I'd Kill For That Page 7

  At the meeting, Vanessa pulled out her biggest gun—the head honcho of the Chesapeake County Zoning and Planning Board—but was poleaxed by Lydia, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the Maryland Department of Natural Resources, a little pink flower, and a frog the size of a ping-pong ball. She left the meeting early, in a huff, and headed for the bar to quench her rage with a martini, straight up.

  Poor Lance never knew what hit him. Before he could even introduce George Carroll, he was drowned out by Toni and her organized band of saboteurs. Time and again he’d straighten to his full six feet four, crew cut bristling, and wait, steel gray eyes drilling into the crowd as if they were a platoon of raw recruits. Gradually the heckling from the back row would die down, and he’d open his mouth, only to have his words drowned in a new wave of protests. Finally, he’d had enough. “I’ll be back!” he muttered like a latter-day Arnold Schwartzenegger as he hopped from the stage, strode down the center aisle, and retreated to a dark corner of the bar, as far from Vanessa as possible.

  Much later Parker and Henry found him there sprawled in a chair, balancing a long neck Corona on his six-pack abs. In the chair next to her husband, Camille was babbling amiably to Babs about the tickets she’d snagged for The Producers. At the St. James Theatre! In New York!

  “Sorry, Lance,” Parker began.

  Lance raised his bottle in a mock toast. “To bitches everywhere.”

  Across the room Vanessa grimaced as if he meant her personally, and waved down Tiffany for her tab.

  Camille shot her husband an anxious glance. “Lance is taking this deer business very personally.”

  “Well, the deer aren’t going to go away,” offered Henry philosophically. “A few more collisions, a few more tomato plants nibbled down to the roots, an outbreak of Lyme disease…”

  Camille patted her husband’s knee. “See? I told you that Henry’s on our side.”

  Lance set his empty bottle on the table and stood up. “That’s just what we need,” he said. “Fuckin’ Lyme disease.” With two long strides, he stepped around his wife’s chair and headed for the door. “As far as I’m concerned, you can give it all back to the red Indians! I’m going for a walk,” he said, easing a cigar out of his pocket.

  Camille’s eyes followed her husband’s broad back until it disappeared around the corner. She shrugged and drained her wineglass in a single, long swallow. “Just wait until next time.” She centered her glass carefully on a square of napkin. “Ladies’ room, I think. Lydia? You coming?”

  Lydia shook her head.

  “Another round?” asked Henry. Camille waved affirmatively and disappeared down the hall.

  Ten minutes later, just as Tiffany was signaling that their drinks were ready, a terrible scream paralyzed her arm in midwave. Everyone in the bar looked up, stupefied.

  “It’s from out back!” someone shouted. “By the pool!”

  Parker scrambled to his feet and raced down the hall—past the newsstand, past the pro shop, past the billiard room, and into the snack bar—with Henry wheezing right behind. Parker shoved aside the sliding glass doors and stepped onto the concrete apron that surrounded the pool. He squinted helplessly into the dark, scanning the shadows as the screams turned to moans and then to sporadic whimpers. “Somebody get the lights!” he shouted.

  One by one the lights came on, gradually illuminating the area around the pool: the tiki bar, the towel hut, the outdoor spa gently gurgling. Suddenly, near the shrubbery by the cabanas, a dark shape stirred.

  Parker rushed forward to find Camille kneeling beside the body of a man, his muscular arms limp at his sides, his long legs akimbo.

  “Oh, Lance, Lance,” Camille crooned, cradling her husband’s bloody head in her arms. “You just had to go and smoke that damn cigar, didn’t you?”

  4

  CAPT. DIANE ROBARDS, CALLED out to Gryphon Gate for a second suspicious death in only twelve hours, wasn’t happy. For one thing, she still hadn’t finished processing all the paperwork on the last body, Sigmond Vormeister. For another thing, this new body came with way too many lights, cameras, action. She’d already had to call the station and request secured airspace to clear out all the media choppers. Then she’d wasted valuable manpower securing a twenty-foot perimeter while Henry Drysdale wrung his hands and whined that reporters weren’t even allowed inside the gated community. The third time a camera flash unexpectedly exploded in a nearby bush, he’d cried, “Damn those vultures!” and gone running off into the trees to personally chase away every irresponsible vagabond from the fourth estate.

