You Don't Want To Know

  “I’m telling you I didn’t do it,” he said for the fifth time. “I didn’t kill any of those women. Hell, I didn’t even know two of them! You’re just trying to pin them on me cuz it’s easier than finding the real killer!”

  The detective was calm. Listening. Pretending to go along but persistent.

  “You can ask me the same damned question a thousand times, and the answer isn’t going to change. I didn’t do any of ’em.” He was getting agitated now, his yellow teeth visible, his bloodless lips curled in a snarl beneath his graying beard. He stared into the mirror as if he knew Dern was watching.

  “What about Noah Church?”

  “Who?”

  “The boy who went missing from the island a couple of years ago.”

  “What about him?”

  “You know what happened to the boy?”

  “What? Are you fuckin’ nuts? No, damn it! I had nothin’ to do with that. Nothin’!” Reece was vehement.

  “What do you know about him?” the detective asked calmly.

  “I told you, nothin’!”

  “Are you his biological father?”

  “What?” Stunned, he was shaking his head violently, his long, wild hair shimmying with his denial. “Shit, no! What the fuck’s goin’ on here?”

  “But you were involved with Jewel-Anne Church?”

  “I knew her. Yeah, at the hospital. But I didn’t fuck her. Big difference! Jesus H. Christ! You people are sick!”

  “Why not?”

  “What? Why didn’t I get into her pants? Hell, I didn’t want to, not there at the hospital. Her old man woulda killed me. Or worse.” Then his expression changed and he looked slyly at the mirror. “But, you know, she wanted it. Wanted me to fuck her. Teased the hell out of me.” He was nodding now, eyes bright. “She flashed me a couple of times, let me see her tits. Nice ones, by the way.”

  “But you didn’t—”

  “I said no, damn it! What do ya need? A DNA test? Then let’s do it!” A muscle worked frantically beneath his beard. “I might be crazy, but I’m not that nuts!”

  “Same diff.”

  “Listen, bitch,” Reece said, his anger exploding as Dern and six others watched through the glass. “I did not kill those women, and I didn’t fuck Jewel-Anne Church, and I’m sure as hell not that missing kid’s daddy! You got that? Don’t try to pin any of this on me.”

  “And don’t you disrespect me. Got it?” She stared him down, then once the stiffness left Reece’s shoulders, asked, “Do you know where he is?”

  “Who? What? You mean the kid? No!”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Probably dead by now. Who knows? What the hell is this?” Spittle had collected in the corners of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Detective Kim didn’t let up. “Tell me about Jewel-Anne Church, your relationship with her.”

  “I already told you, she came around when I was in the hospital. Fascinated by the killer-freak, I guess. I don’t know. Anyway, she hinted that she’d let me do her, you know?” He was nodding, making an obscene gesture with his hands. “She even went so far as to help me escape; she’d found her daddy’s keys, the ones he thought he’d lost.” His eyes glittered. “One of the reasons he got fired, y’know. Losing his keys and not botherin’ to change the fuckin’ locks. She still has—had—’em.”

  “So she helped you escape and you went where?”

  “Where do ya think? She got me off the island, gave me some cash, and I took off. Open water to Canada.”

  “Why’d you come back?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Come on, Reece, what is it? Things get too hot for you up north?” When the prisoner didn’t respond, Kim said, “If I call the Canadian authorities, am I gonna find out that some other women died suspiciously? Had their throats slit?”

  “No!” Reece slammed his fist onto the table, making the recorder jump. His face was mottled with an anger he couldn’t quite suppress. He seemed on the verge of spilling his guts, battling an inner war. Just when Dern thought he would crack, Reece said, “I want a friggin’ lawyer!” Then, glaring past the detective’s shoulder, he stared at the mirror. “That’s right, you bastards,” he said to those hidden behind the glass. “You hear me? I know my rights, and I’m not saying anything more until you get me my lawyer. You remember him? C. Robert Cresswell? Get him!”

  Everyone who knew anything about Reece recognized the name of the attorney who had helped Reece avoid prison by getting him committed to Sea Cliff instead.

