The mayor started shaking his head, mumbling, “No, I can’t talk right now. I have places to go.”
“Heading to church to sing nice and loud with all your friends?” Jack inched closer, staring down at the mayor, his spine a mite straighter than it had been in a whole lotta years. “I am going to find out what you’re all up to. And I’ll tell you this: If any of you had anything to do with those missing girls, I will make sure you pay for it.”
“No!” the other man insisted, his eyes as round as tennis balls. “No, they’re just trashy little sluts, runaways, like you thought.”
“Including the Kirby girls?” he snapped.
“They’re not connected; they got nothin’ to do with us, don’tcha see? We never had them out t’ the club—wouldn’t do that. What kind of man would do that?” He was babbling now, scared and almost weepy. “The other ones, they’re just runaways, Jack. You gotta believe me!”
“The club?” he asked, zoning in on the words that most interested him. “What club would that be? And where? Is it someplace on Terrytown Road?”
“No, no, forget I said anything!”
“Too late.” He reached out and put a steadying hand on the other man’s shoulder, sensing he wanted to bolt. Certain Cunningham knew a lot more than he was ready to say, he decided to try another tactic. “Look, Mayor, we both know something bad is happening here in our town. People are being hurt. We don’t want that, do we? Neither of us.”
The older man’s chest puffed out. “No, of course we don’t!” He wagged an index finger in Jack’s face. “You find the awful man who did that to those beautiful Kirby girls last night.”
“When I do,” Jack murmured, “am I going to find out he spent the earlier part of the evening with you in that van? As I recall, you were all back in town by eight thirty. Plenty of time for anybody to stalk the twins.”
The mayor hesitated, his jowly chin trembling. “You can’t think . . .”
“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. “But I do know there are a whole lot of people with some ugly secrets around here. If any of those secrets can help me figure out what’s been happening to all those girls, believe me, I will not stop digging until I uncover them.”
The mayor’s bushy brow drew down over his eyes as he tried to reassert some kind of authority. “You’re not paid to dig into people’s private business.”
Jack stepped closer until their faces were mere inches apart and his hand tightened on the other man’s shoulder. His voice not much more than a whisper, he said, “And neither one of us is paid to let anybody get away with murder.”
Their stares locked. Looking at the mayor’s face, he’d swear he saw fear and cowardice. But murder? Serial murder? It seemed impossible.
“You do some thinking,” he said, stepping away, speaking in a normal tone of voice. “And I’ll be by later so we can talk some more.”
That seemed to be enough for Mayor Bobby Cunningham. Without another word, he spun around and left the alcove. Hearing the
whoosh
of the sliding-glass doors, he didn’t suppose the man had even waited for them to open all the way before he’d stormed out into the sunshine, probably beelining for his cronies to ask them what he should say.
Hopefully, the mayor’s panic would spread and one of the members of their so-called club would get nervous enough to talk.
Tucking his notebook into his pocket, Jack headed out, too, but he didn’t make it quite as far as the mayor had. Because as he turned the corner of the alcove, he saw two people standing behind a nearby column, eyeing him.
The reporter, Lexie Nolan, and her moody boyfriend. Christ Almighty, just what he needed. If they hadn’t eavesdropped on his conversation with the mayor, he’d eat his own shoe.
He put a hand up, ready to tell her he had no comment, but before he could do so, the dark-haired man with those fierce, gray eyes spoke. “Chief, if you really want to get to the bottom of what’s happening around here, maybe you and I should go somewhere and talk.”
Jack hesitated.
“We heard some of what you said,” Lexie admitted. Though frowning, her eyes were perhaps not quite as hard as he was used to. “I have to admit, I’ve been wondering if you were one of
them
. But I guess not.”
Stung, he shot back, “I’m a member of the Granville Police Department, young lady. That’s the only group I’m a member of.”
She and the man exchanged a look, as if they weren’t sure whether they could trust an officer of the law. Jack bristled for a moment, then forced himself to calm down, knowing he hadn’t given this woman much reason to trust him. He regretted that now, not that this was the time or place to talk about that.
