Jack of Diamonds Page 15

  Even as he dialed, Jack admonished himself, You can’t ask her over the phone. It was going to kill Marisa that he was even considering the possibility, but he had to ask. For Alice.

  Out in the hallway, a phone rang.

  Jack stared at the door.

  The phone in the hallway chimed once more and went silent. Jack looked down at his phone. The call had been terminated. His stomach fell like a stone. Jack walked over to the front door and opened it. Marisa stood there with her phone in her hands. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. Her cheeks were flushed, and Jack was sure it wasn’t from climbing the stairs. She sauntered into the apartment, reaching back and closing the door with one hand while never taking her eyes off him.

  “You sensed me.” Her voice smoldered.

  Jack swallowed and backed up. It took two tries but he finally found his voice. “I needed to speak with you.”

  “I know.” Marisa stepped closer. “I knew when you were leaving there was something you needed to say to me. What is it?”

  Jack bumped into the recliner and stopped. Marisa stood inches from him. Her large brown eyes searched his. Pain? Pleasure? Happy? Sad?

  Bittersweet.

  “I’m an artist. You suspect me?” The fingertips of her left hand touched the tips of his right.

  “Always watching. Never seen,” Jack whispered.

  Marisa raised an eyebrow. “What an artist should be doing.”

  “You said that to me when you came out of the bedroom at the hotel.”

  She nodded. “Yes. And?”

  “That’s the opening of the poem the killer left for Alice.” Jack’s mouth ran dry.

  Marisa’s chuckle grew into a laugh. “Please forgive me.” She grabbed his hand and interlaced her fingers with his. “I was coming here worried I might have to kill you.”

  Jack’s breath caught in his throat.

  Marisa laughed harder and held his hand up to her face and kissed it. “I understand now. I totally understand.”

  “Then can you explain it to me? Because I don’t.”

  Lady’s claws clicked off the floor as she stood up and shook out her coat.

  “After I made the sketch,” Marisa said, “I saw it in your face. It was a look I’d never seen before. Distrust. It hurt.”

  “I’m sorry. But . . . it was more than that.”

  “‘An artist should be always watching, never seen.’ It’s a very well-known quote. Source unknown. It’s written on the front of my sketchpad and millions of others.”

  Jack’s eyes widened.

  Marisa smiled. “You believe me now?”

  “Of course I do.” But his mind raced.

  Marisa stepped closer, wrapped her arms around Jack’s waist, and hugged him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Lady growled.

  “What is it about Alice?” Marisa asked softly. “Even Lady is protective of her.”

  Jack nodded, lost in thought. Marisa had read that quote off the sketchpad; there was a possibility the killer had, too. Maybe they purchased it recently? How many places in Darrington sold paper like that? Was there a sketchpad in the art supplies the killer left behind in the house?

  Jack’s heart started to beat even faster, rousing him from his concentration. Marisa placed her hands on Jack’s lower back and he forced himself to step away from the flame, his mind now laser-focused on Alice.

  “That was fun while it lasted.” She leaned towards him and smiled. “But from the look on your face, I’ve already lost you.”

  Jack nodded. “I love Alice and I want to marry her, Marisa. I wish you would just accept it.”

  The beauty released a resounding laugh. “I meant, I’ve already lost you to your thoughts . . . you’re chasing the killer in your mind.” She turned to face him. “And I am trying to accept that you have chosen Alice, but until you say ‘I do,’ there is still a chance. I’ve been honest with you, Jack.”

  “You have to try harder. And cool it with the touching.”

  Marisa cast another smoldering look at Jack.

  “And absolutely no more of that! Try to help me here, will you? Please?” His brown eyes pleaded with the vixen to behave herself.

  “Fine.” Marisa sighed.

  “Tell me, where did you get that sketchpad?”

  “An art store on Fifth Avenue.”

  “How many art stores are there in Darrington?”

  “It’s the only one in town. You can buy art supplies other places, but The Drawing Place is the one for serious artists. That sketchpad was very high-end. I doubt any other place sells it.”

