Dead Wrong (4 page)

Headlights flashing through the living room window announced Annie’s arrival. Mara had just begun to head for the front door when the reporter’s face appeared on the television.

“This is Mary Douglas,” the reporter was saying as he displayed a picture of a white-haired woman in her early sixties.

Mara watched in fascination as he held up a second photograph of another woman years younger, with dark hair and an olive complexion, and said, “And this is Mary Douglas. What do these two woman have in common besides their names?”

The reporter paused for effect, then faced the camera squarely, both photographs held in one hand, the microphone in the other.

“Both of these women lived in Lyndon. Both women were killed in their homes in that small community, in exactly the same manner, exactly one week apart. The body of the second victim was found earlier this afternoon. Local police have admitted that they are baffled as to motive.”

Spike ran to the door and barked when he heard Annie’s heels on the walk, but Mara’s attention remained fixed on the television.

Video played of a prerecorded press conference. “Without divulging the manner in which the women were murdered, we’re investigating the possibility that the first killing was an error. That the second victim may have been the intended target.”

The police spokesman paused to listen to a question from the floor, then repeated the question for those who had not heard. “Do we feel it was a contract killing, was the question. I can only say at this point that anything is possible. It has been suggested that perhaps the killer had known only the name of his victim—no description, no address—and that after killing the first victim and perhaps seeing some news coverage or reading the obituary in the newspaper, he realized that he hadn’t killed the right woman. According to friends and family of both victims, neither Mary Douglas had an enemy in the world. Both women were well liked, both lived somewhat quiet lives. So with no apparent motive, we can’t rule out any scenario yet.”

“Mara?” Annie called from the doorway.

The police spokesman’s face was taut with concentration as he spoke of the murders. “Yes, we think he sought out the second Mary Douglas and killed her, though we do not know why either of these women would have been targeted, for that matter. . . .”

“Mara?”

“This is bizarre.” Mara shook her head.

“What is?” Annie set the bag she carried on the coffee table.

“This news report . . .” She was still shaking her head slowly, side to side. “Two women named Mary Douglas were murdered one week apart. Killed in the same way, but the police aren’t saying how they were killed.”

Annie frowned.

“It’s a little creepy—Mary Douglas—Mara Douglas,” Mara admitted, “and what makes it worse is that there’s a woman who works in the D.A.’s office named Mary Douglas.”

“But she wasn’t . . .” Annie pointed at the television.

“No, thank God. I was holding my breath there for a minute, though. She’s such a nice person—a real ray-of-sunshine type. Friendly and a good sport. Not a day goes by when we don’t get at least one piece of mail meant for the other.”

“You don’t work in the D.A.’s office.”

“Yeah, but very often the mail room will mistake Mary for Mara or vice versa, and we get each other’s mail. And if something is addressed to ‘M. Douglas,’ it’s anyone’s guess whose mailbox it ends up in.” Mara watched the rest of the segment, then turned off the television. “I feel sorry for the families of the two victims, but I can’t help but be relieved that the Mary Douglas I know wasn’t one of them.”

“Odd thing, though,” Annie murmured as she pulled off her short-sleeved cardigan and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “Two victims with the same name. That can’t be a coincidence. . . .”

“Intrigued?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Itching to know more?”

“What do you think?” Annie carried the fragrant bags of egg foo young and chicken lo mein into the kitchen.

“Maybe you’ll get a call.”

“Well, it’s early yet. Only two victims. Have they given out any personal information about them?”

“The first victim was a retired school librarian. Sixty-one years old, lived alone. No relatives. By all accounts a nice woman without an enemy in the world.”

“And the other woman?”

“Attractive woman in her mid-fifties, two grown kids. Yoga instructor at the local YMCA. Husband died two years ago.”

“Boyfriend?” Annie leaned against the door frame, her expression pensive.

“They didn’t say. According to the news report, she was well liked. Active in the community, spent a lot of time doing charity work. They haven’t been able to come up with a motive for either of the killings.”

“There’s always a motive. Sometimes it’s just harder to find. They need to do a profile on the victims.”

“I was waiting for that.” Mara watched her sister’s face, knew just what she was thinking.

As a criminal profiler for the FBI, Anne Marie McCall’s experience had taught her that the more information you knew about a victim, the more likely you were to find the perpetrator of the crime.

“Can’t help it. It’s my nature.” Annie waved Mara toward the kitchen. “Come on, dinner’s going to get cold. Do I have to be hostess in your house?”

Mara got plates from the cupboard while Annie removed the little white boxes from the bag and arranged them in a straight row along the counter.

“Buffet is good.” Mara nodded approvingly and handed her sister a plate.

They chatted through dinner, but Mara could tell her sister’s attention was wandering.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” Mara waved a hand in front of Annie’s face.

“Sorry.”

“You’re thinking about those women. The Marys.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Can’t help it.”

“You’re wondering if the FBI will be called in.”

Annie nodded.

“And if you’ll be assigned to the case.”

“Sure.”

“You know where the phone is.” Mara pointed to the wall.

“Maybe I should just—”

“Go.”