  Reece turned his attention back to the woman interrogating him and said, “So until Cresswell gets here, you all can sit tight. I’m not saying another fuckin’ word.”

  CHAPTER 45

  “We can’t hold her any longer,” Snyder said outside the interrogation room where he and Lyons had been questioning Ava Garrison. The station had become a madhouse with the capture of Lester Reece, the phone lines jangling, conversation buzzing, and more cops called into duty. The air seemed to crackle with electricity and excitement.

  Through it all, he and Lyons had tried to break Ava Garrison’s story.

  They’d failed. Tripping her up had proved an impossible task as the woman who was supposed to be mentally fragile, a “basket case” in some references, had proven to be tough as nails. They’d learned little more than they already knew. Despite hours of grilling, she’d stuck to her guns. She didn’t know how the knife had gotten into her room and had seemed shocked when confronted with it. Though they’d found one long strand of black hair from the wig that had been discovered on Jewel-Anne’s head (and probably like the hairs found at the other two crime scenes), she’d sworn she’d never seen it before.

  Even though she’d been the last one to see Cheryl Reynolds alive, had accused Evelyn McPherson of having an affair with her husband, and had gotten into a physical altercation with her cousin the night before, the evidence they’d collected against her was still merely circumstantial.

  Nothing solid connecting her to the crimes.

  The knife that was probably the murder weapon that had been found in her room had no prints on it, and her alibis were still holding up. Snyder could only imagine what a field day any defense lawyer worth his salt would have if they ever went to trial. With so many people living in and around Neptune’s Gate, any number of individuals could have planted the knife and the strand of hair from the wig. Whoever had killed Jewel-Anne Church wanted that link made; they’d left her wearing the fake hair so that the police would connect the dots.

  And then there was her wild-ass story about Jewel-Anne gaslighting her, making her think she was going out of her mind. When pressed about the fight with her cousin, Ava had insisted Jewel-Anne and Lester Reece were the biological parents of her child (a fact she’d conveniently forgotten with her hospitalization) and that her crippled cousin, though confined to a wheelchair, had somehow set up an elaborate scheme to make her think she was hearing and seeing her missing son and thereby sending her into fits of paranoia.

  Craziest shit he’d ever heard. But she claimed to have video proof. He’d see. Even videos could be altered though he doubted Ava Garrison would go to all that trouble. But, who knew?

  And the thought of Lester Reece fathering a kid gave him chills.

  “You don’t think she did it?” Lyons asked, perturbed. Leaning one shoulder against the hallway wall, she looked as tired as he felt. It had been a long night that had bled into an even longer day.

  “All I know is we can’t hold her,” Snyder answered.

  “Sure we can. For a while.”

  “To what? Break her? Save her from killing someone else?”

  “Yes!” Lyons said vehemently.

  “She could ask for a lawyer.”

  “Let her.”

  Snyder rubbed his chin, felt a bit of stubble and wished the case was more clear-cut. Then again, he always did.

  “Motive, opportunity, and means,” she pointed out
as an officer leading a prisoner in cuffs pushed past them, and the captive, a guy in jeans nearly falling off his skinny ass, a wet hoodie, and tattoos crawling up his neck slid an appreciative glance in Lyons’s direction. She didn’t seem to notice.

  Snyder did.

  But he ignored it and said, “The weapon has no fingerprints on it.”

  “But maybe some blood transfer? Could be that when the blood on the blade is analyzed, we’ll come up with the DNA of the victim—or, I suspect victims—and the killer.”

  “That’ll take time.”

  She snorted and dug in the purse hanging from her shoulder. “I say we arrest her. Shake her up.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why? Because she’s rich and can hire the best damned defense attorney around?” Lyons charged, frustrated. She located a rubber band and with the dexterity of years of practice began pulling her unruly hair into a ponytail.

  “That’s something to think about, yeah. But the main thing is, we just don’t have enough to hold her.”

  Lyons rolled her eyes as she snapped her hair into place, a couple of curls already escaping. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. After busting our hump trying to find out who killed these women, you’re going to let her walk. Hell, Snyder, I swear I have more balls than you sometimes!” And with that she marched off.