  “That’s fantastic. Do—”

  Jack’s phone buzzed, bringing him back to reality. He pulled it out of his pocket. It was a text from the sheriff.

  Come to my office ASAP. I need to speak with you about Channel 5 News.

  Jack’s jubilation came crashing down. Color drained from his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Marisa asked.

  “I went behind the sheriff’s back on something. Now he knows.”

  30

  Jack parked the Charger in the sheriff’s department visitor parking lot and read his text from Alice.

  SOMETHING BIG HAPPENED! GREAT NEWS. WHEN WILL U B HOME?

  Jack texted back, TALK 2 U 2NIGHT. GOOD NEWS WELCOME.

  He added a heart emoji. No use bringing Alice’s good mood down, but the veins in his temple were throbbing as he got out of the car and marched toward the front doors. Had Paula betrayed his trust? If she had, Morrison would definitely remove him from the investigation. Jack could think of no other way that Morrison could know about Channel 5 already. The news story hadn’t broken yet. It wasn’t set to air for another hour.

  Jack walked through the entrance, greeting old friends with a nod but heading straight for Morrison’s office without stopping. Through the office window, Jack saw the sheriff at his desk, with two people seated on the other side, Special Agent Frank Thomas and Channel 5’s Paula Thompson.

  Jack clenched his jaw. He should’ve known better than to trust a reporter. Now he was going to get kicked off the investigation, and with Paula sitting in Morrison’s office, was she even going to run the story?

  The look on Morrison’s face was grim as he waved Jack toward the empty seat.

  Thomas was seething, and besides a curt nod he didn’t so much as glance at Jack. He couldn’t read Paula’s poker-face mask. She gave him a tight-lipped smile before looking back at Morrison.

  “We need to discuss these,” Morrison said as he laid out the sketches of the three unidentified women on his desk—the originals, sealed in plastic.

  Jack sat down and kept his mouth closed. Whenever he found himself in a situation where he was jammed up, he fully utilized his right to remain silent. He’d learned that as a little kid, when he was constantly in trouble. He understood that Morrison was waiting for Jack to confess; it was one of the first things they taught you at the police academy. Ask open-ended questions like, Do you understand why I pulled you over? And you hope the guy will say, I was speeding because I’m nervous because I have a kilo of cocaine in the trunk.

  But Jack never volunteered the rope to hang himself.

  Morrison reached forward and tapped the blood-splattered picture. “Rebecca Hershberger.”

  Jack crossed his arms, confused. How did Morrison find the woman without the news story airing?

  Morrison’s shoulders slumped. “She was reported missing this morning by her niece. I’ve reached out to Paula to have Channel 5 air the other two sketches and ask for help in identifying the two unknown women.”

  Paula turned to Jack, and now he picked up on what she was trying to convey with her poker face: Don’t say anything.

  “We’re happy to assist the police for the sake of public safety at all times,” Paula answered diplomatically. “We should be able to get them on the air within an hour.”

  “That quickly?” Morrison asked.

  Paula nodded. “My team is fast. And I h
ope you’ll see it as a peace offering. Do you have an official statement that you want to make?”

  Morrison held out his hand toward Thomas. “Frank, please explain your approach to Paula.”

  Thomas nodded. “I’ve finished with the profile of the killer. There’s only one common thread connecting any of them.” Thomas turned to Jack. “Jack Stratton.”

  “Me?” Jack shook his head. “The only woman in those sketches that I know is Alice.”

  “That’s not true. I’ll explain once we’ve finished with Paula, but we need to get this story to air as soon as possible.”

  Yesterday you wouldn’t even think of going to a reporter, and now the media can’t move fast enough for you? Jack wanted to point out Thomas’s hypocrisy, but he held his tongue, well aware he was walking a thin line in this case.

  Thomas turned back to Paula. “Right now, we don’t want to mention the possibility of a serial killer. We can’t start a panic.” Jack nodded in agreement.

  “My report can simply say that we want to find these women and that they might be in danger,” Paula said, echoing Jack’s earlier words to her. “That way we stress the importance of finding them quickly while not causing a riot.”

