Fatal Game: A Breathless Chase Mystery Serial Killer Thriller

Book 7: The Jess Kimball Thrillers Series

by Diane Capri

Genres: Financial Thrillers; Legal Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

Investigative Reporter Jess Kimball’s impossible mission explodes in this new thriller from award winning New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Diane Capri.

His wife was kidnapped.

Her driver was murdered.

The police files are thick.

Video footage and telephone calls prove an air-tight case. Statements and witnesses confirm the surgeon's guilt.

Every piece of evidence proves the obvious, but the doctor claims it’s not true.

Out of options, he begs Jess Kimball to nail the ruthless serial killer whose crimes are the ultimate game.

But Jess doesn't play where justice is at stake. She's been on the other side of crime.

For Jess Kimball, justice is never a game.

Release date: May 20, 2017

Publisher: AugustBooks

Print pages: 354

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

Friday, May 12, 9:30 p.m.

Santa Irene, Arizona

 

Cora felt his eyes on her. She was the first woman who’d ever stood by Hades and he’d always done the same for her. The deep keloid scars on his face made him ugly to most women, but to Cora, they were proof of his fidelity.

Earlier today, at his brother’s funeral, she knew he’d felt a sliver of comfort, having her hand in his once again. Maybe his luck and hers were beginning to change.

When this job was over, they’d go away. Somewhere exotic, where neither had been before. Just the two of them. They’d have plenty of money. His brother would have approved, and that was the only motivation Hades craved right now. Cora nodded. Decision made.

Cora had worked hard, and she’d achieved the best physical condition of her life. Even in the moon’s cool blue aura, she felt beautiful. The line of her jaw, her neck, bountiful hair brushed back from her face. The curves of her figure, the delicacy of her fingers, the tone of her muscles.

Many men had praised her beauty. But not Hades.

He didn’t have the words.

Nor would he have ever uttered them.

For he was no god. Nor she the daughter of Zeus.

She grinned. They weren’t even Greek.

They were pure Arizona low-class trailer trash, born and raised. And they were perfectly comfortable standing in this bus shelter, waiting for the right moment. For Benny.

Across the road was a lounge. It’s neon sign read ndy’s Bar, the A having long since disappeared.

The parking lot was stuffed with an assortment of old cars and older trucks. So they waited.

Trucks drove in. Cars left. People walked down the street and entered through the front door. Cora ignored them all.

After fifteen minutes, a white panel van pulled into the lot. Hades nodded toward the tired looking vehicle. “There it is.”

His voice was low and sexy, and she loved it.

“Yep,” Cora replied.

The choice was made. She knew what to do. Hades walked off. He trusted her. They’d rehearsed the plan countless times.

Cora watched as he turned to his right, and disappeared around the corner.

The van’s driver was finishing his paperwork before he finally called it a day.

Cora crossed the street and used the front entrance. Andy’s was a busy bar on Friday nights. No one paid the least attention to her. She eased around the edges of the room, squeezing between the patrons, to the rear door that led to the parking lot.

The wig curled in waves that spilled down onto her shoulders. She wore a trench coat over a red silk dress that shimmered as it touched every one of her curves. She had donned thick black eyelashes, and her vibrant wet-look red lipstick was pure seduction from a tube.

She stood by a window, a few feet from the rear door, and unbuttoned her coat to show off the dress and the sizzling body it revealed.

The driver stepped out of the van and shrugged into his jacket. He dropped the keys in his pocket as he walked to the door.

She waited until he was three paces away to move.

The driver pulled the heavy steel door open. His head was down. He swung his right foot over the threshold.

Cora kept her pace, reaching the threshold at the same moment, and walked through as if he’d been holding the door open for her. They met in the archway. She put her hands up, pressing them against his chest as she tried to squeeze through. The man jerked his head up while his eyes swept her body from heels to cleavage, where his gaze stopped.

She slid her right hand over his shoulder and giggled. He raised his chin and stared into her eyes. She blinked her thick eyelashes. A long, slow, deliberate movement.

