Dead Wrong (12 page)

Wrapped in a heavy red sweater, the hood pulled over her head, Mara drew her legs up onto the chair and tried not to huddle. The night had grown unseasonably cool since she’d followed Aidan out onto the deck and watched him set up his telescope on the tripod. She hadn’t wanted to go, had never had much interest in astronomy, but thought it would be impolite to send her guest outside alone.

She watched him patiently adjust the lens, then turn the scope this way and that, looking for God only knew what. Well, she’d look, she’d pretend to be interested, and then she’d go to bed. He could stay out here all night, if he wanted to. But for now, the least she could do was show some curiosity.

He was bent over the scope, moving the device ever so slowly, his face a study in concentration.

“Here,” he said without taking his eyes from the lens. “Take a look.”

Trying not to shiver, she stepped forward. He stood behind her and grabbed her by the elbow to lead her into position. “What am I looking at?”

She raised her hands to take hold of the scope, and he stopped her by taking her hands in his own. The sudden and unexpected intimacy of his hands trapping and holding on to hers disconcerted her, and she fought the urge to pull away.

“No, don’t. You’ll move it and then I’ll have to adjust it again. Just . . . here . . .” He guided her to the lens. “Just look right through here.”

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at.”

“What do you see?”

“A bright light—a big star, with other stars around it.”

“That’s Jupiter.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“It looks big. I mean, it looks small through the lens, but it looks big compared to the other stars.”

“It’s the largest planet in our solar system. And those little ‘stars’ are its moons.”

“I knew that,” she heard herself say. Of course she knew it. She just hadn’t been thinking about it.

“Let’s see what else.” He leaned in next to her, one hand in the middle of her back, the side of his face momentarily close to hers. He moved the telescope slightly, adjusted the lens, then brought her back into position.

“Take a look.”

“What am I looking at now?”

“That’s Castor. In the constellation Gemini.”

“Like the astrological sign,” she said without thinking, then realized how silly that must have sounded. Laughing, she turned to him. “Sorry. That sounded incredibly stupid.”

“Astronomy, astrology. All those
A
words sound alike,” he said dryly.

She turned to look up at him, was surprised to find how close he still was. He smelled of soap—her soap—and just a hint of the chamomile candle that burned on the table next to the telescope.

“I didn’t confuse the two. I just wasn’t thinking, that’s all. Of course I know the difference.”

He didn’t bother to reply, merely reached around her and turned the scope to his own eyes. Over the next hour, he showed her constellations, the names of which she recalled from a long-ago science class, and pointed out the stars Polaris, Sirius, Pollux.

“I’m really impressed,” she said honestly. “Maybe you should have been an astronaut.”

“I’d thought about it once,” he admitted as he removed the telescope from the tripod.

“Are you serious?” She studied his face. Of course he was.

“When I was a kid, I used to dream about it, going into space. I wanted to be the first man to land on Mars.”

For the briefest of moments, he appeared almost wistful. She’d almost caught a peek of the child he had been. Almost.

“If that was your dream, why didn’t you pursue it?” She sat back in her chair. “How’d you end up in the FBI?”

“It’s the family business.” The phantom child she’d almost glimpsed had slipped back into hiding.

“Oh, you mean because your two brothers were agents? Why would you feel you had to follow in their footsteps?”

“It wasn’t just my brothers. It was my father. An uncle. A couple of cousins.”

“Oh. I can see how you’d feel . . .” She paused. Actually, she couldn’t understand feeling obligated to follow a course merely because it was expected of her. “Have you ever regretted your decision?”

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark and guarded.

“Every day for the past year.”

He slipped the telescope into the case, snapped it closed as neatly as he had closed off himself, then headed into the house, leaving Mara alone with the night sky, biting her tongue.

“Hmm, let’s see . . . Esposito, Esposito . . .”

Muttering to himself, Curtis Alan Channing traced the list of names with his right index finger. He knew the address—that had been given to him—but he needed to make sure that Flora Esposito still lived at 2703 Edge Hill Road in Brownville, three small towns down the main pike from where he sat.

He found the address and dialed the number.

“Hello? Is this Mrs. Esposito?” he asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Mrs. Flora Esposito?”

“Yes. Who
is
this?”

“I’m an old friend of your daughter’s and I’m just back in town for a night and was thinking it would be nice to just give her a call and say hi. . . .”

The silence was long and strained. Finally, she asked, “Who did you say you were?”

“I went to grade school with Diane, fourth through sixth grade, but then we moved to Chicago. I was just wondering how she was and, well, maybe she won’t remember me at all, but I thought, hell—oh, I apologize, Mrs. Esposito—I thought maybe I’d give a call and see if you were still around, and maybe you’d give me her phone number.”

“Diane is . . . Diane died almost three years ago.”

“Oh, my God, no!” He was getting into it now. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Esposito, I had no idea. . . .”

“Well, you wouldn’t have, I suppose.” Flora Esposito’s throat began to constrict, the way it always did when Diane’s name came up out of the blue like that.

“May I ask . . . how . . . what happened?” His voice dropped an octave or two.

