Before She Dies (10 page)
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“How did she die?”
“She was drowned.”
“What? She doesn’t even swim. She hated the water and never goes near it.”
“That’s what the autopsy revealed.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone want to hurt Diane? She had her quirks, but she was kind.”
“Do you happen to know the password for her computer?” Rokov said.
“It’s 1985diane. The year she was born plus her name.”
“I’d like to have a look at her computer and see if I can open her e-mails.” The question was a courtesy. With or without her permission, he was going to look.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
As he rose, Suzanne moved to stand as well. “Why don’t you stay here with Officer Sinclair?”
Sadness and sincerity rolled off her. “I might be able to help.”
“I appreciate that. Really. But until I know what I have, it’s better that I have a look first.” He felt for Suzanne Young, but at this point he didn’t know much about her or her relationship with her sister. And until he understood the players, he’d maintain strict control.
As he moved down the hallway, Suzanne’s soft weeping followed him. He sat at Diane’s desk and typed in the password. It worked and in seconds the main desktop screen appeared.
The desktop had twenty folders. Tarot. Horoscope. Clients. The Star. Moon. It would take hours if not days to dig through all that she’d created.
He opted to open the e-mail and see who’d been talking directly to her. He hit
Get Mail
and waited for the latest messages to load. If Diane had been dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours, it had been at least that long since she’d checked her messages. It took nearly a minute for all the messages to load, and by the time the ticker had stopped counting, he had over one thousand two hundred unread messages. He sat back in his chair. The last time she’d checked messages had been Friday, October 15. She’d died on Monday night. Had the killer held her for three days?
Get Mail
and waited for the latest messages to load. If Diane had been dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours, it had been at least that long since she’d checked her messages. It took nearly a minute for all the messages to load, and by the time the ticker had stopped counting, he had over one thousand two hundred unread messages. He sat back in his chair. The last time she’d checked messages had been Friday, October 15. She’d died on Monday night. Had the killer held her for three days?
He arranged the messages in alphabetical order and scanned to see who had sent her the most messages. This wasn’t necessarily going to give him the killer’s contact information, but it was a place to start. The top three contenders for the most e-mail were
CelticLove2
,
SmithAB
, and
Wolf-Woman Six
. He opened the last message from
CelticLove2
.
CelticLove2
,
SmithAB
, and
Wolf-Woman Six
. He opened the last message from
CelticLove2
.
Beyond,Where r you? I need advice! Should I marry him or not?
All of
CelticLove2
’s other messages were much the same. She wanted love advice.
CelticLove2
’s other messages were much the same. She wanted love advice.
SmithAB
was next in line, so he opened the last message sent. He seemed to be searching for financial advice. He needed stock tips and advice about dealing with his mother. And
Wolf-Woman Six
was trying to decide if she could take a new job. All everyday questions that required thought and common sense, not a card reader.
was next in line, so he opened the last message sent. He seemed to be searching for financial advice. He needed stock tips and advice about dealing with his mother. And
Wolf-Woman Six
was trying to decide if she could take a new job. All everyday questions that required thought and common sense, not a card reader.
His grandmother had once said many young girls would come to her with silly questions about love and marriage, and his grandmother always advised them to look at the facts. Make a list of pros and cons, so to speak. The most frequent e-mailers could have benefited from this advice.
None of the most frequent e-mailers’ messages sounded threatening or dangerous. And none mentioned the carnival. The computer expert would have to dig through his haystack of leads and hope there was a needle of evidence.
Mariah and Grace huddled in the bed together, staring out the trailer window at the crystal blue sky.
“I’ve never seen a stomach so big.” Mariah smoothed her hand over the taut belly.
Grace smiled, her gaze a mixture of sadness and fear. “Kinda gross if you think about it. Like
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
”
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
”
A kick fluttered under Mariah’s hand. “It moves a lot.”
“Yeah.”
Mariah kept her gaze on the stars. She’d never been good at speaking her mind and didn’t know how to voice all her thoughts and fears now. “I’m scared.”
“Me, too.”
Charlotte startled awake and for an instant didn’t recognize her surroundings. She blinked and searched for familiarity. Slowly, the elements in the room made sense: robe over the edge of her blue comforter, wide oval mirror over a dresser filled with cosmetics, and teacup on a glass table by the chaise. This was her bedroom and she was lying on her chaise by the window. Around her were rows of boxes, some fully packed and others still empty and waiting for her attention.
Files strewn on her lap, she rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock beside her bed. One forty-one. The last thing she remembered was that it was midnight and she’d been proofing briefs. She must have drifted asleep.
She’d not dreamed of Mariah for years and in the last week she’d dreamed of her twice. The first time she’d been screaming for help. And this second time they’d been talking about the baby. Carnival. Grady. Sooner. All had invaded her life and she supposed dreams of Mariah would be natural.
Charlotte swung her bare feet off the chaise and pushed her papers off her lap. Standing, she glanced out the picture window that looked out over the river. She would dearly miss this view, which offered her a sense of peace on the endless nights when sleep avoided her. This sweeping vista of the Potomac had been the reason she’d bought the condo.
And next week, she would lose it forever.
She’d gotten another voice mail from Robert today, and he’d told her he’d lined up a carpenter to fix the few minor annoyances the buyer wanted repaired. She wasn’t keen on having a stranger in her apartment, but Robert had assured her that the man was very reputable.