He pushed himself back onto the doorframe. “I—”

She leaned forward. Her gaze locked on his. “Who said chivalry is dead?”

“Er—”

She pulled him to her and kissed his cheek. He didn’t back away. She slid her left hand over his thin nylon jacket. Her fingertips felt the flap that covered his pocket.

She kept her face close to his. Two cheeks just touching. She squeezed his shoulder with her right hand and lifted the pocket flap with her left.

He pulled away a fraction, and she pushed closer to him and wiggled her hips.

Her fingers wrapped around the metal key ring in his pocket. She tucked the keys into the palm of her hand, squeezing to quiet the rattle.

She eased her hand out of his pocket and leaned back. His mouth was slack. His hooded eyes were unfocused.

She giggled and blinked her big eyelashes. “Sorry.” She dropped her gaze a fraction. “I couldn’t resist.”

The man licked his lips. “Sorry. I—”

She turned away, and walked out of the bar, keeping her hand and his keys in front of her. She strode purposefully, opening her purse as if to search for her own keys. She heard the door thump shut as he went inside and she glanced back to be sure. She was prepared to deal with him if he followed. But he didn’t.

She kept moving, weaving through the vehicles, on her way to the panel van.

To avoid electronic bleeps, she used the mechanical key. She slipped into the driver’s seat and twisted the key in the ignition at the same time as she pulled on the seat belt.

She was rolling within seconds.

The rear of the parking lot led to a two-lane road. She feathered the accelerator as she crept out into the traffic, turning right for the freeway a half mile down.

The van was old, but the engine was strong. It was a workhorse, and had power and torque to spare. Perfect for their needs.

She entered the freeway. A line of eighteen-wheelers, doing a steady sixty-five miles an hour, kept her pinned to the inside lane. She slowed to let them pass before moving into the left lane to accelerate.

The freeway speed limit was sixty-five, but she pushed it to seventy-five to clear the trucks. She pulled into the middle lane, in front of the trucks, and slowed to their speed.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. Her heart skipped a beat. A black and white police cruiser was fifty yards behind, passing the convoy of trucks, gaining fast.

The cruiser was probably responding to a call miles away. But she couldn’t risk being stopped.

The next exit was half a mile. She eased into the slow lane and used the trucks to shield her from the cruiser’s view.

She’d take the next exit, spend a minute waiting at traffic lights, and rejoin the highway. The cruiser would be far gone by then.

She heard the whoop of a siren. “Dammit!”

She moved over to the right-hand exit lane. Behind her, the trucks separated, and the cruiser darted through the gap.

She weaved around a blue Nissan, keeping her speed up as she covered the off-ramp. The road narrowed again before the cruiser could pass.

“Damn driver.” He must have reported his van already. Bad luck. Nothing more.

She took the first right. A single lane street. She needed buildings for cover. There was no way she would outrun the pursuit. This one cruiser, perhaps, but he would be calling for assistance already. She had less than a minute to ditch the van and put a good deal of distance between her and the police officers chasing her.

She touched the brakes as she approached a four-way stop. Traffic was sparse. Two cars were stopped, waiting their turn. She took the opposite lane, passed the cars, and swung left at the four way.

The van’s wide tires chirped at the strain in the fast corner, but they held the line, catapulting her through the intersection and onto another single lane road.

She floored the accelerator. The engine’s rumble became a full-blown roar. The van’s rear end squatted down. The distance to the next intersection passed in a flash.

The cruiser was a good hundred yards behind her. Another few blocks and she would have enough distance to dump the van and run.

She weaved around a stationary car at the next four-way stop sign, and raced alongside a car crossing the intersection, pushing ahead. She swerved into the right lane, ahead of the car.

A police siren wailed. Close. She glanced in her mirror. The original cruiser was still behind at the last intersection, but a second cruiser must have been at the stop.

The second cruiser fishtailed a ninety-degree turn, and raced after her.