“If you have information that can help me solve this case, I’d like to hear it, Mr . . . ?”
“McConnell. Aidan McConnell.”
He thought for a second, then placed the name. An angry sigh left his mouth and he prepared to push past them. “Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t have time to deal with phony psychics who play on people’s fears and superstitions.”
“We were at their clubhouse,” Lexie said. She stepped closer, putting a hand on his arm. “We know what they do there; we know who they bring there. We also think we know which girl actually died there.” Her stare unwavering, she added, “I suspect some of her bones are probably locked up in your office right this minute.”
Hesitating, wondering if she was going to accuse him of something, he looked back and forth between the couple. They said nothing, merely waiting, leaving the ball in his court.
He considered it. The psychic stuff might be all hooey, but if they really had been out snooping around and had found something, he wanted to know about it.
“All right,” he told them. “Let’s go talk. But fast—I want to get back out to the crime scene.”
The stranger bent to kiss Lexie’s temple. “I know you’re anxious to go find Walter and his wife. Let me do this and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Turning her face up to him, she nodded, which enabled Jack to get a better look at those bruises on her neck. He cleared his throat, mumbling, “Sorry if I was a little gruff with you yesterday.”
She waved off the apology. “Now that I know you’re not completely corrupt, I can forgive and forget.”
Corrupt
. Damn the woman was mouthy. But she was also injured, frightened, and visibly exhausted. So he let it slide.
“I’ll see you soon,” she told her friend. “I imagine Walter and Ann-Marie are up in ICU.”
Confused, Jack tilted his head. “Why would you think that?”
“I just figured, since she’s been here all night . . . Oh God, is she still in surgery?”
The woman hadn’t heard. She’d come here thinking she would be helping a friend watch over his hospitalized child.
He didn’t know Lexie Nolan well, but he did know she was very close to the Kirbys. She must have been out of touch; otherwise he felt pretty damn sure Walter would have called her and told her the whole story.
“Well? Where is she? They didn’t transfer her, did they?” she asked.
Jack couldn’t hide his sympathetic frown.
Seeing it, the boyfriend made a small sound, grasping the truth, then put a hand on Lexie’s shoulder. “Lex?” he murmured.
Her mouth trembled, and Jack could hear the quick, deep breaths the feisty young reporter was sucking in through her mouth as the possibilities began to flood her mind.
He doubted any of them were as bad as the real thing.
“Where
is
she?”
With genuine regret, he told her the truth. “I’m sorry, Ms. Nolan. But the little Kirby girl isn’t in ICU, or in surgery. She’s downstairs. In the morgue.”
Chapter 14
Sunday, 10:30 a.m.
Aidan couldn’t leave her.
He wanted to talk to Chief Dunston, but there was no way he was going to send Lexie to the morgue by herself to console her friends, whose daughter had just been murdered.
Murder. It didn’t touch many lives, but when it touched yours, you never got over it. This day would never leave Lexie’s memory.
After they’d heard the awful news, she had nearly collapsed. He’d taken her into his arms and held her while she sobbed, feeling her tears soak his shoulder and her body quake with to-the-bone grief. Asking Dunston if he could come to the crime scene later, he’d pulled Lexie to a bench in the alcove and stayed there with her for the past twenty minutes, offering his support, which was all he could do.
“She was just a girl,” she kept repeating, “just a sweet, wonderful girl.”
Several times she’d added, “Goddamn it, I don’t even know
which
girl.”
According to Dunston, nobody did. Before he’d left, he’d told them the Kirbys had been downstairs all night, refusing to leave, even after admitting they couldn’t identify the body. He didn’t know that he’d ever heard anything more brutal. A father and mother could not even tell which of their daughters was lying dead on a slab in the morgue.
Lexie had mumbled something about a birthmark, but Aidan had to assume there was some kind of problem with that, otherwise the victim would surely have been ID’d. He hadn’t questioned her about it, though, knowing Lexie needed to accept the truth of it before getting lost in the ugly, minute details. Dunston had told him a state expert was coming down later today to conduct an autopsy; perhaps that would resolve the issue.
