Dark Pursuit Part 12

First victim Tamara Strait was discovered last September in the hills on the south side of Gayner. Strait, twenty-seven, Caucasian, was a checker at the Sequoia Station Safeway in Redwood City. Recently divorced, she was new to the area, living alone in a one-bedroom apartment at Hampton Place. Strait's daughter, age five, lives with Strait's mother in Los Angeles. According to police her ex-husband, Samuel Strait, also living in the L. A. area, was questioned and determined to have been in Southern California at the time of the murder.

Linda Davila was a single mother of two children with no other family in the northern California area. The children's father, Tom Gerritson of Reno, Nevada, is being questioned today by Gayner Police.

Darell read the article twice, one hand plucking at his lip.

Victim's ages were fairly close. Varied ethnicities. Both divorced. Both mothers. Worked very different kinds of jobs in different towns.

Strait was new to the Bay Area. Was Davila?

Did they both know Craig Barlow?

That may not matter, considering Craig was a cop on patrol. He would see many women come and go from their homes and could track them with immunity.

As for his father, the man sounded like a real hothead. A police chief should keep his cool under fire. Las.h.i.+ng back at a concerned citizen would not win him any points with the public or media.

Darell rubbed his chin, thinking of his novels. If he placed a murder in a small town under the jurisdiction of a police force inexperienced with investigating homicides-wouldn't he have a smart police chief request help from outside sources?

Of course he would. In fact his police chief had done just that in Sweetriver Affair. Sweetriver Affair.

No, not that one. Sideswiped. Sideswiped.

No, not Sideswiped. Sideswiped.

What was was the t.i.tle of that novel? the t.i.tle of that novel?

Maybe Sidetracked Sidetracked ... ...

"Pssh," he muttered. Didn't matter.

Darell stared at the screen, trying to retrace his line of thought.

The chief.

Why would he not ask for help? Especially after the second murder.

A horrific thought surfaced. Did Chief Barlow know about his son?

p.r.i.c.kles hotfooted between Darell's shoulder blades-the sensation he used to feel at the rise of an unexpected plot twist. His thoughts snagged on the feeling, the excitement it generated. Yes, yes, this was right. Just what he'd do in a book!

He'd reveal the twist ... halfway through the story.

No. In the crisis/climax.

Maybe Leland Hugh was the son of a police chief.

No, too close to this real case. The son of a ... county sheriff.

Or the coroner.

A state senator.

Yes-a state senator immersed in pus.h.i.+ng through tougher legislation on crime ...

Darell's gaze drifted out the window. Thoughts of his story swirled and dipped like leaves in a mercurial wind.

Sometime later-he didn't know how long-the gusts abruptly died. Images of Hugh, the senator, the psychiatrist plummeted to earth and stilled.

Darell blinked.

He swung his focus back to the monitor. What was ... ?

The news article. He'd been reading about the Gayner homicides. The chief.

Did the man know his son was the murderer?

Darell's eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility.

Perhaps. It would explain why the chief hadn't asked for help. He didn't want want the murders solved. As months dragged on, evidence could lie uninvestigated or even disappear. Meanwhile the chief would be trying to rein in his son. the murders solved. As months dragged on, evidence could lie uninvestigated or even disappear. Meanwhile the chief would be trying to rein in his son.

Had anyone explored links between the victims? Or sought the origin of the black and green fabric? It could be sent to an outside lab, tests run to determine its unique makeup. From there they could discover what company made the cloth, where it was sold. Try to track down who purchased it.

Darell gazed at his keyboard, a realization dawning. For two years he'd cut himself off from the world. What a disser vice to his career. Just fifteen minutes' drive away this fascinating case had been playing out for the past twelve months. Real life that could have fueled the fire of his creativity. Were novels not slices of life, reflections of the world?

Little wonder his imaginative flame had barely flickered.

Tiredness seeped into Darell's veins.

He sighed. Dinner was. .h.i.tting his digestive system. He took deep breaths, scowling at his weakness. It could be hours yet before Kaitlan phoned.

If she called at all. she called at all.

The hair on his arms nudged up.

He wrenched his eyes back to the screen. He must help her. He needed to concentrate. Read another article.

Before Darell's hand could click the mouse, Leland Hugh pulsed again into his thoughts. Trailed by his senator father ...

Chief Barlow ...

The fabric and a body on the bed ...

Hugh's psychiatrist ... Kaitlan ... Craig ...

Darell's brain floundered. It turned in futile circles, seeking direction.

He was lost.

Darell pressed both hands to his temples and closed his eyes. Why Why had he thought he could do this? had he thought he could do this?

Even in his halcyon days he'd struggled. His suspense plots were Daedalean labyrinths, fraught with red herrings and foreshadow and innuendo and a.s.sumptions, both right and wrong. Some tunnels misled readers. Others ended in truth. Theme and metaphor lay in yet other pa.s.sages. Each fed off the other, creating an intricate and precarious maze. One tiny change in plot, veer two degrees instead of four-and everything s.h.i.+fted. Every character motive, every word and thought. How then to retrace his steps to the beginning, rewrite everything as required?

Sometimes his writing had wandered for days, searching for the silken thread of Theseus to lead it back.

Darell's head flopped to one side. His tiredness now surged on a high, dark tide.

Maybe after a good night's sleep he could think again.

But Kaitlan needed him now.