Her slight advantage was gone. She gripped the wheel harder and cussed every word she’d learned in that broken-down trailer park playground at the age of six. If these worthless donut eaters wanted to play, she would play.

She eased off the gas. The engine groaned as it slowed the van’s weight. The second cruiser gained and moved into the opposing lane to pass.

Cora stomped on the gas. The big engine growled as it dumped fuel into its cylinders. The rear wheels broke traction. She flipped the steering wheel right.

Both back tires slid sideways across the pavement. The heavy van smashed hard into the second cruiser’s front wheel. The officer braked and turned his steering wheel.

But the van’s speed and force pushed the cruiser, and it whipped around, beyond human control. The cruiser’s rear smashed into a line of parked cars, bubbling over the hood of a mid-sized sedan, and smashing through a glass storefront. Pedestrians scattered, covering their heads to protect themselves from flying glass shards.

The second cruiser was permanently out of commission.

Cora eased off the gas. The van slithered back into a straight line as the tires regained their grip. The mayhem behind her slowed but did not stop the first cruiser.

She reached an area where the buildings were bigger and closer together. If she could gain enough distance, she could ditch the vehicle and blend in with the night crowds. She smiled. The odds were swinging in her favor. Her luck had improved.

Traffic lights marked the next intersection. The freeway was to the left, the denser city streets to the right. She gripped the wheel and decided to go right.

The lights were red. A line of traffic waited. The first cruiser was pressing hard behind her. She moved out to overtake the stationary traffic. A police car was blocking the right exit, red and blue lights flashing.

Another cruiser raced to block the road ahead but wasn’t yet in place.

A minivan wandered across the intersection. Cora eased left, judging the minivan’s progress, and matted the accelerator. She whipped by the waiting cars. The intersection cleared.

And the minivan stopped.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” She jinked the wheel, but she couldn’t deflect the van’s mass. She hit the minivan’s rear quarter panel at full speed. The minivan spun as if a giant had flicked a toy with his finger.

Cora’s airbag exploded. The force shoved her hands from the wheel. The van pirouetted and hit three cars waiting on the other side of the traffic light. The van scraped along the sides of the vehicles before lurching around the last car and hammering into the front of a flower shop.

Cora shoved the deflated airbag from her face. Steam poured from under the hood. The engine had died. The windshield was a mosaic of cracks.

The front of the van was buried in the storefront. Flowers were scattered everywhere.

She leaned all her weight on the door. It creaked open. Her left hand throbbed. In the dim light, she saw blood dripping onto the airbag and the steering wheel and down to the dirty carpet.

She struggled out of the van and landed on solid ground. Her legs were weak, but she was inside the flower shop. There was no time to torch the van. She had to go. Now.

Behind the counter was a door. She put her weight on the counter, rolled over, and pushed through the rear door.

It led into a stockroom, and another door led outside. She grabbed a handful of paper towels for her bleeding hand.

Outside an alleyway led to another street. More shops and a bus collecting passengers. She hurried to reach the bus a moment before the doors closed. She fished a few coins from her pocket and dropped them into the fare box. She walked down the aisle and slid into a seat near the rear door.

Passengers chattered about the noise and confusion of the big crash. A few pointed back to the intersection. She heard sirens headed toward the carnage. The bus drove in the opposite direction. Gradually the siren song subsided, and the passengers quieted.

Cora folded her arms and gazed out the window. She kept her injured hand covered with the paper towels and waited for her blood to clot. A bored commuter, blending into the fabric of life. The very life she had been so desperate to leave behind was now her means of escape. She smiled at the irony. As her adrenaline levels began to subside, the throbbing in her hand became more intense, but she ignored it. Nothing more she could do about it now.

In a couple of miles, she changed buses. She tossed the wig in a trash can on the street and cleaned off the makeup with a few swipes of the tissues in her pocket.

Two buses later, she made the call.

Hades would rescue her at the next bus stop. She’d get a lecture, and he would worry about the evidence she’d left behind. He worried about everything. Damn cop chasing her in that first cruiser was to blame. People must have died in that crash. What the hell did he think he was doing?

