Sundays Are for Murder. Marie Ferrarella
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force.”
Hank looked duly impressed. The next moment, he retreated to his task and his earphones. Nick noted that he hadn’t bothered to adjust the volume level.
CHAPTER TEN
TO MAKE UP FOR HER later-than-usual entrance the day before, Charley came to work the following morning approximately forty-five minutes earlier than her customary starting time. No one would have said anything about the missing minutes, but doing this evened out some inner balance sheet she kept in her head.
Besides, she wanted some time to herself to think about the case. She found the atmosphere at work more conducive to steady and constructive thought. Home provided too many distractions. And home was where her father called her, wanting to be kept abreast of her progress. As if she could somehow magically bring the case to a close if she just applied herself enough.
At least, that seemed to be her father’s opinion. She’d told him that he couldn’t call her at the office, saying it was against company rules. Her father had no idea she owned a cell phone. If he did, she’d really have no peace. But, mercifully, her father wasn’t one to keep up with the times so she was safe for now.
Time had stopped for Christopher Dow and for his wife the night Cris was murdered. The only difference being, of the two, her father had continued to function. To get up each morning and go to work, to put the sorrow that haunted his soul on hold until he returned home at night.
There were times, when she visited, that she’d catch her father looking at her and she knew what he was thinking. Why hadn’t she been the one? Why hadn’t she been the one to have stayed home that night when the killer had struck? Then she would be dead and Cris would still be alive. It was no secret that Cris had always been his favorite. As far back as she could remember, Cris had gotten their father’s attention. Cris had been able to make him smile. It was as if she and her older brother, David, didn’t even exist.
Her mother had played no such favorites. But her mother had been utterly devastated by Cris’s murder. Within six months, she had fallen completely apart, withdrawing into herself where the world couldn’t get at her. These days, her mother resided in a psychiatric hospital. Part of every paycheck she earned went to pay for the facility. Her father couldn’t handle the burden on his own and she couldn’t bear the idea of her mother living in a state institution.
She hadn’t gone to visit her mother in several days. Maybe she’d swing by tonight on her way home, Charley thought as she got off the elevator. Not that her mother knew one way or another whether or not she came by. Claire Dow just sat in her chair, staring off into space, existing somewhere in a place devoid of pain. Charley supposed that somewhere in her heart she nursed the hope that if she could catch the killer, if she could bring Cris’s murderer to justice, her mother would come back from her dark place.
It made her try twice as hard. Gave her twice the stake.
At eight o’clock in the morning, the seventh floor was still rather empty and quiet. Even though Charley liked the energy generated by agents going at full throttle, she had to admit a fondness for the aura of tranquillity that embraced the various offices before the day began.
The task force’s room was located in the middle of the floor. Walking in, an extra-tall container of ordinary black coffee in her hand, Charley had fully expected to find herself alone for at least half an hour, if not more. Both Bill and Sam usually arrived at the start of the workday, sometimes a little later if Sam’s new baby had kept him and his wife up, or Bill had had a particularly adventurous and exhausting night with his date of the month. The various other people attached to the task force trickled in around the same time.
Aside from A.D. Kelly and, on occasion, his secretary, Charley was the only one who came in early on a regular basis.
So it went without saying that she was surprised to see her new partner at his desk, absorbed in his computer screen.
So much for solitude.
Charley put her container on her desk. “Playing solitaire?”
He’d been aware of her entrance. It was soundless, but she wore a scent that lightly rode the air currents, announcing her presence. He found the perfume appealing, even if the woman’s personality really wasn’t.
Nick glanced up at her for a moment before looking back at the screen. “Going over the evidence.”
She pried the lid off her container, tossing it into the empty wastepaper basket beneath her desk. “Very commendable.”
He couldn’t make out if she was being sarcastic and couldn’t decide if she irritated him or just intrigued him. She was damn attractive, but that didn’t tip the scales one way or another. He’d always been a personality man. Except for once, when he’d miscalculated.
“I was going for practical,” he told her. On the Internet, he was scrolling through old newspaper stories about the serial killer. “A fresh set of eyes, that kind of thing.”
So, he was a go-getter, despite his easy manner. Or was he only interested in brownie points? It wouldn’t have taken much for him to find out that the A.D. came in early most mornings. “And what did your ‘fresh set of eyes’ come up with?”
The stories he’d read were just a rehashing of the data he’d already familiarized himself with. “Nothing new,” he admitted. And then he raised his eyes to hers. “So far.”
Her lips twisted in a patient smile. Because she had to get along with him, she gave her new partner the benefit of the doubt. “Hope springs eternal.”
Charley dropped her purse into its usual hiding place, the bottom drawer of her desk, then pushed it closed again with her foot. Picking up her coffee container, she made her way over to the back wall. To the photographs of the dead women impatiently waiting for closure.
The photograph of her sister drew her to that side the way it always did. Cris was smiling, captured in a moment of pure joy. She remembered when the photograph was taken. Cris has just hinted that there might be someone special in her life. Charley had known by the way her sister talked that she was in love.
Cris never got the chance to introduce her to him. She was killed the following Sunday.
Charley stifled a sigh. She felt that same leap inside her throat, that same tightening of her stomach. It occurred each time she found herself standing here looking at Cris. Wondering for what amounted to the thousandth time if her sister had actually been the serial killer’s intended victim, or if he had made a mistake. If he’d actually intended on killing her and had gotten the wrong twin.
And just like all the other times, frustration overtook her, because she had no way of knowing the answer.
Not until she had the serial killer in front of her.
“I don’t know how I missed that.”
Her partner’s voice penetrated her thoughts, bringing her back to the present. She turned, a surge of hope surfacing. Had Brannigan actually found something, the clue that was continuing to elude them? As sure as one day followed the other, she was confident there had to be one. It was there, probably out in plain sight, taunting them.
“Missed what?”
Instead of calling her over and pointing to something he’d found on the screen, Brannigan had abandoned his desk and was making his way over toward her.
He indicated her sister’s photograph. “That she looked like you.”
She felt deflated. It was all she could do not to snap at him for having raised her hopes, however unintentionally.
When this case is over, I’m taking a very long vacation.
“That’s because all blondes tend to look alike,” she answered sarcastically, “or so I’m told.”
“By who?” he asked mildly. “A jealous brunette?”
The response had caught her off guard.