  That was about it for entertainment this evening.

  Robards headed back to the small cluster of shrubs next to an outdoor teak cabana that was larger than her entire apartment, and resumed her inspection of Lt. Col. Lance McClintock’s prone body. U.S. Marine Corps, retired, she’d been told. Used to lead troops in Kuwait. Was equally proficient with a handgun, an assault rifle, and a machine gun. Could disarm a missile with a paper clip; probably pilot a Harrier, too; but then something had to remain classified.

  Now the lieutenant colonel was sprawled faceup on the edge of the clubhouse’s concrete patio. His blue eyes were open. His forehead was bloody. His right hand lay outstretched, as if still reaching for the faintly glowing cigar lying just three inches away.

  The wife had gotten to the body first. Then three or four of the lieutenant colonel’s richy-rich neighbors. In other words, the scene was shot to shit before the call had even gone out to the station. Second scene in one day, too.

  Robards was getting a really bad feeling about this overpriced place. She straightened slowly while noticing that there was no blood on the white concrete patio. She inspected the nearby bushes. No dark splotches on those waxy green leaves, either. So, plenty of blood on McClintock but none on the ground. Yeah, she really didn’t like this place.

  “Make sure you bag the hands,” she ordered.

  Jordan from the M.E.’s office raised a brow at Robards’s needless request. She responded with a stern look of her own—I’m tired, I’m cranky. Don’t make me kill you. Jordan bagged the lieutenant colonel’s hands.

  Some women had this kind of perfectly assimilated relationship with their loving husband of fifteen years. Robards had it with her fellow death investigator. That didn’t say anything about the quality of her life. If her mom happened to call tonight, Robards was hanging up before the word “hello.”

  “You think he put up a fight?” Carnegie asked nervously. Robards ignored the rent-a-cop’s question and continued her inventory of the scene.

  The second half of Gryphon Gate’s dynamic duo, Leland Ford, was prowling around the thatched tiki hut next to the clubhouse. Like Carnegie, he was careful not to trespass beyond the yellow crime scene tape, but was also shamelessly trying to sneak a peek at McClintock’s body. Supposedly, Carnegie and Leland had been working the front gates of the neighborhood when this latest mishap had occurred. Notified by radio, they’d rushed back to the pool area in time to hustle all the gawking patrons back inside the clubhouse and solemnly request for everyone to remain calm.

  Now the majority of Gryphon Gate’s illustrious homeowners were gathered around the club’s U-shaped bar, where they furiously gulped very expensive booze and tried to pretend they didn’t know what was going on forty feet away on the other side of the wall of windows. Every now and then someone would break away from the herd and peer out through cupped hands as if waiting for something, anything, to happen next. Crime scene investigation was very tedious work, however, so eventually each Peeping Tom abandoned his vigil and returned to the welcoming noise of the bar.

  Only McClintock’s wife, Camille, remained outside. She sat on the edge of a lounge chair, hands clasped limply in front of her, eyes focused on nothing in particular. There was a dark stain on her cheek, more on her hands. Her husband’s blood from when she discovered his body. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “He was a fighter,” Camille murmured now. Robards turned
towards her.

  “He stay in shape?”

  “Absolutely. Did a full P.T. regimen every morning—ran six miles, did one hundred push-ups and two hundred sit-ups. Lance took a great deal of pride in aging well. Except for his cigars of course. Those damn cigars…”

  “Mrs. McClintock, you said your husband had been drinking.”

  Camille snorted. “He had a few beers, Captain Robards. Lance was a marine. He could down a fifth of whiskey and still hold the walls of Guantanamo Bay.”

  “Did your husband have any enemies?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Leland Ford, however, expressed a different opinion. “S.O.S.” he said.

  Robards flicked a glance in his direction. Leland was wearing all black tonight. Tight black T-shirt, black dress slacks, high-gloss black dress shoes. The upscale muscle look. It worked for him.

  “S.O.S.?”

  “Save Our Swans. They were the ones picketing the front gates earlier in the evening. They don’t like Gryphon Gate’s policy of reducing the local population of mute swans.”