She shrugged. None of that was her problem. She’d calm Hades down. She always did. Their plans would be derailed for a week, but they were safe. And that slime ball Lawson wasn’t going anywhere with the money he stole from Benny, anyway. At least, not yet.

She looked at the bloody paper towels, dried now, adhered to her wound. If only she hadn’t hurt her hand.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Sunday, May 21, 8:30 p.m.

Santa Irene, Arizona

 

Hades raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. A half mile away sat Simon Lawson’s modern, two-story home on a gentle upslope. The closest neighbors were a hundred feet of lawn away from the house, separated by thick pines.

The property had a commanding view. The lawn swept upward from the street. A waist-high brick wall and a wrought iron gate separated the green manicured perfection from the daily road grime.

The solid front door was set deep into the front porch. The drapes were open, but plantation blinds shielded the interior from view. Light spilled from between the slats.

A three-car garage was nestled behind the house. Only two of the spaces were filled. Lawson had recently sold his Porsche and scoured the Internet for a late model Ferrari California to fill the vacant slot.

Hades grinned. He had different plans for that empty space.

Cora’s left hand still bore the wound of her first failed attempt to steal a white panel van. A broad bandage covered the gash. For the first few days, she had winced with the slightest movement. The wound was still fresh, but not as painful.

Last night, from a different bar in another part of town, she’d completed the theft easily. Before this night ended, the stolen van would rest in the spot Lawson had optimistically reserved for the Ferrari.

Hades took a deep breath to quell his nerves. Not because he feared the consequences. Far from it. He relished the stakes. The greatest risk for the greatest reward. Always one step ahead, one second from tragedy, one brush from the razor’s edge. Nothing else was worthy. Nothing else stirred his blood. Nothing else fired his imagination.

For the Greek god and his queen, nothing was as important as winning the game. Especially this time. For Benny.

A half mile away, the lights behind the plantation blinds in Lawson’s house went dark.

Now was the point Hades relished. The game began. He would balance on the razor-thin edge between life and death. The adrenaline almost fizzed in his blood.

He rapped twice on the metal wall behind him, between the van’s front seats and the two men waiting in the rear. “We begin,” he said.

“Ready.” Both men tapped once on the wall.

“Ready.”

Cora started the van. The engine rattled and knocked before settling out in a rough idle. She pulled out from the roadside spot where they had parked onto the planned route through the streets to the house with the now-darkened windows.

She drove easily. No high revs, no crunching the manual gearbox. The rough engine purred under her right foot. She was as in touch with the mechanics of a vehicle as anyone Hades had ever encountered. She was no trophy, no pampered debutante, no spoiled queen. She was as much a part of the gang as any of the men. How’d he get so lucky?

He checked his watch. Lawson and his wife had returned an hour earlier. They’d made dinner and opened an expensive bottle of wine. Content and relaxed. Perhaps discussing their weekly shopping expedition, or plans for the vacation they’d booked for next week.

Cora drove the van closer to the house. From here, Hades no longer needed the binoculars to see the front door, recessed into a deep and dark porch. On either side were tall windows. The windows upstairs were smaller and squarer, but no less dark.

This was the house owned by a successful doctor who had done well for himself. He’d studied hard and worked long hours. Even better, he had amassed significant wealth. He was even richer than his partner, Donald Warner, had been because of the money they stole from Benny.

Hades would take it all. Before the week was over, Lawson would beg him to do it.

Lawson needed nothing but an incentive, and Hades was a master of persuasion. He hadn’t been in his early years. Back then, he had merely mastered violence. In prison, he’d come to understand how violence could lead to consent. He’d learned the hard way, but he had learned well. He planned to demonstrate his skills to Lawson and that bitch he was married to.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawson were eating dinner in the dining room at the back of the house. He had watched their routine. He’d made notes and taken photographs. He knew their movements and actions better than they did. Predicting routines was the easiest thing in the world.

He rapped his knuckles against the metal wall. “Time,” he said.