“And actually, I have my own phone.” Annie reached in her bag for her mobile phone, then paced the small kitchen while the number rang.

Somewhere deep in FBI headquarters, the call was answered.

“This is Dr. McCall. I’d like to speak with John Mancini. Is he available?”

Damn, but didn’t that just beat all?

The man spread the newspaper across the desk so that he could read the article that continued below the fold.

He shook his head, bewildered.

Unbelievable. He’d screwed up not once but twice!

He ran long, thin fingers across the top of his closely cropped head, laughing softly in spite of himself.

Good thing I don’t work in law enforcement. Sloppy investigative work like this would’ve gotten me canned. And better still that I wasn’t getting paid for the job.

Not that he’d ever done work for hire, of course, but even so . . .

What was I thinking?

He picked at his teeth with a wooden toothpick and considered his next move. He really needed to make this right.

He folded the paper and set it to one side of the desk. He’d have to think about this a little more. And he would. He’d think about it all day. But right now he had to get dressed and get to work.

He’d been lucky to find a job on his second day here, even if it was only washing dishes in a small diner on the highway. It was working out just fine. He got his meals for free on the shifts he worked and he made enough to pay for a rented room in a big old twin house in a rundown but relatively safe neighborhood in a small town close enough to his targets that he could come and go as he pleased.

Of course, he’d had only three targets in mind when he arrived.

The fact that he’d missed the mark—not once, but twice, he reminded himself yet again—would prolong his stay a little longer than he’d intended. His real target was still out there somewhere, and he had to find her—do it right this time—before he could move on.

And he’d have to be a little more cautious this time around, he knew. Surely the other M. Douglases—there had been several more listed in the local telephone book—might understandably be a bit edgy right about now. It was his own fault, of course. He’d gotten uncharacteristically lazy, first in assuming that the only Mary Douglas listed by full name, the kindly woman who lived alone on Fourth Avenue in Lyndon, was the
right
Mary Douglas. Then, to his great chagrin, hadn’t he gone and
repeated
the same damned mistake? He’d gone to the first M. Douglas listed, and in spite of his having confirmed that she was in fact a Mary, she was
still
not the right woman.

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself with either of them—the second Mary had been especially feisty—but still, it wasn’t like him to be so careless.

He was just going to have to do better, that was all. Take the remaining M. Douglases in order and see what’s what. Check them out thoroughly until he was certain that he had the right one. The next victim would have to be the right victim, else he’d look like an even greater fool than he already did.

He shuddered to think what a panic a third mistake could set off among the
other
M. Douglases, and though that could be amusing in its own way, well, he didn’t really need the publicity, what with the inevitable horde of reporters who would flock to the area. After all, this wasn’t supposed to be about
him
. This was all about someone else’s fantasy.

Oh, he’d fully understood that it had all been a lark as far as the others—he thought of them as his buddies, blood brothers of a sort—were concerned. It was supposed to have been just a game, just a means of whiling away a few hours on a stormy winter day, locked in a forgotten room with two other strangers. But then the idea had just taken hold of him and clung on for dear life, and damn, but it had caught his imagination. What if he went through with it? What if he played it out? What would be the reaction of his buddies? Would they, each in their turn, pick up the challenge and continue the game? Would they not feel obligated to reciprocate? To continue on with the game, whether they wanted to or not?

And wasn’t it a matter of principle? Sort of a new twist on the old saying, “an eye for an eye.”

His fingers stretched and flexed as he remembered his Marys.

He smiled to himself, trying to imagine what the reaction of his buddies would be when they realized what he’d done. Shock? Horror? Pleasure? Gratitude? Amusement?

It sure would be interesting to see how it all played out in the end.

As for him, well, Curtis Alan Channing wasn’t about to strike out that third time.

He snapped off the light on the desk, tucked the little notebook into the pocket of his dark jacket, and headed off to work. He wanted to be early today to give himself extra time to go through the phone book and jot down a few addresses and numbers before clocking in for his shift. He needed to set up a little surveillance schedule so he could focus on the right target. This time, there would be no
uh-oh
when he turned on the TV or opened the newspaper. There simply would be the sheer satisfaction of having completed his task and completed it well, before he moved on to the next name on the list. Which he would most certainly do in short order.

After all, his honor was at stake.

CHAPTER
TWO

T
HE FIRST OF THE DINERS WERE BEGINNING TO GATHER
in front of the hot dog cart that had served up fast food to two generations of Avon County courthouse employees. Any weekday, Maury’s Doggies was set up and open for business by eleven in the morning. If the courthouse was open, Maury was there.

By eleven thirty on Friday morning, a small crowd had already arrived. All county departments housed in the courthouse—which also served as the county seat—were represented as those scheduled for the early lunch spilled onto the steps to enjoy the first really pleasant April day to follow a particularly dismal March. Local residents, drawn outside by the warmth and the opportunity to sit for a bit and bask in the sun, shared the benches around the front lawn with courthouse employees who ate sandwiches from brown paper bags or hot dogs in white cardboard boats and sipped soft drinks from cans or coffee in foam cups.