Charlotte glanced up at the sky and let her gaze settle on the North Star. She’d wished on that star as a kid. Then her wishes had more to do with her mother’s outbursts. But no matter how much Grace had wished, begged, or pleaded with the heavens, her mother had never improved. In fact, she’d gotten worse.
By the time Grace left the carnival for good, she’d learned that wishes were for fools. And if she wanted something to happen, she had to get out in the world and hustle for it.
Seeing Sooner today had been jarring. Over the years she’d thought about the girl and wondered what she looked like, how she wore her hair, and how her voice sounded. But staring at her today had been a shock to her senses. It had been like staring at a ghost.
It shamed Charlotte that she’d not told Sooner the entire truth. The girl had a right to know. They were blood. And Charlotte had denied her.
“Tell me again what we are doing here?” Sinclair rubbed gloved hands together as she glanced around the dark, deserted parking lot.
Rokov opened the trunk of his car and glanced at the heavy cloth bag filled with sand. “When we saw the crime scene this morning, it was in daylight.”
She burrowed her chin deeper into the black scarf wound around her neck. “What’s wrong with daylight?”
“The killer would have seen this place at night.” Rokov set the one-hundred-and-twenty-pound bag by the car. “We walked up those stairs. But he lugged up one hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight plus some kind of bag to hold all his goodies.” He retrieved a backpack.
She glanced at his running shoes. Paulie, based on the shoe impression he collected, guessed that the killer had worn a narrow running or cross training shoe. “You’re going to walk in the killer’s shoes.”
“That’s right.” He slammed the trunk closed.
“Do you really think you’ll learn something?”
“Won’t know until I try.” He slung the backpack up on his back and hefted the bag of sand. “You talked to the property manager of this place?”
“I did. And I asked him about the lock on the top floor. He said it was dead bolted when he checked it four days ago.”
“So the killer picked the lock last night or sometime in the last four days.”
“Exactly.” He glanced at the stairs.
“You want me to follow?”
“No. Use that camcorder and tape me. Who knows what we’ll see.”
She nodded, scanning the lot. “We know that the first-floor door was secured so the only way to the second floor was by the exterior staircase. And the upper door was bolted shut.”
With the weight on his shoulder, Rokov moved toward the stairs. Sinclair hit record. He tested the weight on the old stairs and took his first step. The stairs moaned painfully under the added weight of the “body,” and his own body shifted. He grabbed for the railing to steady himself before continuing to climb.
In the dark, maneuvering the shaky steps wasn’t as easy, and his pace was much slower than it had been that morning. The slower pace coupled with the weight left him winded whereas the morning’s climb had been effortless. The old staircase kept moaning and groaning, and several more times he had to readjust the “body” to maintain his balance. Halfway up he paused on the first landing to catch a breath or two. He considered himself fit, but the added dead weight was taxing. From here, he had a clear view of the river and the moon, which dripped light on the calm waters. Had the killer been winded? Had he stopped?
He continued the climb to the top floor and paused at the door. The door had been dead bolted and so to open it now would require setting the body down and then working on the lock. But a search around the small landing made that theory improbable. There was little room to move around let alone stash a body and then pick the lock. The killer must have been here before. He’d come within the four-day window and broken into the building.
Rokov opened the door and moved inside the main room. The moon was nearly full tonight as it had been last night. Weather conditions were similar so he could trust that the light he saw now was similar to what the killer saw. Moonlight streamed into the room, illuminating the spot where they’d found the body, now marked by the red crime scene tape.
Rokov moved to the spot and laid his weight down. His shoulders were stiff and his back ached. This kind of work was not an old man’s game. If the killer weren’t young, he’d have to be incredibly fit to maneuver the shifting stairs with such a weighty burden.
From his backpack he pulled out a candle, and he lit it as he imagined the killer did. He placed it at the body’s head just as they’d found the original. Then he dug out a flashlight and photos of the body. The killer had taken great time with the body, so he’d not felt rushed, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Lay the body down. Fix her hair. Straighten her skirt. Stretch her hands and feet out. Stake them to the ground. Sprinkle the ring of salt.
Paulie had found footprints by the window. Rokov moved to the window. It was a nice view. The water. The lights on the Maryland side of the Potomac. The boats in the water. Had he first spotted his location from the water? Maybe the shoes weren’t cross-trainers but boating shoes.
Strong. A locksmith. A boater.
He checked his watch. It had taken him fifteen minutes to scale the side, enter the room, and lay his body down. He returned to the body and imagined the killer pulling stakes and salt from the backpack. The bar owner had seen the candle flickering about twelve thirty.
The killer would easily have been here an hour. “You weren’t in a rush at all, were you?” He rose from the salt circle. “This is all a part of the ritual of death, isn’t it?”
He squatted and studied the scene. It would talk to him eventually. When it was ready, it would tell him what happened. His cell phone rang. “Rokov.”
“What gives?” Sinclair said. “You see anything?”
“What am I missing?” He glanced around the scene, absorbing what the killer saw.
Talk to me.
But the room remained stubbornly silent.
Talk to me.
But the room remained stubbornly silent.
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Analog Science Fiction And Fact - June 2014 by Penny Publications