Dead Wrong (18 page)

She drove the car all the way to the end of the driveway, as was her custom, though she did not continue into the garage, and got out. She had theater tickets for that night and still hadn’t decided whether or not she wanted to go.

Reaching her hand over the top of the gate, she slipped the lock and stepped into the sanctuary of her backyard. From the pool, with its spa and waterfall, to the dwarf fruit trees that grew neatly along the back fence, to the patio with its perfect furniture, all was lovely, serene, tasteful in this little world she’d created for herself. She paused for several moments, just taking it in. The view never failed to cheer her.

Sighing happily, she crossed the flagstone patio, unlocked the back door, and deactivated the alarm. The interior of the house was cool but welcoming. Her footsteps echoed softly on the Mexican tile floor of the kitchen, then faded as she passed into the dining room where her heels sunk into the plush Oriental rug. She unlocked the front door and stepped out for the mail, which she removed from the hand-painted mailbox near the front steps. Sorting through it, she separated bills from junk. She dropped all but the junk mail onto a Chippendale table in the front hall, then took the discards back into the kitchen, where she tossed them into the trash. She listened to the messages on her answering machine while she poured herself a glass of merlot and then walked back outside, debating whether she felt up to a quick swim before dinner.
Oh, what the hell,
she thought.
The pool is heated. Why not?

She changed in the small pool house that had been built onto the side of the garage. Stepping back out into the cool of the late spring evening, she started toward the water’s edge when something caught her eye. Walking to the far end of the yard, she leaned over to inspect the ground where something had dug under the back fence. That damned German shepherd of the Ryans. She gritted her teeth. Last summer it had been the landscaping in the front yard that was targeted by her across-the-street neighbor’s dog.
Looks like it’s time for another little chat with Paul and Celia,
she thought, and shook her head. Damned dog. She’d call them as soon as she went back inside.

The dog—and the broad hole it had dug—dismissed, she headed for the pool. The sun was beginning to set, and even though the water would be warm, in another twenty minutes or so it would begin to get dark, and the temperature of the air would start to drop faster. She shed her towel and dove into the deepest water, surfacing near the shallow end, then turned onto her back and floated, her eyes closed, listening to the gentle sound of the waterfall and thinking about how perfect her life was at that very moment.

Fifteen minutes later, she would step out of the pool and straight into the arms of a nightmare worse than anything she could ever have imagined.

CHAPTER
TEN

“. . .
AND WE UNDERSTAND THAT THE DISTRICT ATTOR
ney will be holding a press conference in conjunction with the police, and that is scheduled to start at any moment.” The lithe blond reporter gazed directly into the camera, refraining from a smile that might make her appear shallow in the face of the day’s events.

After all, it wasn’t every day that a county judge—a popular, highly respected county judge—was found murdered.

So far, there’d been no details released by either the D.A.’s office or the police department, not particularly unusual under the circumstances, when one considered the status of the victim. But Candace McElroy planned to be in the front row when the conference began. With this in mind, the reporter motioned to her cameraman to follow her into the courthouse. When her cell phone began to ring, she checked the number. Jason Kerr, the rookie cop who followed her around like a puppy, had already called her twice in the past two days, both times just to talk. Candace hesitated, wondering if this was another social call or a heads-up on the judge’s murder. Taking her chances that this time he was calling with a legitimate tip, she answered the phone.

She was very, very glad she had.

The press conference began ten minutes later, but by then Candace already knew everything she needed to knock every other reporter in the room off their seats. When the chief of police finished his official announcement of Judge Sandra J. Styler’s death yet declined to specify the cause, Candace was the first to raise her hand with a question.

She stood, and asked in a clear voice, so that all could hear, “Is it true that Judge Styler was killed in the same manner in which the Mary Douglas victims were killed? And if so, does this mean there’s a copycat killer, or does it mean that the police have arrested the wrong man?”

Standing at the side of the courthouse steps where the press and the curious had gathered, Mara leaned forward, not quite believing her ears.

“What did she say, the reporter up front?” She tapped the arm of the man slightly in front of her.

“She asked if it was true that the judge was killed the same way those Mary Douglas ladies were killed,” he replied without turning around. “And if that meant the wrong guy had been arrested.”

Still not certain that she’d heard correctly, Mara moved forward through the crowd, which had begun to buzz, awaiting the response of the D.A., who was in an off-the-mike powwow with the chief of police.

Judge Styler killed in the same manner as the Marys? How could that be?

It had been enough of a shock when, just as she was about to leave her office for lunch, Gil Lindquist, whose office was across the hall from hers, leaned through her doorway and asked, “Did you hear about Judge Styler?”

“No, what?” Mara had said absently.

He lowered his voice. “She was murdered.”

“What?” Mara’s jaw had literally dropped.

“She was murdered. They found her body in her house.”

“How? What happened?” Mara couldn’t believe it. She’d had a case before Judge Styler at the end of last week.

“They’re being real closemouthed about that. At least, they have been so far. But I just heard on the radio that there’s going to be a press conference.” Gil glanced at his watch. “Just about now, actually. I was thinking about going outside to see what they had to say.”

“The conference is outside?”

“On the courthouse steps. Want me to wait for you?”

“You go ahead. I’ll be down in just a minute.”

