Dead Wrong (6 page)

Mara ambled a bit farther than she’d planned and soon found herself at the tall stone gates of the local college campus. She hadn’t set foot on the grounds of Miller College in years. Seven years, to be exact. Since her husband, a former mathematics professor, had disappeared and took with him everything that had given meaning to her life.

She wandered back toward her street, six blocks from the college, trying to keep her mind from going places she did not want it to go today. Mary Douglas’s death was enough. Mara could deal with only one tragedy at a time.

Annie’s car was visible from the top of the street. But as Mara drew closer, she could see that there was another car parked in front of Annie’s. She walked into the street and tapped on Annie’s window.

“Been waiting long?” Mara asked.

Annie rolled her window all the way down. “Just pulled up.”

“Who’s that?” Mara asked, pointing to the shiny red Eclipse Spyder parked in front of Annie’s car.

“That’s the friend I said would be coming with me.”

“You coming in, then?”

Annie rolled up her window and got out of her car. Immediately, the driver’s side door of the sports car opened, and a tall, striking, dark-haired woman stepped out.

When the woman joined them, Annie said, “Mara, this is a friend of mine, Miranda Cahill.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.”

“Good to meet you. Annie’s been telling me a lot about you.” Miranda offered her hand.

“Oh? Like what?” Mara said as she jangled her house keys.

“That three women whose names are way too similar to yours for comfort have been killed lately.”

Mara stopped in her tracks and turned to look at her sister curiously.

“Miranda’s an agent with our team,” Annie explained. “She was assigned to work with your local police on the Mary Douglas cases.”

“And?” Mara looked from one to the other.

“Can we go inside and talk?” Annie looked around uncomfortably.

“Sure.” Mara unlocked the door and pushed it open to permit the other two women to pass.

“What’s going on, Annie?” Mara asked when she’d closed the door behind her.

Gesturing for Miranda to sit, Annie took a seat on the large ottoman that sat before an armchair.

“Mara . . .” Annie struggled for her opening line.

“Annie, maybe I should . . .” Miranda touched Annie’s arm, and Annie nodded. Miranda looked at Mara. “As your sister told you, I’ve been assigned to the investigation of the Mary Douglas murders. Up until an hour ago, the theory was that this latest victim was the target all along. That her husband—who we’ve learned had been having an affair with a coworker—had wanted to get rid of his wife. In order to keep the light of suspicion off himself, however, he killed other women who had the same name.”

“Annie and I talked about this earlier. But you said this was the theory until an hour ago?”

“An hour ago, Kevin Douglas—the husband of Mary number three—was found with a bullet through his head. Not self-inflicted.”

“Oh.” Mara sat on the edge of the coffee table.

Annie reached forward and took one of her sister’s hands.

“Maybe the husband’s mistress . . .” Mara suggested.

“She’s in Cincinnati and has been since last Tuesday,” replied Miranda. “It appears that Kevin Douglas was home—or arrived home—around the same time as our killer. We believe that the husband was shot and may have been transported in the killer’s car, then dumped where the body was found.”

“How could he have taken the body out of the house without being seen?” Mara asked. “It would have been daylight, if he did this before her friends arrived.”

“The back of the Douglas property is heavily wooded, and there’s a fence that runs along the drive between their house and the house next door,” Miranda explained. “It would have been very easy for the killer to have carried the body out and put it into the trunk of his car. No one could have seen.”

“So the Mary Douglas killer is still out there,” Mara said.

“And no one has a clue to his identity or his motive.” Miranda added, “Or if he’s finished yet.”

“What do you mean, if he’s finished?” Mara stared at the FBI agent.

“Are you aware that of the three victims, only the first one was listed in the phone book as Mary Douglas? The other two were listed as M. Douglas,” Miranda told her.

“No, I—”

“Annie mentioned that you are listed as M. Douglas,” Miranda added.

“You and any other M. Douglas within a ten or twenty mile radius of here should be on guard. You have no idea what this man has done to these women,” Annie told her. “The police have kept a very tight lid on the investigation and have not given out any information as to the manner of death, but, Mara—”

“Annie, that’s enough,” Miranda interjected. She turned to Mara. “Suffice it to say that we’re dealing with a very . . . accomplished . . . individual. One who appears to be adept at inflicting pain on helpless women.”

“I don’t consider myself helpless,” Mara said.

“I’m sure neither of the three Marys did either, until they were tied up and gagged,” Miranda told her bluntly.

“And you’re thinking I might be a potential victim?”

“I’m thinking you might even be the next victim,” Miranda said.

“You want to explain how you arrived at that?” Mara’s hands began to shake.

“The first victim was Mary Douglas—the only Mary Douglas listed by full name in the telephone book. The next victim—also a Mary—is listed by initials only: M. A. Douglas. Mary Alice. The last victim was listed as M. E. Douglas. Mary Eleanor.”

“You think he’s going alphabetically through all of the M. Douglases?” Mara’s eyes widened. “Finding his victims in the telephone book?”

“We don’t know that for certain, Mara, but if he is, you’re next in line,” Miranda said without blinking. “M. J. Douglas. That would be you.”

“But that makes no sense at all,” Mara protested. “Why not all the Jane Browns, or all the Susan Smiths?”

