and was providing music for the occasion.
What foolish thoughts she had. Fanciful. Her life was of no importance to anyone but herself.
But she was glad he was back. She liked listening to him play the piano.
She took a breath and lifted the trunk lid and had a sense of raising the lid of a coffin. In a way, she supposed she was. The perfume of ancient rose petals and musk rose up to her, filling her senses, bringing a flood of memories with it. She was like Pandora, opening the box and letting loose all that was chaos and misery into the world.
Except only she would be affected by what was in this trunk. Only her world would be touched.
Eighteen
Detective O'Neal was at home in his den, drinking coffee and going through the murder file for the first victim, Rosalind Gibbs, making comparisons with the Lorraine Winters' case, trying to find something besides their physical likenesses, that would connect them. There was nothing. One an aspiring actress, the other a nurse. A caregiver and a performer. Couldn't be more different, at least in career choices.
Rosalind Gibbs was only two blocks from her home when she was grabbed. She had a live-in boyfriend, who'd been questioned a number of times and released. Name of Brian Redding, clean-cut kid, worked at Neilson's brewery. Tom thought another visit might be in order. After scanning the notes, he saw nothing that would constitute an ironclad alibi for the night of his girlfriend's murder. Redding said he was at a hockey game on the night in question, but they hadn't double-checked his story. If he recalled, the guy had a ticket stub, but you could get that off the sidewalk. Sometimes the smallest thing can be the key to unraveling a case.
Like with the David Berkowitz case, so-called Son of Sam, the psycho who stalked kids in parked cars and blew them away with his .44 Bulldog; it was a traffic ticket that did him in, and unquestionably saved more innocent kids from being slaughtered. Christ, it could have been his own two. The thought sent an icy bath through him. Life was a crapshoot.
He glanced up as Jake, his black lab let out a whine, his body jerking. He was curled up in front of the fireplace, dreaming again. After their run on the beach, he wiped out. They both did. Jake was shot in a domestic case a couple of years ago, a drunk fool with a gun, and he brought Jake straight here from the vet's. They were best friends. A friend he could talk to or not talk to, depending on how he felt. As for Jake, he was generally content if they were in the same room together. As good as new physically, Jake had a round scar on his left thigh where the bullet had penetrated. A bare spot where fur would never grow, like scar tissue over a wounded heart.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the big window that overlooked the ocean. He could hear the Atlantic crashing against the rocks below. He bought this place after the divorce, a five room bungalow he'd spent two summers winterizing, and was as content here as he was likely to get. But he did like the privacy, walking on the beach with his dog. Still, he missed being part of his kids' lives, both teenagers now. Missed being part of a family.
He closed the files, slipped them into his briefcase. He grabbed his coat, rattled the car keys, bringing Jake immediately to his feet.
"A drive?"
Jake answered with a single, joyful bark, tail thumping the floor.
As they drove in the direction of town, Tom ran other possible 'persons of interest' through his mind. There were a couple that warranted keeping an eye on. The piano player, for example, in the Peel Street building. Jeffrey Denton. When Tom questioned him about being at the funeral, he said, 'She was my downstairs neighbor for two years. I was paying my respects.' He also insisted he was visiting his mother on the night she was killed. Maybe. Another 'not exactly solid' alibi.
There was another note of
What foolish thoughts she had. Fanciful. Her life was of no importance to anyone but herself.
But she was glad he was back. She liked listening to him play the piano.
She took a breath and lifted the trunk lid and had a sense of raising the lid of a coffin. In a way, she supposed she was. The perfume of ancient rose petals and musk rose up to her, filling her senses, bringing a flood of memories with it. She was like Pandora, opening the box and letting loose all that was chaos and misery into the world.
Except only she would be affected by what was in this trunk. Only her world would be touched.
Eighteen
Detective O'Neal was at home in his den, drinking coffee and going through the murder file for the first victim, Rosalind Gibbs, making comparisons with the Lorraine Winters' case, trying to find something besides their physical likenesses, that would connect them. There was nothing. One an aspiring actress, the other a nurse. A caregiver and a performer. Couldn't be more different, at least in career choices.
Rosalind Gibbs was only two blocks from her home when she was grabbed. She had a live-in boyfriend, who'd been questioned a number of times and released. Name of Brian Redding, clean-cut kid, worked at Neilson's brewery. Tom thought another visit might be in order. After scanning the notes, he saw nothing that would constitute an ironclad alibi for the night of his girlfriend's murder. Redding said he was at a hockey game on the night in question, but they hadn't double-checked his story. If he recalled, the guy had a ticket stub, but you could get that off the sidewalk. Sometimes the smallest thing can be the key to unraveling a case.
Like with the David Berkowitz case, so-called Son of Sam, the psycho who stalked kids in parked cars and blew them away with his .44 Bulldog; it was a traffic ticket that did him in, and unquestionably saved more innocent kids from being slaughtered. Christ, it could have been his own two. The thought sent an icy bath through him. Life was a crapshoot.
He glanced up as Jake, his black lab let out a whine, his body jerking. He was curled up in front of the fireplace, dreaming again. After their run on the beach, he wiped out. They both did. Jake was shot in a domestic case a couple of years ago, a drunk fool with a gun, and he brought Jake straight here from the vet's. They were best friends. A friend he could talk to or not talk to, depending on how he felt. As for Jake, he was generally content if they were in the same room together. As good as new physically, Jake had a round scar on his left thigh where the bullet had penetrated. A bare spot where fur would never grow, like scar tissue over a wounded heart.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the big window that overlooked the ocean. He could hear the Atlantic crashing against the rocks below. He bought this place after the divorce, a five room bungalow he'd spent two summers winterizing, and was as content here as he was likely to get. But he did like the privacy, walking on the beach with his dog. Still, he missed being part of his kids' lives, both teenagers now. Missed being part of a family.
He closed the files, slipped them into his briefcase. He grabbed his coat, rattled the car keys, bringing Jake immediately to his feet.
"A drive?"
Jake answered with a single, joyful bark, tail thumping the floor.
As they drove in the direction of town, Tom ran other possible 'persons of interest' through his mind. There were a couple that warranted keeping an eye on. The piano player, for example, in the Peel Street building. Jeffrey Denton. When Tom questioned him about being at the funeral, he said, 'She was my downstairs neighbor for two years. I was paying my respects.' He also insisted he was visiting his mother on the night she was killed. Maybe. Another 'not exactly solid' alibi.
There was another note of
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