  “Good. We also don’t want to feed this sociopath’s ego. So, don’t mention the other missing women. The only other thing that I want to be sure you mention is that Jack Stratton has been brought in to assist in the investigation.”

  “Do you want me to report that Jack is helping the police?”

  “Not just report it—really play it up. Say he’s instrumental in this investigation.”

  “As a consultant?” Paula scribbled a quick note.

  “No. Something more.” Thomas looked to Morrison.

  “A special consultant?” Morrison offered. “Private investigator?”

  Thomas clicked his fingers. “No. Refer to him as Detective Jack Stratton.”

  “I’m not a detective,” Jack pointed out.

  Thomas continued looking at Morrison. “You’re the sheriff. You can deputize him.”

  “Wouldn’t that make him a deputy?” Paula asked.

  “No,” said Morrison. “Technically, under posse comitatus, I can deputize people for a number of different roles. I’ve never heard it done for detective, but it’s within my power.”

  “Then it’s settled. Detective Jack Stratton. You need to repeat that at least half a dozen times.” Thomas was smiling now, clearly pleased with his plan.

  Jack was pleased, too. Detective Jack Stratton. From the time he was a little boy, he’d dreamed of hearing those words. And now it was official. Finally.

  After working out the call-in numbers and when the reports would run, Paula thanked everyone, gave Jack a quick look, and left.

  “We’ve gone to the news station, Stratton,” Thomas said as he shut the door. “Honestly, I’m a bit surprised you didn’t beat us to it.”

  “Let’s not start this out on the wrong foot, Frank.” Morrison indicated for Thomas to sit back down. “Why don’t you tell Jack what you’ve found out?”

  Thomas turned his chair so it was angled toward Jack before sitting down. “You’re the key, Stratton. I’m certain of it. I’ve found a link between you and four of the women.”

  Jack sat back in his seat. “Can you explain expound that? I don’t recall ever meeting any of them, other than Alice of course.”

  “Alice is the first. Second is Delores Gill. You served in Iraq with her son. Martin Gill.”

  “Gill . . .” Jack racked his brain for any memory of a Gill, Gilly, Marty, or Martin. He couldn’t recall anyone. “He was in my unit?”

  “No. Your battalion.”

  “There were close to eight hundred men in my battalion. Was he in my company?”

  “We’re pulling the records on that.” Thomas picked up his tablet. “Third: Olivia Hastings. You pulled her over for speeding two years ago.” He turned the tablet around so Jack could see the photo.

  Olivia was an older woman with a pleasant smile and a surprisingly flattering license photo. Jack didn’t remember her.

  “I gave her a ticket?”

  “A written warning. She drove a white Audi.”

  “I don’t recall her or the car. I gave out hundreds of tickets.”

  “The fourth woman was a substitute teacher in your grade school.” Thomas picked out another photograph on his tablet and showed it to Jack. It was a hawk-nosed woman with close-set eyes and bushy eyebrows. “Wanda Peterson.”

  “Witchy Wanda,” Jack said.

  “What?” Morrison asked.

  “Sorry. It’s kinda mean,” Jack admitted. “That’s what the kids called her. She was a recess monitor and used to scare the kids.”

  “You do remember her?” Thomas started taking notes.

  Jack nodded. “I do now. The sketch looks completely different from how I remember her, giving everyone the evil eye at recess. My friend Chandler and I snuck out of recess to get something at home one time. Wanda saw us in the woods and chased after us for a quarter of a mile.”

  “Did she catch you?” Morrison asked.

  “No.” Jack had to stifle a chuckle. “She got stuck in the middle of this briar patch, then fell in a big mud puddle on the way back to the school. She wasn’t completely sure it was me she was chasing, but she had it in for me after that.”

  “So she held a grudge?” Thomas asked.

  “Not for twenty years.” Jack shook his head. “I just meant the rest of the school year if something happened, she would say, ‘It must have been Jack. He’s always been a troublemaker.’”

  “She was right on that,” Morrison said under his breath.

