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“That was Sam,” Jaine said. “Luna’s dead.” Then her fragile control broke, and it was a long time before she could do anything except weep and hold on to T.J.
It was sunset before Sam arrived. He looked tired and angry He introduced himself to Galan, because neither Jaine nor T.J. thought to.
“You were at the funeral,” Galan said suddenly, his gaze sharpening.
Sam nodded. “A Sterling Heights detective was, too. We hoped we could spot him, but he’s either too slick or he wasn’t there.”
Galan glanced at his wife. T.J. was sitting quietly, absently stroking the black-and-white cocker spaniel. Yesterday Galan’s gaze had been remote, but there was nothing remote about the way he was watching her now. “Someone’s really after them. It’s so damn hard to believe.”
“Believe it,” Sam said briefly, his guts twisting with fury as he remembered what had been done to Luna. She had suffered the same vicious, personal attack, her face battered beyond recognition, the multiple stab wounds, the sexual abuse. Unlike Marci, she had still been alive when he stabbed her; the apartment floor was awash in blood. Her clothes had also been shredded, just like Jaine’s. When he thought how close Jaine had come to dying, what she would have suffered if she had been at home on Wednesday night, he could barely contain his rage.
“Did you get in touch with her parents?” Jaine asked hoarsely. They lived in Toledo, so they weren’t far away.
“Yes, they’re already here,” Sam said. He sat down and put his arms around her, cradlin
g her head on his shoulder.
His pager beeped. He reached for his belt and silenced it, then glanced at the number and cursed, rubbing his face. “I have to go.”
“Jaine can stay here,” T.J. said, before he could ask.
“I don’t have any clothes,” Jaine said, but she wasn’t protesting, just stating a problem.
“I’ll drive you home,” Galan said. “T.J. will go, too. You can pack whatever you need, stay as long as you want.”
Sam nodded in approval. “I’ll call,” he said as he went out the door.
Corin rocked back and forth. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep. He hummed to himself, the way he had done when he was little, but the magic song didn’t work. He wondered when it had stopped working. He didn’t remember.
The bitch in red was dead. Mother was so pleased. Two down and two to go.
He felt good. For the first time in his life, he was pleasing Mother. Nothing he had ever done before had been good enough for her because he had always been flawed, no matter how hard she tried to make him perfect. He was doing this right, though; she was very pleased. He was ridding the world of the whoring bitches, one by one by one. No. Too many “ones.” He hadn’t done three yet. He had tried, but one hadn’t been at home.
He remembered seeing her at the funeral, though. She had laughed. Or was it the other one? He felt confused, because the faces kept swimming in his memory.
One shouldn’t laugh at funerals. It was very hurtful to the bereaved.
But which one had laughed? Why couldn’t he remember?
It didn’t matter, he thought to himself, and felt better. They both had to die, and then it wouldn’t matter which one had laughed, or which one was “Ms. C.” It wouldn’t matter, because finally—finally—Mother would be happy and she would never, never hurt him again.
twenty-seven
On Monday morning, Sam sat in the Warren P. D. with his head propped on his hands, wading through the Hammerstead files again and again. The NCIC computers hadn’t given them a hit on any of the names, so he and Bernsen were simply reading and rereading, looking for something that would click in their heads and give them the clue they needed.
It was there; Sam knew it was. They just hadn’t found it yet. He suspected he already knew what it was, because of that nagging gut feeling he had missed something. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there, and sooner or later the bell would chime. He just hoped it was sooner, like in the next minute.
This guy hated women. He wouldn’t get along with them, wouldn’t like working with them. There might be a note in his file about a complaint lodged by someone, maybe even a harassment charge. Something like that should have jumped out at them on the first once-over, but maybe the complaint had been worded in such a way that the charge wasn’t actually spelled out.
Neither Jaine nor T.J. was working today. They were still together, though they had moved from T.J.’s house to Shelley’s, along with that yappy little cocker spaniel that sounded the alarm at any kind of intrusion, whether it was a bird on the patio or someone coming up the walk. He had been afraid Jaine would want to spend the day at home, since her new alarm system had been installed—under the eagle eye of Mrs. Kulavich, who was taking her guardian duties seriously—on Saturday while they were attending Marci’s funeral. An alarm system was fine, but it wouldn’t stop a determined killer.
But Jaine hadn’t wanted to be alone. She and T.J. were clinging together, shocked and dazed at what had happened to their tight little circle of friends. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind now that the List was what had triggered the violence, and the area police departments were putting together a task force to coordinate and work the cases, since no two of the friends lived in the same jurisdiction.
The national news organizations had been all over the story. “Who is killing the Ladies of the List?” one newscaster had intoned. “The Detroit area has been shocked by the violent murders of two of the women who authored the humorous and controversial Mr. Perfect List that took the nation by storm a couple of weeks ago.”
Reporters were camped outside Hammerstead again, wanting to interview anyone who was acquainted with the two victims. The task force had arranged to get copies of any interview tapes the reporters might make, in case their guy gave in to his ego and wanted to see himself on national television, mourning his two “friends.”
Reporters had also been at Jaine’s house, but left when they discovered no one was at home. He imagined they had checked out T.J.’s, too, which was why he had called Shelley and told her to ask Jaine and T.J. to spend the day with her. Shelley had been more than glad to comply. He figured that the snoops would talk to people who knew people and eventually find Shelley, but for today at least Jaine and T.J. weren’t being bothered.