  Ouch! His male ego stung a bit, but he couldn’t give it much thought. He had too much to do, and he was so caught up in the case he almost didn’t notice how Lyons’s jeans hugged her buttocks as she stormed off. Or the way the newly formed ponytail bounced against her back with each of her quick strides.

  Almost.

  Like it or not, it was time to release Ava Garrison to the free world. Her husband was already here, making a fuss, demanding she speak with a criminal defense attorney. Freedom wasn’t going to be much fun for her, he surmised, because the press was already going nuts. For the moment, they would concentrate on Lester Reece and his rich family and attorney. But the circle would widen quickly, like ripples in a pond when a stone skipped over the surface, and Ava Garrison would soon be of high interest. Her lost son was now rumored to be fathered by one of Washington State’s most renowned criminals, and she was the woman at the center of an investigation where three local women had been brutally murdered, one of the victims supposedly the biological mother of Ava Church’s missing son.

  Oh, yeah, the fun had just started.

  The way Snyder saw it, Ava Garrison would step out of the station a free woman and end up imprisoned on her island by the media.

  He made his way to his cubicle and tried to ignore the general buzz of excitement in the hallways and offices of the station, wouldn’t let the almost-giddy sense of accomplishment infect him.

  Once at his desk, he grabbed his mouse and clicked on his computer. Within seconds, he was studying the crime scene photos of Jewel-Anne Church and scratching notes to himself. The dolls bothered him a lot. Why go to all the trouble? No way would Lester Reece have done such a thing, nor Ava Church, but someone was making a point, probably about Jewel-Anne’s fascination with dolls, which maybe stemmed from giving up her real baby? Who knew. He let that train of thought go and concentrated on another puzzle.

  Why would the killer leave the wig if he planned on more homicides, more victims? Obviously parts of it were left purposefully at the previous crime scenes, so was leaving the wig some sort of message? With Jewel-Anne Church’s death, was his work finished? Again he came back to the mutilated dolls. Were they payback for the doll that had been buried? Nothing was quite holding together.

  Maybe Lester Reece could set the record straight. These current homicides weren’t too far off from the murders that he’d committed years before. Only problem: the man, holed up under the old asylum all this time, didn’t appear capable of killing anything more than a passing rat that might have haunted the old hospital.

  Then again, he told himself, looks could be deceiving. And he did have a helluva fight with Austin Dern.

  To get another perspective, Snyder decided to head down the hallway and listen in on the interview, see what old Lester had to say for himself.

  It might just be interesting.

  “Go on inside,” Wyatt said as he cut the engine. “I’ll put the boat away.”

  Good! Ava couldn’t get out of the boat fast enough. The silent, nerve-wracking ride across the bay had been bad enough. Accusations had hung in the air, silently stretching thin over the whine of the boat’s powerful engine, so Ava wasn’t going to spend an extra second alone with her husband.

  Outside the boathouse, with the cold night as a shroud around her, she stared at the house she’d once loved. Looming dark above the tidewaters, Neptune’s Gate seemed more monstrosity than sanctuary. Never had it appeared less like her home.

  A few lights glowed bright in the gloom, but they weren’t enough to lift her spirits. There had been just too much tragedy and trauma in the last twenty-four hours. Two days ago, Jewel-Anne had been alive, tormenting her; now she would never see her cousin again, never be irritated by her humming wheelchair and catty remarks, never wish Jewel-Anne would find another artist to idolize—Michael Jackson, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, anyone other than Elvis . . . not that it mattered any longer.

  Walking toward the house, she rotated her neck, trying to loosen the stiffness that had settled in her muscles. She’d been up for what seemed days and had been interrogated at the sheriff’s office for hours. Eventually they’d released her, and Wyatt, ever the doting if straying husband, had insisted upon ferrying her back to the island. During the voyage, he’d tried to make conversation, but she hadn’t felt like yelling over the roar of the boat’s engine, and truth to tell, she was sick of pretending at the marriage as well.

  It was over.

  They both knew it.