  Jack shot him a look, though he had no leg to stand on when it came to his own defense.

  The sheriff shrugged. “I’m just saying that considering how you are as an adult, you must have been a real handful as a child.”

  Jack looked at the two men in turn. “So, I gave one woman a ticket and I embarrassed another,” Jack said. “Not much to go on. What did I do to the third one? You said her son served with me, but I don’t even remember him.”

  “He didn’t make it home,” Thomas said simply.

  The words hit Jack like a punch in the gut. Survivor’s guilt seemed to always be close at hand, and now it pounced. He pressed his hand down on his knee in a vain effort to stop it from shaking.

  “Well, that’s all news to me, but I might have figured out part of the poem,” Jack blurted out as his fingernails dug in, adding pain to pressure. “‘Always watching. Never seen.’ It turns out to be a well-known quote by an unknown author that’s written on high-end sketchpads sold at The Drawing Place on Fifth Avenue. We should compare the paper and tear patterns to the sketches found in the house and see if we can get a list of anyone they were sold to recently.”

  “We will.” Thomas typed a note. “Do you have one of those pads?”

  “No. I was going to stop by The Drawing Place, but then I got Bob’s text.”

  “How did you find out about the quote?” Thomas asked.

  “I have a friend who’s an artist.”

  Morrison’s eyes widened and Thomas picked up on the shocked look. “Who’s the friend?” Thomas asked.

  “Marisa Vitagliano,” Jack replied.

  Thomas tilted his head to Morrison. “She was kidnapped last year, wasn’t she?”

  Morrison nodded.

  Thomas’s fingers danced across the tablet.

  Jack’s foot was doing a jig, and no matter how hard he pressed down or how tightly he squeezed his knee, he couldn’t stop the growing tremor.

  “She has nothing to do with it,” he said. “But I know my saying so won’t stop you from looking into it.” He stood. “I need to get some air.” That was all he could manage before heading out the door. Both Morrison and Thomas said something in reply, but Jack didn’t hear them. His sole focus was on the front doors and getting outside. He bumped against a counter, sidestepped a young couple, and shoved
the doors apart.

  Sweat rolled down his back and made his shirt cling to his skin as he gulped the crisp spring air and tried to drive the images of the dead and dying out of his mind. Guilt had torn him up so many times before, but every time those old scars reopened and bled. And the question that had no answer came rushing back.

  Why did I live?

  He gripped the metal railing and let the cold burn his hand. Closing his eyes, he embraced the pain and let the guilt wash over him. He couldn’t lose it. Not now. A killer was hunting Alice.

  And only Jack could stop him.

  31

  Alice paced back and forth as she waited for a knock at the door. When at last it came, she started toward it nervously.

  Kendra cut her off. “I’ll answer it.”

  “Please don’t tell me that you’re going to frisk them,” Alice said, only half joking, though she quickly added, “They’re family.”

  Kendra peered through the peephole, then opened the door. Alex and Yana stood outside, clearly surprised at being greeted by a police officer. Though their smiles still beamed.

  “Hi,” Alice said with a wave. “Sorry about the crowd. Come on in.”

  Alex and Yana exchanged nervous looks, but their smiles returned when Alice gave them both a quick hug.

  “Alex, Yana, this is Kendra, Shawna, Bobbie, Boomer, and Erica. Everyone, this is my great-uncle Alex and his daughter, Yana.”

  Alex grinned broadly. “So nice to meet you all.”

  After hands were shaken and pleasantries exchanged, an awkward silence filled the room.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Alice said, looking around for an unoccupied seat.

  “They can sit here.” Shawna prodded Bobbie and Boomer to get up from the couch.

  “We can stand,” Alex said.

  “Nonsense.” Shawna shook her head. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” both Yana and Alex replied.

  “Tell you what.” Shawna put her hands on her hips and looked at the crowded room. “Why don’t you guys have a little visit and we’ll all go into the kitchen.”

  Kendra raised an eyebrow, but Shawna didn’t back down. “Alice needs a minute with her family.”