He stared at the monitor. With mouth-firming determination he clicked to a second news article. He hunched forward, fighting to read it.

The words blurred.

Darell sagged back against his chair. His gaze floated to the edge of his screen, then out the window ...

With a sigh he pushed away from his keyboard and stared dully at the soulless night.

CHAPTER twenty-four

They spoke little in the car.

Craig drove a souped-up blue Mustang, the final touch to the perfect picture of muscled cop with good looks and charm. Or so Kaitlan once thought. Now that picture looked mottled and ugly, acid-stained.

Her pulse skimmed.

The Mustang's top was down, and cold wind whipped hair against her tingling cheek. She tensed in the chill. Northern California was so different from L. A. When the sun set, the temperature dropped. Kaitlan gathered her hair in one hand and held it against the nape of her neck. The leather upholstery beneath her whispered a tale of horror. Had this seat been the last thing that woman's body warmed?

Kaitlan s.h.i.+vered.

Craig's jaw was set, his mouth a thin line. His left hand gripped the steering wheel, the right s.h.i.+fting with hard movements. He wouldn't look at her.

She leaned her head back against the seat rest and closed her eyes. Her stomach fluttered, and she knew the nausea would soon return. Probably about the time they sat down to eat.

Craig had hit hit her. her.

Kind of stupid how that had thrown her, in light of everything else she now knew about him.

Maybe abuse ran in the family. Had Craig's father mistreated his wife? Is that why she'd walked away from him and her kids?

But what kind of woman would leave her children with an abusive man?

They wound down Edgewood Road, the divide between Redwood City and San Carlos, hit Alameda and turned left. Craig's father lived in a three-bedroom white wood house in the Belmont Hills. Craig and Hallie had grown up there. Schultz's restaurant, one of the family's favorites, was in a strip mall in Belmont, less than a mile from the house. The party was being held in a private room.

Kaitlan touched her cheek. Had the redness faded?

She spotted the strip mall a few blocks up. Kaitlan dug her fingers into the seat. Everything within her wanted to jump out of the car and run away. How was she supposed to get through this party?

Kaitlan didn't know how many people would be attending. Plenty, she hoped. All the more easily she could avoid Chief Barlow.

Craig pulled into the parking lot of the mall and cut the engine. He turned toward her and nudged hair off her cheek-almost like the old Craig. "You might want to comb it."

Her fingers fumbled as she opened her purse.

He watched until she finished, then touched her shoulder and smiled-the expression that sparkled his eyes and deepened the grooves in his cheek. Pain and longing shot through Kaitlan. Was he trying to torture her? The way he looked right now, she could almost convince herself ...

She tried to smile back. It came out crooked.

Craig reached in the back seat for Hallie's present. "What'd you get her?" Kaitlan asked. She just wanted to sit here. She dreaded going into that restaurant, especially facing Chief Barlow. She'd never figured out how to read the man. If she stayed here long enough with Craig, maybe she could talk herself out of everything. Her grandfather was wrong about Craig. He was no killer, and his hand had just slipped. He hadn't really meant to hit her.

"Sc.r.a.pbooking stuff. A binder and pages, plus headlines and picture frames and graphics. You know how much she's into all that."

"Oh. Yeah."

That's what a killer did on an ordinary day. Bought sc.r.a.p booking materials for his little sister's birthday.

Kaitlan's mind flashed to her grandfather. Was he figuring out what to do? She couldn't take much more of this.

They got out of the car. Craig put his arm around Kaitlan's waist as they walked toward the restaurant. An arm that had strangled a woman just hours earlier. It took every ounce of willpower Kaitlan had not to draw away.

Schultz's-odd name for an Italian eatery-smelled of garlic and olive oil. Kaitlan's stomach recoiled. The place was brightly lit, with ferns and gold metal railings and lots of gla.s.s. s.h.i.+ne and animated voices. Background music, too loud. Her senses overloaded. She wanted to close her eyes, stop up her ears. Most of all, get away from the smell of food.

How was she going to eat?

The host directed them into a party room at the back of the restaurant with large double doors open wide. People milled inside. Loud, laughing people.

Guided by Craig, Kaitlan walked numbly into the room.

Her eyes flicked over the group of about fifteen people. Some she didn't know. There were three friends of both Craig and Hallie from the Gayner police force-Steve Arden, Joe Babisi, and Eddie Sanchez. The Three Musketeers, Craig called them. Steve was tall, lanky, and loud. Brown hair, coa.r.s.e and curly, cut short. He was the clown of every party. Or at least he tried to be. Kaitlan had wondered at his antics. It seemed like they were almost driven, as if hiding a hungry soul that craved attention.

Joe's hair was thick and dark, almost black, his body muscular. He didn't talk much and was kind of a mystery to Kaitlan. She'd tried to figure what was going on behind those thoughtful eyes. He looked at her a lot. Something told her if she wasn't dating Craig, Joe would have made a move.

What would he do if he knew Craig had hit her?

Eddie, a detective, was older, around thirty. Divorced, with three kids. He had a friendly face and quick smile, but he pulled no punches. Eddie had a way of looking you straight in the eye and saying just what he thought, good or bad.

Was he one of the investigators on the murders? Did he know about Craig?

"There you are. It's about time." Chief Barlow strode over, his hard brown eyes landing on Kaitlan. "You're late."

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's my fault."