  Henry Drysdale returned to the pool area, breathing heavily. He had caught the tail end of Ford’s statement and was already shaking his head. “We don’t have a policy! We love swans. We love deer. We have no policy! At least not yet.”

  Camille shot the mayor an impatient look. “For God’s sake, Henry. We were investigating options for reducing the swan and deer populations, and everyone knew it—or at least knew enough to rope in a bunch of nature freaks.” Her attention went back to Robards. “Lance was in charge of the managed deer hunt. It’s a very civilized event with bows and arrows. The whole intent is to make the deers’ life better by reducing an overpopulated herd. Lance went out to reason with the protesters tonight, but they wouldn’t even let him speak.” Camille snapped her fingers as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Toni Sinclair. She’s the one who organized the rally, and she definitely didn’t approve of the deer hunt. You should talk to her.”

  “She a resident?” Robards wrote down the name. It sounded familiar, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “She feeds the deer,” Carnegie volunteered eagerly. He had moved closer to the crime scene tape, and was now looking inside the perimeter almost longingly. “We caught her yesterday evening. She and her daughter had spread deer feed all over their yard. And they were not very cooperative with us when we asked them to stop, if you know what I mean.”

  “She knew Vormeister,” Leland commented. “A few weeks ago, I saw them talking intently at one of the neighbors’ parties. Of course, this community isn’t that big.”

  “And Lieutenant Colonel McClintock?” Robards directed her question at Camille. “Did he know Vormeister?”

  “Only in passing. Lance was a man’s man. Sigmond … well, not to speak ill of the dead, but Sigmond probably didn’t know his asshole from his elbow, as the saying goes.”

  Robards made another a note. Two suspicious deaths in the same neighborhood on the same day were probably a bit much for coincidence, but linking the crimes this early would only start panic. Then again …

  “Oh my God,” Carnegie said and started pointing excitedly at McClintock’s fallen body. “His head, his head. He has a bloody head. And so did Vormeister! It’s like a, like a … what do they call it? A signature. A serial killer’s signature!”

  Robards skewered Carnegie with her best shut-the-bleep-up stare. “You watch a lot of TV, don’t you, Carnegie?” she said pointedly. He didn’t take the hint.

  “Books!” he said enthusiastically. “And in novels it’s always a serial killer who did it!”

  “Oh brother,” Leland murmured.

  “A serial killer?” Camille’s head came up; she appeared even paler and more shell-shocked than before. “Oh poor Lance. He never stood a chance.”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Robards tried to caution, only to be ignored for the second time.

  “No! No, no, no!” Henry Drysdale moaned. “We are not that kind of neighborhood. We do not have those kinds of incidents. Lance tripped and fell. I’m telling you, he had a few too many beers, he went out for his nightly cigar, and boom. Purely accidental.”

  “In the bushes?” Camille cried. “My husband was not that big an oaf, Henry. Though I don’t speak for others on this patio.”

  “There’s no blood,” Leland spoke up. “McClintock has blood on his forehead, but there’s none on the patio. If he tripped and fell, how did he manage to die so neatly?”

  “Listen!” Robards tried to interject.

  “This is obscene!” Henry said.

  “Oh my God,” Camille was rocking back and forth now. “Lance, poor Lance.”

  Henry laid a comforting hand on Camille’s shoulder, his dark eyes skewering Robards. “It’s a serial killer, I tell you. A serial killer who preys on middle-aged white men. Maybe it’s one of those black widow–type killers. Or a homosexual maniac who lusts for passive partners.”

  “Hey!” Robards shouted.

  Henry’s mouth slammed shut.

  Leland and Carnegie stood, arms folded.

  Camille simply stared.

  Finally, she had their attention. Robards took a deep breath, reminded herself to use her happy voice when dealing with well-connected civilians, and said, “These are interesting possibilities, but as a general rule we like to wait for the evidence before building a theory of the case. Now then, I’m going to need to talk to everyone in the clubhouse.”

  “Of course,” Henry said.

  “We’ll help!” Carnegie offered brightly.

  “No! I mean, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Given the high-profile nature of this case, I’m sure the department is willing to expend whatever resources are necessary to resolve this matter expediently and quietly. Very quietly. Got it?”