Hades felt the two guys shift their weight, bringing stationary muscles to life. Stretching. Limbering up. They were like athletes; they never played a game unprepared. Hades heard the reverberating noise in the cavernous van as they released safety catches. Pony and Shorty were ready.

Hades pulled a VBR pistol from the holster on his hip. The gun seemed massive. One of the reasons he liked it was that it had a rough surface as if it had been cast from iron and forged in hell. Seemed fitting. A second hand grip and an offset sight added to the gun’s presence. Merely brandishing the weapon often encouraged capitulation. Thirty-three 9mm rounds backed up the threat. Hades chambered the first round and placed the gun in his lap.

In his coat, he carried a 12-gauge short-barreled Remington pump action shotgun. He’d removed the superfluous items on the shotgun. No fancy hooks or scrolls, so it slid smoothly out of a loop inside his long coat.

The shells were his own design. Lead shot replaced by chili powder. A single blast disabled an opponent for minutes. Fired into a room full of people, it produced dramatic results. No one died. But they often wished they had.

On his belt, he carried a nine-inch knife. The handle was thick and the blade serrated. Like the VBR, the mere sight of it could paralyze a civilian opponent.

Cora turned the van into the driveway, clicked off the engine, and rolled to a stop. She stayed at the wheel as Shorty slipped on his realistic latex mask. He left the back of the van and walked toward the front door. His shaved head reflected the moon’s faint glow until his black clothes melded into the darkness in the corner of the porch.

Hades and Pony put on their masks and headed around the rear of the building. They walked purposefully. The sort of walk that told nosey neighbors they were professionals doing professional work. Which, Hades grinned, they were.

Their clothes were black, too. They made no sound as they walked, the effect of coating the soles of their heavy, steel-toed boots with a layer of spray-on rubber.

The rear of the house sported picture windows that looked out on a full-length concrete patio. In the middle of the patio was a fireplace, open on two sides. On the far side of the fireplace were a pair of sofas, on the near side was a large mosaic table and chairs.

Cypress trees ringed the edge of the concrete, shielding the Lawson home from the prying eyes of distant neighbors. The windows were uncovered. No blinds or drapes. The garden was ringed in thick pine trees. Lawson had planted the trees to ensure privacy.

Fools.

The couple sat across from each other at the oval dining table. The lights were dimmed. A vase of flowers and a bottle of wine served as the table’s centerpiece

Lawson stood up, frowning. His wife’s eyes went wide.

Hades worked his way between the lawn chairs. His mask was excellent quality. The Lawsons were no doubt surprised to see Babe Ruth walking toward them from the darkness. Or maybe they didn’t recognize the slugger at all, which would be even better. He moved smoothly, steadily, smiling all the while.

Keep the targets curious.

There’d be time for fear later.

Pony followed him, pulling an iron battering ram from under his coat. Despite its fifty-pound weight, he swung it with ease.

Five paces from the house, Pony ran headlong into the rear door, planting the flat front of the ram against the door’s frame. The combined weight and momentum crushed the door around its lock.

Pony swung the ram back and pounded the door a second time. It sailed open.

Lawson bolted from the dining room. His wife ran into the living room.

Pony, wearing a mask with the likeness of an Australian soccer star they’d probably never seen on television, took off after the wife, his trademark ponytail flying behind him.

Hades went after Lawson, pulling out his shotgun as he ran.

Lawson was already halfway up a wide staircase. Hades knew Lawson kept a pistol in the drawer by his bed. Hades took the stairs two at a time.

Lawson used the banister at the top of the steps to change direction and maintain speed. Hades raised the shotgun. Lawson ducked and kept running the full length of the corridor.

Hades sprinted after him. Lawson darted into the master bedroom and flicked the door closed behind him.

Hades raised his boot and hammered into the door handle. The door whipped open.

Lawson reached for the drawer in his bedside table.

Hades leveled his shotgun. “Simon. Stop it.”

Lawson turned, his face screwed up in alarm.

