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Meaning who would be surveilling the funeral to ID John. Just getting a photograph of him would be worth a lot of money to a lot of people and quite a few governments. There was always the possibility that Rick had been killed for no other reason than to draw John into a public situation. Not that any photograph of him tomorrow would be worth a shit. McPherson had known John most of his life, and he probably wouldn't recognize him tomorrow even if he was standing right next to him.
"Will Vinay have a net on the area?"
"I'd like an extra set of eyes. Someone closer in."
And that meant John hadn't ruled out an inside job. At this point, he hadn't ruled out anything, though the information about Dex Whitlaw meant the possibility that Rick had simply been the victim of a robbery/murder was just about down the tubes. As Detective Chastain had said, that was straining coincidence a little too far.
But John was a cool, subtle thinker, which was what made him so dangerous and so valuable. He weighed probabilities, percentages, possibilities, saw shadows and details others missed. Jess McPherson didn't completely trust many people, but John Medina was one of them. Frank Vinay was another. And Rick Medina had been on that list as well. Losing him hurt.
"I'll be there," he said gruffly, and disconnected.
Marc checked his watch: nine forty-five. The small, pitiful body on the autopsy table was telling a tale of horror, of a short life spent in pain and terror. He had checked the area hospitals and come up with a list of visits to the emergency departments that made him cringe. Little James Blake Gable had already had ten "accidents" this year, accidents serious enough to warrant medical attention. The Gables had avoided attention by using a different hospital each time. One of the doctors should have picked up on the signs of systematic abuse, but no one had.
What about the families? Hadn't either Mr. or Mrs. Gable's family noticed something was wrong? Hadn't they noticed their grandson was slowly being murdered or that Mrs. Gable had become reclusive? Sure they had. What Marc couldn't understand was how they had just let it go, ignored it, probably hoping things would get better. Well, things never got better unless someone did step in. Now it was too late for the little boy, and Marc had a sinking feeling that time was running out for Mrs. Gable, too.
He checked his watch again. Even with everything he had going on right now, he needed to call Karen. The urge to do so tightened his stomach, knotted his nerves. It wasn't just that he wanted to get things settled between them; he felt uneasy, restless.
He hadn't talked to her in twenty-four hours, and suddenly, he thought it was twenty-four hours too long. He wanted to know she was all right, tell her how he felt, get her back to New Orleans, somehow. Maybe it was because the CIA, in the form of Mr. McPherson, had come sniffing around after he had Shannon put out the feeler on Medina. All the details about Dexter Whitlaw's murder that had struck him as unusual—the neatness of the hit, the lack of noise that indicated silencers, the expensive pistol in Whitlaw's possession—took on a lot more importance when teamed with the information that he had known the other murder victim, who just happened to have worked for the CIA. A simple street murder had become complicated.
No, it wasn't that. He struggled to pay attention to the autopsy, but the tension in his gut wouldn't go away. As soon as this was over, he would call her. He should already have done it. Never mind needing to calm down; what he needed was to talk to her. This was two mistakes he'd made, he thought grimly. The first was leaving her alone yesterday morning, the second was not calling until he finally got her instead of the answering machine.
His radio crackled to life. Dr. Pargannas looked up and scowled at the interruption. Marc listened to the code for a suspected murder in the Garden District. The address was very familiar to him. "Ah, shit! The son of a bitch has killed his wife!" He spat the words out as he ran from the autopsy room.
Defeat was a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd been afraid of this. He had been caught between the need to have everything right so the bastard couldn't get off on a technicality and the need to hurry, to do something now. In another two hours, he would have had an arrest warrant, and Mr. Gable would be safely locked away. For Mrs. Gable, two hours was now a lifetime too long.
When he got to the house, the wide, tree-lined street was choked with patrol cars. The heat and humidity wrapped around him like a blanket as he walked up the sidewalk and into the cool, high-ceilinged elegance of the house. He was sick with fury and helplessness, but he shoved his feelings aside so he could do his job—for all the good that would do Mrs. Gable now.
"Where?" he asked one of the patrol officers.
"Upstairs." The woman looked rattled.
He climbed the wide, curving stairs and followed the commotion to a bedroom. The room was huge, probably thirty by thirty, and decorated like Hollywood's idea of European royalty. The big bed was draped with white net that hung from the ceiling. Ornate mirrors and original oil paintings decorated the walls, and furniture was arranged into two formal conversation areas. Tall alabaster vases held arrangements of irises coordinated with the color scheme of the room, which was white and gold with accents of peach and blue. A new color had recently been added to the room: red.
A lot of red. Red that sprayed, red that pooled, red that was turning rust-colored as it dried.
Mrs. Gable sat on one of the sofas. The back of her head was gone. She hadn't fallen over, simply slumped back against the cushions as if now she could relax. Her eyes were open, empty with death. Death wasn't peaceful; it was just nothing. Everything gone. No more sunrises, no more hopes, no more fears. Nothing.
She wore a white silk gown and negligee, low-cut, sheer. Sexy. Marc crouched in front of her, his gaze cataloging the mottled bruise on her neck he had glimpsed yesterday, as well as all the other marks. There was a small purplish mark on the upper curve of her breast, the sort of mark lovers left on each other. He suspected that the autopsy would find Mrs. Gable had had sex not long before her death. The bastard had probably thought making love to her, treating her tenderly for a change, would keep her quiet about how their little boy had died.
Maybe that was what had pushed her over, the fact that he had killed her son and then come to her for sex. Maybe she had planned it anyway.
Marc turned his head and looked at Mr. Gable's body, or what was left of it, sprawled in the bathroom doorway. She must have waited until he was about to step into the shower, then walked into the ornate bathroom and emptied a pistol into him. From the looks of it, she had then reloaded and kept shooting until the gun was empty again. The remnants of body parts were splattered around him. She had been very particular in what parts she shot off. Then she had reloaded once more, walked to the sofa, sat down, put the gun barrel in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.
The letter of the law was not always the same thing as justice. Mrs. Gable had sought justice for her son and achieved it by her own ends. Perhaps she had then killed herself because she couldn't face prosecution, or because she couldn't face life without her child—or in atonement for acting too late to save him.
Marc stood, his expression grim and set. All that was left for him to do was the paperwork.
Karen sat curled on a bed in one of the emergency department cubicles. She didn't know why she was here, but she was too numb to protest, even to care. She couldn't go to the apartment; the police had it roped off until they finished their investigation. She didn't want to go to the apartment. She wouldn't ever be able to sleep there again, even after that man's blood and gray matter were cleaned from the door… the carpet…
The medics had been insistent that she have medical attention, though she told them she was a nurse and was capable of assessing her own injuries, none of which required hospitalization or even emergency care. Her face was bruised, she had carpet burns on her knees and a small cut, too minor to require stitches, on her foot, and her ribs were sore, probably from the struggle. None of the shots had hit her, though the last one had been close enough that bits of Sheetrock had gotten in her eye, but eyewash had taken care of that problem.
All in all, she was in good shape, considering that man had been trying his damnedest to kill her.
She had no doubt about his intention. Once he had known she was in the apartment, he hadn't fled, which was what the run-of-the-mill burglar would have done. Instead, he had come after her, pistol in hand.
But why? That was what the policemen had asked, and she had asked it herself. Violent home intrusions happened. She was a woman living alone, a prime target. She hadn't lived in the apartment long; perhaps the ma
n had thought someone else lived there. But he hadn't ransacked her apartment looking for valuables. He had carefully searched it and neatly returned everything to its place. And then he had tried to kill her.