  “Absolutely!” Henry said vigorously, and looked relieved for the first time all night.

  Carnegie, on the other hand, appeared forlorn. Robards gave him another hard stare, until he finally, reluctantly, nodded. Camille and Leland followed suit. Robards allowed herself to breathe again. Order restored, she was just about to approach the clubhouse when Jordan ruined the moment.

  “Captain,” Jordan said, in a tone that was much too quiet. “You’re going to want to see this.”

  Robards turned slowly. She took in Jordan’s grave expression. She took in McClintock lying with his bloody face on the much-too-clean concrete. This damn neighborhood, she thought for the second time this evening, and headed mutely for McClintock’s body.

  She had just taken her second step when an unearthly howl pierced the night sky. Followed by another and then another. Robards froze, one foot still in the air and goose bumps suddenly racing down her spine. “What the hell?” she demanded.

  “Lord have mercy,” Camille gasped.

  “Damn!” Henry Drysdale said. He sighed, then hung his head. “Just what we needed—a full moon.”

  * * *

  Running. Heart beating, blood pulsing, veins bursting.

  Racing. Trees slapping at face, vines tugging at ankles. Jacket, gone. Shirt, gone. Shoes—so painful. Feeling flesh swell, split, burst.

  Panting. Hard. Hot. Tongue lolling out of mouth. Could taste the night. Cool and icy, like a slice of moon. He inhaled, felt himself take the shadows deep inside, and his senses expanded, grew sharper and keener. Like a wolf’s.

  Roman Gervase, fourth generation European royalty and product of three fine boarding schools, finally dropped into a crouch behind some bushes. He was breathing hard, his skinny white chest expanding and contracting rapidly. He had a stitch in his side, but ignored it, as werewolves did not get side aches from running three suburban blocks. Werewolves could run forever. Werewolves ruled the night!

  “Oooooow, ow, ow, ooooooooow.”

  Roman focused. He swore he could hear the garden snake slithering across Silas Macgruder’s yard four houses down and the young buck chewing the tops off of Laura Armbruster’s azalea
bushes six blocks the other way. He jerked left and watched an owl, perched a dozen trees up ahead, suddenly spy a mouse. He jerked right and saw the mouse tremble with fear beneath the quivering fronds of a woodland fern.

  Roman threw back his head once again. “Oooooow, ow, ow, ooooooooow.” Children of the night, hear my roar. He howled again. Children of the night, fear me! And then he trembled all the way down to his toes—er—claws. Which reminded him, real werewolves didn’t wear Kenneth Cole loafers.

  Time out. Roman Gervase ditched his shoes. Okay again. He resumed the crouched position and sniffed.

  Dirt. Ferns. Deer droppings. Ooooh, cat!

  He debated giving chase, then decided not yet. Tonight was a special night, after all. Tonight there was plenty of prey. He sniffed again, flaring fine aristocratic nostrils, and finally caught the odor he’d been seeking. Beer. Chlorine. Death.

  Ooooh, death. He licked at his hand, tasted blood, and in a frenzy of savage emotion burst from behind the bushes.

  Running. Into the joy of the night. Into the dark of the shadows. Into the glory of the moment. Trees slapping, dirt pounding, bushes trembling.

  “Oooooooow, ow, ow, OOOOOOOW.”

  Whoa, car!

  * * *

  Jerry Lynch, investing time in something far more interesting than his stock portfolio, slammed on his brakes, just as a shape careened off his hood. “What in God’s name?”

  For a moment, a man’s face was frozen in Jerry’s headlights, then the beast was off and running again.

  Anka’s head popped up. “What was that?”

  Jerry slowly expelled his pent-up breath. “Roman Gervase,” he muttered. “Fruitcake.”

  “Did he see anything?” Anka wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  Jerry put the car into drive. His wife was home with Samantha, so he’d volunteered to run out for milk.

  “No one would believe him anyway.”

  “Hey, Jerry, what’s with all those flashing lights?”

  * * *

  “He just fell and hit his head.”

  “Are you kidding? A former marine dying outside a country club because he ‘tripped and fell.’ It’s murder, no doubt about it. Probably killed by the same person who did in Vormeister.”