fresh cigarette even though the last was still smoldering in the lawn. “Crazy, right? Now I’ve caught Ava’s fuckin’ paranoia!” Fumbling in his pockets, he found his lighter and jabbed his cigarette into his mouth. “No way Lester Reece could still be alive, much less be on this damned rock, right?” he asked, the filter tip bobbing as he clicked his lighter several times before a tiny flame appeared and he was able to light up. Sucking hard enough to inhale every iota of nicotine from his cigarette, he paused, letting the smoke fill his lu
ngs before exhaling. “I blinked and he was gone, just like that.” Ian snapped his fingers. “Probably a goddamned hallucination, but that’s it. I’m getting the hell out.”

  “And do what?” Dern spied the shovel through the dirty panes of the greenhouse.

  “Don’t know. But I’ve got friends in Portland. I could crash with them for a while.” He’d seemed freaked out at the time, but then the entire household of Neptune’s Gate had been on pins and needles. “All I know is, I’m soooo outta here.” Then he’d walked around the house, leaving Dern to grab the shovel and head back to the stable and his apartment.

  Thinking about everything now, Dern reluctantly found his untraceable cell phone and made the call he’d been dreading for hours.

  Reba picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey.” He smiled at the sound of her voice. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Any more phone calls?”

  “No.” He imagined her shaking her head, her forehead wrinkling. “Have you found him?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” he admitted, “but he’s here, on the island. I can feel it. I just can’t prove it . . . yet.” He didn’t add that he’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of the bastard, but like smoke, Reece had disappeared before Dern could reach the spot where he’d seen him. He’d been riding near Sea Cliff. Dern had a feeling Reece was holed up in the old asylum, but there were just too many places to hide for Dern to find him or even where he was camping out. The trouble was that Reece knew the place like the back of his hand. Once Dern had proof that Reece was there, he would call the police. He just wouldn’t tell his mother until after the fact.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she begged, and Dern knew he’d have to lie. Again. Well, hell, he was getting good at it. Had years of practice.

  “I’ll do my best.”