Mara had squeezed her eyes tightly closed as the sorrow began to build. She’d liked Sandra Styler a lot, respected her greatly for never being afraid to take a stand, for always sticking to her principles. Mara prayed that whatever had happened, however Judge Styler had lost her life, it had been a quick and painless death.

It appeared now that that may have been too much to ask.

The D.A. and Chief Donner both declined to respond to the reporter’s question, citing the pending investigation, but it was obvious from their expressions that this was the last thing they’d expected when they opened for questions. When a second reporter followed up, the press conference was brought to an abrupt close.

The buzz in the crowd lasted long after the courthouse steps were cleared. Mara bought a can of soda from Maury, then sat on a bench as if in a fog, trying to put it all together. From what she had heard in the courthouse over the past few days, Teddy Douglas had freely admitted that he’d wanted to kill his mother, but he adamantly denied having killed her or the other two women. He never wavered from his insistence that he’d found the bloody shirt—the one soaked with the blood of the first Mary—in the park on the evening after she’d been killed.

Almost afraid to fully consider the consequences if Teddy was telling the truth, Mara took her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed Annie’s number. “Annie. It’s me, Mara.”

“Oh, I recognized the voice.” Annie seemed amused that her sister had thought to identify herself. “What’s up?”

Mara quickly filled her in on the news.

“Well, then, we need to know if this is an unfounded rumor or not. Because if it’s true, then we run the risk of the Mary Douglas killer still being out there.”

“You know I’m not one to jump to conclusions about these things, but what if . . .” Mara paused, afraid to put into words the thought that had begun to nag at her.

“What if what?”

“What if . . . oh, damn, it’s sounding paranoid even to me now.” She walked to the end of the sidewalk, away from the crowd.

“What does?”

“Well, when I heard about Judge Styler, the first thing I thought of was, well, we’ve had so many cases together, what if someone whose case we’d handled—maybe someone whose rights had been terminated, or someone whose kids had been placed in foster care . . .” She swallowed hard, then whispered, “What if that person . . . if he . . .”

“What if the killer has been after you from the beginning? What if you’re the M. Douglas he’s been looking for all along, because of a recommendation you may have made to the court? To Judge Styler. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Is that totally crazy? That maybe the killer was after me because of something that happened on one of my cases, and that maybe he just made a mistake about my name? Am I starting to get paranoid?”

“No. And no, it doesn’t sound crazy. We both know that you must have pissed off a lot of people over the past several years. I think we need to take a closer look at the cases you had in common with Judge Styler. Let me make a call or two, then I’ll get back to you. Go back to your office and stay there until you hear from me.”

Mara rose on legs that shook just slightly. She didn’t want to make any assumptions, didn’t want to be melodramatic about this, but it was unsettling that Judge Styler would be murdered so soon after the Mary Douglas murders. And if it was the same MO as the other three women, stranger still. . . .

Mara’s cell phone began to ring just as she returned to her office.

Annie bypassed a greeting. “I think we need to go to plan B.”

“What?”

“Well, let’s start with this kid they locked up. According to Miranda Cahill, he’s said all along that he’d found that shirt in the park, and it’s beginning to look like he could be telling the truth. Now, he has confessed that he’s been wanting to kill his mother for several years. By the way, do you know why?”

“No, I hadn’t heard the motive.”

“Teddy Douglas told the police—as for years he has been telling anyone who will listen to him—that his father was an alien from the planet Targ.”

“I’ve never heard of the planet Targ.”

“Nor has anyone else. Apparently it exists only in Teddy’s mind. Anyway, his father being an ET makes Teddy half-alien. He believes that a shuttle is coming to take him to Targ on the first of May—”

“Oh, boy . . .”

“—and that the only person who knows where the shuttle is supposed to pick him up is his mother, and that she had refused to tell him.”

“So if he misses his flight, it will be her fault, and he would have to kill her.”

“That was his plan.”

“Why’d he keep the bloody shirt?”

“He thought it was a sign, because the victim’s name had been Mary Douglas, just like his mother’s. He thought the shirt had some power he could tap into if he needed to kill Mom.”

“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t believe Teddy Douglas is the killer.”

“In view of the fact that the judge was murdered while Teddy was locked up, it hardly matters, but just to make certain, I asked Miranda to fax a copy of his statement to me. It’s very clear, after reading it, that while Teddy Douglas is delusional—among other things—he’s not the man the police are looking for. He needs help, but he’s not a serial killer. He belongs in therapy—intensive, preferably in-patient therapy—not in a prison cell.”

“Have you told the FBI and the Lyndon police department this?”

“I’ve spoken with Miranda, and I’ve got a call in to my boss. I’m not really involved in the investigation at this point.”

“So what do I do now?” Mara asked softly.

“Right now you wait there in your office until someone from your PD arrives.”

“You called them?”

“Miranda did. Look, it may very well be that the real killer is someone connected to a case that you and the judge had in common, and that he’s still out there somewhere. Frankly, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. There’s a logic to this, and besides, it would explain a lot about the case.”

“Like what?”

“Like the possibility that this is a contract killing. Someone who faced you in court wouldn’t be fumbling around, picking off women from the phone book. He’d know what you look like. Unless he hired someone else to do the job.”