  The rain that had been pelting earlier had subsided, leaving a soft mist that seemed to cling to the streetlamps and thicken the air. She looked toward the lights of Monroe. Only the market was still open at this hour, its neon beer sign glowing through the gathering fog. The island seemed a sad, lonely place tonight. Hands in her coat pockets, she walked past the dock where she’d jumped into the bay and wondered why she’d been so certain she’d seen her son standing on this very dock. How willing and broken had her mind been?

  Her heart wrenched when she thought of Noah. From what she’d heard, most of it through Wyatt, Lester Reece had denied having taken the boy or knowing where he was. Was the killer telling the truth? Or had he done the unthinkable, and after all this time she’d have to face the horrid fact that her child was dead?

  Her throat clogged.

  She felt the sting of tears against her eyelids but refused to break down.

  Once she was strong again, after about forty-eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, she’d rethink things. Until then, she was too worn out to even rein in her thoughts.

  But first, the divorce. No matter how tired you are, tomorrow you’ll get yourself out of bed and make that call to your attorney.

  Rubbing the chill from her arms, she looked at the dock one last time and found it empty, stretching into the inky, roiling water. Tonight, and never again, would she see her son standing upon its edge.

  Now, as she took the path to the house, she realized her life with her son was only a distant, fading memory. Again the tears threatened; again she pushed them back. “Please be with him wherever he is,” she prayed, her breath fogging in the still night air, her heart in a million broken pieces.

  Maybe it’s time to leave the island. Start over.

  She passed the garden where the marker for her son had been uprooted, the tiny casket discovered, and if possible, her soul tore a little more.

  Could she actually let go of this house that had brought her so much heartache and pain? She’d be alone, because no matter what, she wasn’t going to try again with Wyatt.

  Walking through the front door, she shrugged out of her coat and tossed it onto the hall tree. The ho
use smelled of old coffee, cold ashes, and dying flowers but was thankfully quiet. After being barraged by the detectives all day, she needed silence, time to quiet the pounding in her head, space to sleep and forget.

  Other than the cat staring at her from the bench in the foyer, no one was around, and for that she was grateful. She heard Wyatt opening the back door. He had told her both Trent and Ian had left for the mainland earlier in the day, and Wyatt wasn’t certain they would return. Demetria, beside herself at Jewel-Anne’s death, had called one of her sisters, and now she was staying off the island for at least this night and probably only returning to gather her things. According to Wyatt, she planned to move permanently as soon as she secured new employment. Simon, Khloe, and Virginia were probably in their quarters and that left Dern. Would he stay on now that he’d located his half brother? Unlikely.

  Ava climbed the stairs but hesitated at the second-story landing. Instead of walking directly to her room, she made her way along the gallery to the back guest room, where she peered out the window. Through the fog, she saw the outline of the stable, but no light was glowing from an upstairs window. Dern was probably still off the island.

  Ridiculously, she felt more alone than she had.

  She couldn’t help remembering the feel of his arms around her. Or the kiss they’d shared. Had it been only twenty-four hours since she’d visited him? Only one day ago that Jewel-Anne had still been alive?

  She left the room and saw the nursery door ajar. Her insides wilted, but she forced herself to walk along the open landing and take hold of the knob and pull the door shut. Someday she’d have to clean out the room; she couldn’t forever hold it as a shrine.

  But not tonight.

  You can do this, Ava. You can. Somehow.

  She started for her room again, and as she walked along the open balcony, she glanced downstairs, to the first floor. Past the foyer, she noticed a slice of light against the marble, lamplight glowing from the den.

  Wyatt was probably too wound up to sleep.

  Good. No chance she would have to deal with him. Besides, she had the same problem. As exhausted as she was, she knew that sleep would be elusive, that her mind was bound to run in circles all night long. Already, images ranging from Jewel-Anne’s corpse to the interrogation room with the cops to Austin Dern and what it would be like to make love to him had been with her. No doubt images of Noah would creep into her mind as well. Wyatt, too, was likely to pepper her thoughts, keeping her awake despite her sleep deprivation.