“She . . . she was murdered.” Even now, the words were so hard to speak.

“Oh, God, that’s horrible! Horrible. She was such a sweet girl. I always thought she was the cutest girl in our class, you know, in sixth grade. I had such a crush on her.” He pretended to be choked up for a moment before adding, “Who would do such a terrible thing to such a sweet girl?”

“Well . . . what did you say your name was?”

“Bill. Bill Callahan.”

“Billy Callahan, old Dr. Callahan’s nephew?”

He was tempted, but it was too risky.

“No, I’m afraid not. I was the other Billy Callahan.”

“Oh. I hadn’t remembered that there had been more than one.”

“You were telling me about Diane.” He knew, of course, that he had the right person, but some perversity in his nature wanted to hear her say it. It would help set the stage emotionally for what would come later that night.

“Her husband shot her. Her and her two boys. His own wife and his own sons, his own flesh and blood. What kind of a monster puts a gun to the head of his own children and pulls the trigger?”

“I just don’t know what to say.” He picked idly at a cuticle on his left thumb. “I’ve never been so shocked. . . . Oh, I’m so sorry to have brought this up. I can’t apologize enough, Mrs. Esposito.”

“It’s all right, son. You wouldn’t know. And it’s not as if I don’t think about it every day, anyway.”

“I’m sure you do.” He nodded absently. “I’m sure you do.”

“Every day of my life, Billy, and I will until the day I die. . . .”

Billy said his kind good-byes and hung up the phone. Mrs. Esposito wouldn’t be missing her Diane for much longer.

Till the day you die, indeed . . .

He’d debated over and over whether he should simply shoot her and have done with it, or take his time and do what he did best. In the end, as much as it pained him, he opted to use the gun. In the wake of the Mary Douglas killings and the resulting circus of media attention—the last one being the courthouse Mary and all that—killing Flora Esposito in the same manner could lead an investigator with some smarts directly to the county prison and to one Vince Giordano with a lot of questions. He didn’t think that Giordano was the type who’d rat him out, but with one more victim to go before his part of the deal was done, why take stupid chances?

He’d enjoyed the game so far—even after his early missteps—and after tonight, there’d be only one name left on the list before he could take off for parts unknown. He was giving some serious consideration to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Someone had been talking about it in the restaurant the other day, and it had sounded like a nice place to visit. Then again, anyplace down south was nice. He’d have to give it more thought.

He checked the gun—an old handgun he’d won in a poker game about fifteen years ago and had used only a few times. Guns were loud and had a tendency to draw attention, something he wisely avoided. He much preferred the knife, which offered so much more in the way of artistic expression.

Even now, knowing he needed to complete this task in a manner that could not be associated with his recent kills, it was with regret that he left the knife in his bag. He zipped the bag shut quickly and tucked it next to the bed, then opened the door and left the room without looking back before the knife could call to him and remind him of what they could do together.

Flora Esposito would never know just how lucky she was.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

M
IRANDA
C
AHILL RESTED HER CHIN IN HER HAND
and leaned in a bit closer to the computer screen as she scrolled down the file that had been sent, at her request, from FBI headquarters. She carefully sorted through the facts before shaking her head.

Close, but no cigar.

This latest file had outlined a series of killings that had occurred over a period of four years in western Missouri, and though the MO was somewhat similar to that of their Mary Douglas killer, she knew instinctively that the differences distinguishing them indicated two killers. All the victims in the Missouri cases had had their throats slashed. None of them had been blindfolded. Anne Marie McCall’s profile had noted that both the identical knife wounds to the chest and the blindfolding of the victims were integral components of their killer’s signature. Also, the Missouri killings had been disorganized, showing none of the deliberation of the killer whose identity they now sought.

Miranda pushed her hair back from her face and started on the next file. One case in Wyoming caught her attention, as did one in West Virginia. She faxed inquiries to the investigating police departments before checking the time. It was ten after seven in the morning. She’d been at her computer since four.

She answered her cell phone on the second ring.

“Miranda?” a deep male voice asked.

“Yes? Who’s this?”

“I don’t know if you’ll remember me. My name is Aidan Shields and I—”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Shields.” She burst out laughing. “What do you think, after a year, everyone’s memory has been erased?”

“Well, it’s been a while since we worked together—”

“Aidan, it’s good to hear from you.” She cut him off, sparing him the need to offer further excuses or to explain where he’d been. As if she didn’t know. As if everyone he’d ever worked with at the Bureau didn’t know. “Hey, I hear you’ve got a cushy new gig these days.”

“Well, it’s not really a—”

“Oh, come on, I hear you’ve been hanging out with Dr. McCall’s very pretty sister,” she teased. “There are a lot of guys who would have paid handsomely for that privilege, had Annie given them a chance.”

“Oh, we’re hanging out together, all right. I follow her to work, follow her home, make sure her doors and windows are locked at night. I walk her dog a couple of times a day and stand ready to slay any dragons that might try to slip in. All in all, it’s been a pretty demanding week.”

“Stop. I’m getting jealous.”