It worked every time. The confusion. He could almost hear Lawson thinking, “I don’t know you, but you know me?”

The moment’s pause gave Hades all the time he needed.

He pulled the shotgun’s trigger.

The charge was small, the impact’s force subdued. The chili powder was hot. Painful. Stinging. Immobilizing. But not lethal.

Lawson took the blast in the shoulder. He twisted around, screaming.

Hades held his breath and covered the room in two paces. He swung his boot into Lawson’s kidneys.

Lawson groaned once and collapsed.

Hades grabbed him by the collar, dragged him downstairs, and threw him onto the sofa beside his wife.

Pony let Shorty in from the porch shadows through the front entrance. He returned to hold his gun pointed at the couple, in case they hadn’t already received the message to cower and be afraid.

Shorty, whose mask was the face of an obscure English footballer, ran to open the garage door.

The van’s engine coughed into life and rolled into the garage. Shorty closed the doors. A moment later and they’d all entered the house. Shorty sealed the broken rear door with duct tape.

The only sound in the silent house came from the ticking grandfather clock in the corner of the living room.

Hades dragged a dining room chair into the room and placed it by the coffee table, directly opposite Simon and Natalie Lawson. They pressed closer to each other. They’d lost their snooty arrogance the moment Pony battered their back door. Her lacquered bleached hair was barely disturbed, but her makeup was a mess. His face had aged a decade since he took the chili shot to the shoulder. Perfect.

Hades sat in the chair. He watched the couple huddled in a ball on the sofa.

Seconds ticked by.

Simon shifted his weight. Natalie whimpered and moved closer to him.

Hades eased his knife from the sheath, and dragged the tip across the table, scoring a line through the thick varnish and tearing splinters from the wood underneath. The sound reverberated through the room.

Natalie Lawson gripped Simon harder as if he was half the man she’d believed him to be an hour ago.

Hades smirked and cut another line. The same depth. The same splinters. The same spine-tingling sound.

He made a cross. X marks the spot.

He flipped the knife backward in his hand and swept it down hard, driving the tip deep into the wood.

The couple recoiled into a tighter ball.

This one’s for you, Benny. Hades left the knife standing upright, halfway between himself and them, the point buried deep in the expensive wood.

He smiled, revealing his broken front tooth. The one Benny had dinged with a bad bounce of a steely marble when they were kids. “Listen to me. Very carefully. I won’t repeat myself.”

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

Monday, May 22, 7:45 a.m.

Denver, Colorado

 

Jess Kimball was early. Her appointment with Carter Pierce, the owner of Taboo Magazine, wasn’t until eight o’clock. Carter lived and breathed for Taboo. He’d have arrived at least two hours ago, even on a Monday morning. Of course, he lived in the penthouse of the building, so his commute was shorter.

She took the elevator to the sixty-sixth floor of the magazine’s tower block. A few people exchanged smiles and greetings on the way. Others raised surprised eyebrows because her work rarely brought her to the premises.

She scanned the floor and noticed no decorating changes since she was here last. An open central area dotted with low-walled office cubes. TV monitors on stalks dangled from the ceiling. In one corner was Carter’s office. Actually, it was two offices. His personal space, and a large conference room next door where major stories and every issue of Taboo was hashed out by the team before publication.

On either side of Carter’s office were rows of smaller offices. Jess’s was the third door down from his. Though she never flaunted it, she was Carter’s go-to reporter. When the story was tough or delicate or likely to make worldwide headlines, he called her. She’d worked hard to earn the position, and she was proud of it, but the legal and contract departments outranked her and filled the offices closest to Carter.

On the opposite side of the floor, her assistant, Mandy Donovan, was busy with an overly complex coffee machine. She juggled a handful of glass and plastic and managed a wave. Jess waved back.

She reached her office and dropped her bag into one of her visitor chairs. Even though the room was spotless, it smelled vacant, the result of her near constant travel schedule.

She flipped through a pile of mail. Mandy had already handled the essentials. She slid the rest into the trash can. Even the special offers that might have interested her were out of date.

