Dead Wrong Page 3

  “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 conti
nue 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

  THE 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.

  People gathered in groups, depending on whether they worked in Judicial Support or Personnel, Children and Youth or Tax Claim, and shared office gossip and weekend plans. Jurists on lunch break chatted about anything other than the case they were hearing.

  A mere ten feet from the hot dog stand, a criminal defense lawyer badgered an assistant district attorney over something that had happened the previous week in court and still apparently rankled. Three employees from the D.A.’s office pretended not to notice as they passed by on their way to the queue at Maury’s.

  “That’s Mack Thompson,” Tina Gillette whispered to her companions as they approached the hot dog stand. “Sounds like he’s still pissed over the verdict on the Morrison case last week.”

  “Thompson’s a whiner,” Mary Douglas responded before stepping up to place her order with the ever-cheerful Maury. An administrative assistant to several of the ADAs, Mary was familiar with many of the cases prosecuted by her office, including the one currently under discussion.

  “My boss said Thompson takes loser cases that no one else wants and then whines all over town when he can’t win. Bruce had a case with him last year and really whooped his butt.” Joanie Fox spoke in a low voice.

  “I heard about that,” Tina said as she tucked her change away and gathered up her lunch. “Want to see if we can find a bench?”

  “Good luck.” Mary glanced around. There was not an empty seat in sight. “Why don’t we just stand over there near the steps? At least we’ll be in the sun for a while.”

  “Fine with me.” Joanie nodded and fell in step with the others.

  “Did you see the new ADA they hired?” Tina set her soda down near her feet in an effort to free up her hands so that she could unwrap her sandwich.

  “Him or her?” Joanie asked.

  “Her.” Tina rolled her eyes. “She has a face like a bat.”

  “I can’t believe you said that.” Mary choked on her bite of hot dog. “That’s really awful. Especially since she’s so nice.”

  “Mary, you think everyone is nice. You even liked Annette Falcone, and we all know what a bitch she was,” Tina said, recalling an especially unpopular assistant prosecutor who had worked for the county until the previous fall, when she’d left for private practice. “She was the most miserable, demanding—”

  “She really wasn’t,” Mary protested. “She was conscientious, and okay, maybe she was a bit of a perfectionist—”

  Her friends hooted.

  “Boy, is that a stretch,” Joanie laughed, and nudged Tina with her elbow. “We have to keep reminding ourselves that Mary takes that ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all’ stuff to heart.”

  “Yeah, well, wasn’t it Eleanor Roosevelt who said, ‘If you can’t say something nice, come sit next to me’?” Tina grinned.

  “One of the Roosevelts said it, but it wasn’t Eleanor. So, what are you doing this weekend?” Mary changed the subject. “Either of you have plans?”

  “Nada.” Tina shook her head. “The kids are going with their father. He’s picking them up right after school and I won’t see them until Sunday night. How ’bout you? You and Kevin have any plans?”

  “Kevin is working night shift this weekend.” Mary made a face.

  “What? I thought you liked it when Kevin worked nights. Didn’t you say that you liked having the house to yourself because it gave you a little time to read or watch a movie that you wanted to see?” asked Joanie.

  “I did. But that was before . . .” Mary’s voice trailed away.

  “Before what?”

  “You’re going to laugh.” Mary’s eyes flicked back and forth between her companions.

  “Maybe.” Tina smirked. “Tell us anyway.”

  “Before the Mary Douglas murders,” Mary said quietly.

  “Oh, I am so not laughing.” Tina grew solemn and shook her head. “Let me tell you, if a couple of women named Tina Gillette were found dead two weeks in a row, I’d be plenty freaked. God, I’d have myself locked away until they found him. I’d have an armed guard at my door and I’d—”

  “Thanks. I no longer feel foolish,” Mary said grimly. “Now I feel terrified.”

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Me and my mouth . . .” Tina’s face reddened.

  “Look, how late is Kevin working tonight?” Joanie pulled a cigarette from one pocket, then searched another for matches.

  “He usually leaves right after dinner, around six-thirty or so, and gets home around three in the morning.”

  “Would it make you feel better to have a little company? I’m not doing anything tonight. I could bring over a movie,” Joanie suggested.

  Before Mary could answer, Tina chimed in, “We’ll make it a girls’ night. I’ll come, too. We can watch a movie, have a pizza break, watch another movie. . . .”

  “That’s so nice of both of you. Are you sure there isn’t something else you’d rather do?”

  “Oh, hell, what are friends for?” Tina glanced at her watch, noting that their lunch hour was just about over. “Joanie, why don’t we meet up for dinner at Hugo’s? We can grab a couple of movies at Chasen’s next door, then shoot on over to Mary’s.”

  “Sounds great. What do you say, Mary? Girls’ night at your place?” Joanie took a few last short drags before stubbing out her cigarette. She picked up the butt and tossed it into the container at the foot of the courthouse steps.

  “That would be great. More than great. Thanks. I really appreciate it.” Mary breathed a sigh of relief and followed her friends back into the building, totally unaware that every move she’d made since she stepped outside forty minutes earlier had been watched oh so carefully.

  As the wide glass doors closed behind Mary Douglas, the man seated on the bench diagonally across from where she’d been standing folded his newspaper, tucked the paper under his arm, and rose. Without a b
ackward glance, he left the same way he’d come. He walked three blocks north to the side street where he’d parked his car earlier that morning after following Mary from her home to the courthouse, after which he’d walked to a local coffee shop, had a leisurely breakfast, bought a paper, and poked into a few of the shops on Main Street, just to kill a little time. Then he’d returned to the courthouse, found himself a nice bench with a clear view of the front steps, and waited. And then there she’d been, her courthouse ID pinned to the lapel of her jacket like a medal.

  Employment confirmed.

  Could there be any doubt that this Mary Douglas worked at the courthouse and was therefore the Mary Douglas involved in custody hearings? No doubt whatsoever in his mind. How many Mary Douglases could be working in there?

  He’d watched her eat a hot dog and wash it down with a diet soda while she chatted with her friends. He’d momentarily lost her, early on, when she’d stepped behind the lunch truck, but he knew she’d appear again. There was only one way in or out of the courthouse, and he had a front row seat. She’d passed him twice, and he’d had ample opportunity to watch her as she walked by, ample opportunity to peer over the top of his paper with true appreciation and much anticipation at her long legs.

  She was much younger, much prettier than the other two Marys.

  The thought of her—of what was to come—had surged through him like an electrical charge. All the way back to his car, he fought an urge to whistle.

  Just before ten on Saturday morning, Mara eased her car around the corner, searching in vain for a parking spot. As she passed by the front of the courthouse, she noted the line of news vans parked in front of the main walk. Every station in town appeared to be represented. Some reporters had already set up and were obviously preparing for live broadcasts.

  Something pricked at the back of her neck. It was odd—more than odd—for there to be such activity on a Saturday.

  She drove on to the next corner and made a left, hoping to find a place to park on one of the small side streets.