Finally, when she seemed able to stand again, she said, “Okay. Let’s go find Walter and Ann- Marie.”
“You’re sure?” he asked.
She nodded, then pushed herself to her feet. When he did the same, she leaned in to him for a moment, taking a deep breath. Also, he knew, taking a little strength for the ordeal to come.
Putting an arm around her shoulders, he walked with her down the quiet corridors of Granville Memorial Hospital. She moved slowly, trudging, as if already in a funeral march. Her eyes were still moist, but mingled with her obvious grief was worry—for the parents, for the younger sisters. And still that hint of guilt she couldn’t push away, the fear that she had brought this hellish punishment down on her boss’s family.
He couldn’t make her believe that wasn’t true; she was smart enough that she’d accept it herself eventually. Aidan also had to wonder, though, if her boss ever would. The man was likely carrying that same cross. He’d made the decision to run Lexie’s articles in the first place. Plus, he had been the one to push Lexie into going back to the story she’d already abandoned.
Steeling himself for his meeting with a man who’d just lost his child, he reminded himself that this was far different than the last time. Walter Kirby was, according to everything he’d heard, a wonderful, loving man. Nothing like Ted Remington. Still, he couldn’t prevent himself from keeping a protective arm across Lexie’s shoulders when they reached the entrance to the morgue. He didn’t think Kirby would be the type to lash out and blame anybody else he could, but he wasn’t taking any chances and wanted to be able to hustle Lexie out of there if necessary.
When they pushed open the swinging doors into the small, stark waiting area, and a red-faced, middle-aged man looked up and saw them there, he realized it wasn’t going to be necessary. Because the man—Walter Kirby—slowly rose, tears streaming down his face, and opened his arms to her.
Lexie flew into them. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” When Mrs. Kirby rose from where she’d been sitting and embraced Lexie as well, she said them again.
“Our baby girl, Lex, she’s gone. He hurt her . . . he hurt her so much,” Walter said, every word stumbling on a tiny sob.
Aidan remained away from them, not wanting to intrude, but he listened to the conversation, all his focus on finding out who had done this. Not having known the family, he was the only one able to separate himself from the grief of this awful thing enough to think only about the case. And on finding the other teenage girls whose lives were still at stake.
“We don’t know her; we can’t tell. Our baby, and we can’t tell,” Kirby said, his voice breaking as he buried his face in a handkerchief.
Lexie, her face wet with fresh tears, asked, “Why? I don’t understand.” Her voice tentative, as if she feared upsetting them, she asked, “Taylor’s birthmark?”
Walter turned away, his big body racked with fresh sobs. It was the pale, quiet wife who explained, her voice as brittle as chipped ice. “He cut her throat, gouged at her. More than once. If there was a birthmark there, well, it isn’t there anymore.”
Lexie swayed a little and the last bit of color dropped out of her face. “Oh no.”
Mrs. Kirby wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. “I could always tell them apart, even without that birthmark. Always, from the time they were young.” A sound that was half laugh, half sob emerged from her mouth. “By their smiles, their moods, the way they talked, the way they carried themselves.” She shook her head back and forth, again and again, muttering, “But not now. Not now. My beautiful girl, everything that made her who she was is gone and I see just a shell of my child. And I don’t even know which one.”
“It’s wrong,” Walter said, his back still to all of them.
“Wrong on every level to not know which daughter to mourn and which one to hope might still have a chance to come home.” Leaning over, he put a hand on the wall, flat, his fingers spread, as if needing to hold himself up. “I can’t even go into the chapel and pray because I don’t know which one I’m praying for.”
Lexie walked over to her friend and put a hand on his shoulder. “Taylor and Jenny were part of each other. Two halves of a whole. No matter which name you use, you’re praying for
both
of them.”
The man turned to look at her, his shoulders relaxing a little, though he remained unable to speak. His wife, who had lowered herself into a chair a foot from where Aidan stood, looked up at him and raised a curious eyebrow. Aidan squatted down in front of her and introduced himself, adding, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re the psychic who has been working to find this evil man.”
“Yes,” he replied.