At three minutes to eight, she walked to Carter’s office.

Carter’s assistant, Thelma Baxter, was the epitome of the little old lady in sneakers who truly ran the daily business of the organization. Jess feared Taboo would cease to exist when Thelma died. There was no one and nothing the woman didn’t know.

Jess had no idea how old Thelma was, but she had seen decades of staff come and go. As a party trick, she could recite the magazine’s front page headline for each issue back forty years.

In the early days, Jess had seriously wondered if Thelma was actually the owner of Taboo who employed Carter as a decoy. She smiled as Jess approached and held out an envelope.

Jess frowned.

“Ticket and boarding pass, dear,” Thelma said.

“Do I need a ticket?”

She nodded toward Carter’s office. “I’ve never heard you turn him down before, so I figured I’d save a few minutes.”

“I just got back last night. I’ve got a couple of appointments scheduled and piles of laundry to do. Does a few minutes make a difference?”

Thelma tapped her watch. “Ten twenty-two. It’s the last flight today with a first-class aisle seat.” She raised her eyebrows with a mischievous grin. “Or you could go coach tonight. Red eye. Middle seat?”

“Ten twenty-two works. I’ll make a couple of calls.” Jess took the envelope and stashed it in her pocket.

Carter was talking on the phone. Between sentences, he held up an index finger to indicate she should wait. He spoke a few more moments before punching the phone’s off button and waved Jess in with a flourish.

He stood up. “Jess. Long time, no see.”

“It’s been three weeks.”

He laughed. “Ah, yes. But in our business? Half an hour can seem like years.”

He walked over to a long table where thin stacks of paper were lined up. He went for the stack closest to him and handed it to Jess. “Remember Dr. Donald Warner? The famous Arizona heart surgeon?”

Jess nodded. “Convicted last year for the kidnap and murder of his wife. And the felony murder of his chauffeur.”

Thelma walked in and placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of each of them. “Horrible man,” she said.

“Maybe,” Carter said, raising his cup and lowering his chin simultaneously. “And maybe not.”

Thelma glared at him.

He waved her out and turned his attention to Jess. “There was plenty of evidence to support the jury’s felony murder verdict on the driver. But the wife’s body was never found, and Warner still swears he didn’t kill her.”

Jess flipped through the papers, which were copies of short news accounts of the trial, mostly. “Has the wife’s body turned up?”

“Maybe. Which is why you’re here. It looks like there’s more to this story than we knew.”

“There always is.”

“Right. Stay with me here.” He settled into his chair. “A stolen van caused a traffic pile-up in Santa Irene, Arizona, ten days ago. Three fatalities, including a cop. Police were all over the scene in a matter of minutes, but the driver of the stolen van got away on foot.”

“They didn’t find the driver?”

Carter shook his head. “DNA everywhere, though. Including a lot of blood. Because of the fatalities, and the dead cop, all the trace evidence was fast tracked. When the processing was finished, they realized that among the blood samples they collected was Karen Warner’s blood.”

“So, Warner’s wife is alive after all?” Jess nodded slowly. She covered cases where the wrongfully accused were convicted of murder. Not often did convicts rightfully proclaim innocence, but it happened too frequently to suit Jess because it meant the wrong man was behind bars while the real killer walked free. “Dr. Warner is serving a prison term he doesn’t deserve.”

“Maybe, I said.” Carter finished his coffee and plopped the cup onto his desk with a thud. “This is where it gets more complicated. It turns out Karen Warner had a twin sister.”

“I remember that from the original case.” Jess nodded. “Identical twins, identical DNA.”

“Bingo.”

“So, was it the allegedly dead wife or the sister driving the stolen van?”

“That’s the question. Should have an easy answer. Just ask the sister, right?” Carter shrugged. “No can do because the sister has gone missing.”

Jess cocked her head and frowned. “When was the sister last seen?”

“Melissa Green was a recluse, I guess. Not a big socialite. But there are witness reports from a few weeks ago. Nothing since then.”