“We have no idea why he chose that name. The only thing we know for certain at this point is that his victims have been killed in the order in which they appear in the phone book.”

“And I’m the next listing.” Mara bit the inside of her lip.

“Yes. We’ve spent the day speaking with all of the remaining M. Douglases in the phone book,” Miranda noted. “There have been no threats, no strange mail or phone calls, nothing out of the ordinary, though they are, of course, understandably rattled by this.”

“For God’s sake.” Mara stood and began to pace. “I can’t imagine that anyone would do something this crazy. Kill people because of the order their names are listed in the phone book?”

“Obviously there’s more to it than that,” Miranda told her. “Obviously one of these M. Douglases—or someone named Mary Douglas—has some connection to our killer. We just haven’t figured out yet what that connection might be.”

“So what are you going to do?” Mara asked as Annie stood and started for the kitchen. “Annie, where are you going?”

“To make a pot of coffee for you and Miranda, and to put some water on to boil for my tea. And to see if you made it to the grocery store yet this week. I’m starving.”

And then, little sister, we’re going to talk about the fact that I want someone to keep a close eye on you.
Annie bit her lower lip while she filled the teakettle with water.
And who I think will be the best man for the job . . .

CHAPTER
THREE

“W
ELL, WELL.
T
HIS IS A SURPRISE.”
A
IDAN
S
HIELDS
stood just inside the door of his apartment and stared at the petite blond woman with wide blue eyes who stood in the hall.

“I imagine it is.” She smiled slowly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He backed into the small foyer, motioning for her to follow.

He waved a hand in the direction of the small living room, which was cluttered with piles of books and magazines stacked here and there, some on the small table in front of the sofa, some on the floor, others on a chair and the windowsill.

He cleaned off a chair and gestured for her to sit.

“Still the fashion plate, I see,” he noted. “Nice shirt, linen pants, not a wrinkle in sight.”

“And you’re still as . . .
casual
as ever.” She wondered when he’d last had his hair trimmed. “Cut-off denims, moldy old tee with the sleeves ripped out.”

“I don’t have much cause to dress up these days.”

“Your choice,” she reminded him.

“Right. My choice.” He pushed some newspapers aside and seated himself on the edge of the sofa. “So. What are you up to these days, Dr. McCall?”

“The usual. A kidnapping here, a serial killer there.” Annie crossed her legs and rested her right elbow on the chair arm.

He stared at her blankly, wondering why she was there.

“How are you, Aidan?” Annie asked more gently than she’d meant to.

“I’m okay, Annie.” He shrugged, ignoring the note of kindness. He wasn’t in the mood for kind.

“Just about healed?”

“Healed?” Aidan all but spat the word. “Are you
healed
?”

“As much as I ever will be.” She looked away from his eyes. They were so like Dylan’s.

“Good for you.”

“Good for me?” Her eyes narrowed sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means how nice for you, Annie, that you’ve been able to pick up your life and just keep moving on with it.”

“Instead of what? Sitting in my apartment and watching the seasons change from my window?” She glanced at the brown paper bag that sat near the door to the kitchen and overflowed with crushed beer cans.

“Looks to me like you made a mighty quick recovery.”

She bit the inside of her lip, struggling to keep from lashing out at him. “Just because I haven’t brought my life to a complete stop doesn’t mean I don’t miss him.”

He turned his head, fighting back words that would have wounded her more than he wanted.

“We all mourn in different ways, Aidan.” Her voice softened. “Working helps to make the days pass for me. Being in the world helps me to get through the pain.”

“I can’t get past it, Annie,” he said gruffly. “I’m glad for you that you’ve accepted that he’s gone, but I—”

“I didn’t say I accepted it,” she snapped, her polish beginning to chip. “Dylan was my life. He was my future. There were years we should have spent together. Children we should have raised and loved. We should have grown old together. I hate it, that all those things—my love, my future—were taken from me. But there are things we cannot change, things over which I have no control.”

“Ah, well, see, Annie? There’s the difference.” His jaw tightened. “I
had
control. And if I’d been a little more in control, the way I was supposed to have been—”

“Oh, is that what this is about?” She held out a hand as if to stop his words in their track. “Aidan, it’s time to take off the hair shirt. It doesn’t wear well on you.”

“That’s a bitchy thing to say.”

“You weren’t to blame for what happened.”

“Of course I was.”

“You know, I think you’re enjoying this martyr thing a little too much. It’s giving you an excuse to hide in here and not have to face anything you don’t want to ever again. It’s giving you an excuse to give up.” Annie rose suddenly from her chair, anger full-blown. “Dylan would hate what you’re doing to yourself. He’d drop-kick your ass clear into next week.”

“And if I’d been more alert that night, he’d be here to do just that, wouldn’t he?”

“Stop it. It wasn’t a matter of anyone not being alert. You were set up.”

“He counted on me to watch his back.” Aidan’s eyes darkened. “He trusted me.”

“And you were counting on someone else to be watching yours. It doesn’t always work out the way it’s supposed to—you’ve been in enough similar situations to know that. Sometimes the good guys lose.” Annie sighed deeply, tears in her eyes. “No one holds you responsible for his death, Aidan. Please stop blaming yourself. I can’t stand to see you like this.”