“Absolutely no one has seen her for a few weeks? Not the mailman or the paperboy or even the guy who cuts the grass?”

“Seems not. She lived alone. No close neighbors.” Carter shook his head. “There is no car in her garage, and her house is closed up.”

“Has anyone searched the house?”

“Now that they have a firm report on the DNA from the van, and figured out the connections, local police are searching the sister’s house this morning.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “Which is why I have a ticket on the very next flight to Arizona.”

“It’s strange, don’t you think? Donald Warner’s wife goes missing, and then months after he’s found guilty and sentenced to prison for her murder, her identical twin sister goes missing.” Carter smiled. “What are the odds?”

Jess couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “There’s no sign of the sister? No plane tickets? Credit cards? Rental cars?”

Carter picked up his Mont Blanc and twirled it absentmindedly through his fingers. “No, no, no, and no.”

Jess flipped through more of the papers. When she saw photos of the man who called himself Hades, the hideous scars on his face sent a quick spasm up her spine. Below the news reports of the van wreck, she saw witness statements, photographs, and police evidence from Donald Warner’s trial. “Does Warner have a motive?”

“For getting rid of his wife?”

“Or his wife’s sister.”

“Possible, I guess.” Carter shook his head. “But not from what I’ve heard.”

“What else have you heard?”

“You don’t have a lot of time if you’re going to catch that plane.” He pointed at the papers with his Mont Blanc. “Everything I know is in there. Call me if you have questions.”

Jess leaned back and ticked off options on her fingers, thinking aloud. “Either Warner arranged the sister’s disappearance. Or he didn’t do the deed, but someone else has a grudge against some combination of him, the wife, and the sister. Or it’s all one big coincidence.”

“Or something else entirely.” Carter smiled and folded his hands on the desk. “I’m not worried. You’ll sort it all out.”

“If Warner’s not guilty of his wife’s murder, he doesn’t deserve to be doing prison time for that crime.” She looked at the sheaf of papers. “And I don’t like to leave a killer walking free.”

“Who does? But right now, we don’t know.” He raised his eyebrows. “Could be there’s an innocent man behind bars. Or could be there is a killer on the loose, and the last option is…let’s call it a human-interest story.”

“Only two out of three falls in my wheelhouse.”

“As close as we can expect to get in this business.” He smiled and turned his attention to his ringing phone. “I’ve already got Mandy working on setting up an interview with David Warner after you talk to the cops at the sister’s place.”

She tapped the first-class ticket in her hand. “Gotta go. Not much time to catch my flight.”

On the way out, she grabbed Mandy. “Walk with me.”

“Sure. What’s up?” Mandy’s legs were longer than a sultry summer afternoon. Jess found herself hustling to stay alongside her assistant.

“I had scheduled an appointment with Trent this afternoon to discuss his progress on Peter’s case.” Jess found herself slightly out of breath and slowed her pace. Mandy seemed to be loping like a giraffe until they reached the elevator and punched the down button. “Can you let him know I’m on my way out of town and I’ll catch up with him when I get back?”

“Of course. But I saw Trent last night.” Mandy blushed, which was a first. She was straightforward and plain-spoken. Jess had never seen her embarrassed before. Her relationship with Trent Brennan must have heated up a bit since Jess saw them last.

“You really like this guy, don’t you?” Jess teased as they entered the elevator.

Mandy cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Trent said he’s read all the files, and he’s been following up on those leads you sent him, but he hasn’t had any luck.”

Jess nodded. She wasn’t surprised. Her son had been taken more than a dozen years ago. She’d added Trent to her investigative team because fresh eyes could sometimes see things others more jaded did not. Trent hadn’t been on the team very long. She breathed in a little patience.

When the elevator doors opened at the garage level, Jess said, “No need to get out. I’m in a rush anyway. Just pass along the message for me, and I’ll call you later, okay?”

“You bet,” Mandy replied as Jess hurried into the garage and toward her car.