The Perfect Murder

Seven

The ring of his cell phone woke Sebastian. Patting the desk, he managed to locate it without opening his eyes. “Hello?”

“You won’t believe this,” a female voice announced.

Biting back a groan occasioned by the crick in his neck, he sat up. “Mary?”

“Did I wake you?”

Still groggy, he checked the clock. It was after eight. He’d spent the night in front of the computer. “Looks like it’s time to get up, anyway. What’s going on?” He couldn’t imagine she’d heard from Malcolm since she’d given up her screen name. He jiggled his mouse to dissolve his screen saver. She hadn’t signed on from an alternate location. He was still actively connected, and his was the last message in the conversation.

“He sent me flowers!” she said.

“Malcolm?”

“Yeah. A dozen red roses. They arrived a few minutes ago. The card says, ‘Happy Anniversary.’”

Sebastian came to his feet. “How did he sign it?”

“He didn’t. That’s all there is. Just ‘Happy Anniversary.’ But…aren’t you excited? They have to be from him. He’s letting me know his true identity! Malcolm’s falling for it!”

Sebastian raked his fingers through his hair. “The anniversary may not be the giveaway you think it is.”

“Why not?”

Wishing he had some aspirin, he rolled his shoulders. “I mentioned it to him last night.”

“Oh.”

As he passed the foot of the bed, he caught his reflection in that same damn mirror and turned away. He didn’t need to see his raggedy-ass appearance. He needed coffee, even more than aspirin. “I was using anything I could to make him show his hand,” he explained.

“But one guy would never send flowers to commemorate a competitor’s anniversary.”

“True. I guess that makes it a bigger step forward than I initially thought.”

“He’s getting closer and closer to revealing who he really is.”

The scent of coffee granules rose to Sebastian’s nostrils as he tore open the packet of gourmet roast that had been sandwiched between the coffeemaker and the bathroom wall. “Maybe. But I’m concerned about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Apparently, she was so pleased by their progress she wasn’t thinking of the risks. “He has your exact address.”

Silence. Then she said, “Do you think he sent the flowers just to show that he can find me?”

He poured the grounds into the filter. “Knowing Malcolm? Probably. He told you he could get the information and this is his way of proving it.”

“Sometimes it’s hard for me to see him as the bastard you say he is,” she admitted.

Sebastian’s hand hovered over the start button. “Seriously?”

“He cheated on me, but we were kids. I never dreamed the boy I knew, the boy I slept with, would grow up to become a cold-blooded murderer. To be so dangerous. He had his moments, like everyone else, but he could be really sweet, too.”

Sebastian started the coffeemaker, then wandered back into the room and pulled open the heavy drapes on the window. “Even Ted Bundy was once a kid. Did you call the Jersey police and check out my story, like I asked you to?”

“I did. I wanted more details. I thought it might help me absorb the shock. The man I spoke to said Malcolm killed his wife and stepson. But he also said Malcolm killed himself.”

A thin fog and slight drizzle made Sebastian less than eager to head outside. From what he’d heard, Sacramento had perfect weather nine months out of the year. Just his luck to be here during their three-month rainy season. “That’s the part that isn’t true and you know it. You’ve been communicating with him for months.”

“It’s weird, that’s all.”

“You need to accept it. He’s getting more committed to your relationship.” The flowers signified as much. They also signified that he’d act soon. Now that he really thought about it, “Happy Anniversary” was a commitment of sorts, a milestone. He just hoped Malcolm acted the way they wanted him to. That was where the gamble came in.

“You don’t think he’d surprise me by coming here,” she said.

Now she was beginning to consider the possibilities. “He could.”

“Oh, God. What would I do?”

From his second-story window, Sebastian could see people wearing business suits, getting into cars parked on the shiny pavement below. “You’d play along, buy whatever story he’s selling. If he tells you he’s been hiding behind an alias because he’s in the witness protection program, or he’s in the CIA, or the Feds are after him because he claims to have seen a UFO-whatever he says-act as if you believe it. Your life could depend on it.”

A nervous laugh preceded her response. “That sounds ominous.”

For her, their little fishing expedition had been all fun and games. Until now. These flowers made it real. The fact that Malcolm could get Mary’s home address so easily, the fact that he already had it and was probably far closer to Sacramento than he’d let on, made anything possible. “You okay?” he asked.

“Of course. It’s just…I’ve got kids.” Her voice took on a beseeching quality. “He wouldn’t hurt either of them, would he?”

Sebastian couldn’t say what Malcolm would do. Malcolm had no conscience, nothing to inhibit his behavior, or he could never have planned and executed the deaths of Emily and Colton. Sebastian was sure only of Malcolm’s self-interest. Narcissism was his most consistent trait. “He won’t have any reason to hurt you as long as he doesn’t find out about me.”

“So if he shows up here, should I slip away and call you?”

“Only slip away if you’re positive he won’t catch you. Dial 9-1-1, then call me. Your safety comes before anything else.”

“My safety? Now you’re really scaring me.”

Sebastian couldn’t tell her to relax. She needed to be on guard. Last night, when he was exchanging messages with “Wesley Boss,” he’d represented her as more interested in her old flame than she really was. He’d been hoping to achieve the meeting he was after-not this. What if Malcolm appeared on her doorstep expecting her to fall into his arms, but she refused to sleep with him? He might regret revealing himself and decide to tie up loose ends.

“I’ll send him a message thanking him for the flowers and push for a rendezvous so he won’t feel like he needs to come to your house,” he said.

“Shouldn’t I send that message?” she asked.

“Why?”

“I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. It makes me uneasy. You talked to him last night and today I received flowers for the first time.”

The aroma of brewing coffee drew Sebastian back to the motel bathroom. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Just keep your head down.”

“So I don’t get caught in the cross fire.”

He wished he could frame his request in a more positive light, but his conscience demanded he not downplay the seriousness of the situation to meet his own goals. “More or less.”

She released an audible sigh. “Wow. This sucks.”

A beep signaled an incoming call.

“It should be over soon,” he promised and held his phone so he could see caller ID. It showed a local number, one he didn’t recognize. “I’ve got to go. I’ll check in with you later.”

“Okay,” she said, but he could tell she wasn’t happy to get off the phone. She’d gone along with his plans to ensnare Malcolm partly because of the friendship that’d developed between them, and Sebastian felt guilty for taking advantage of her. But they’d come too far. Malcolm was interested in her, already knew her address. There was no way out.

“Take care,” he said and switched to the other line.

“Hello?”

The voice was deep, masculine and far more confident than Jane had expected. “Mr. Costas?”

“Yes?”

Although Jane was ready for work, she hadn’t left the house yet. “My name is Jane Burke. I’m a caseworker at The Last Stand-”

“How’d you get my number?” he interrupted.

“Detective Willis with the Sacramento Police Department passed it to me. He said you visited the station a few weeks ago, inquiring about a man named Wesley Boss.”

“And you’re somehow related to the Sacramento police?”

Sebastian certainly didn’t seem like some revenge-crazed lunatic. He sounded brisk, impatient-someone who thought fast and expected others to keep up or go away.

“Loosely.” Dressed in an Ann Taylor sweater and slacks, she was just sliding her feet into a pair of pumps that’d cost her far too much. She’d developed expensive tastes when she was a wealthy dentist’s wife. It’d been a long time since she could afford the kind of wardrobe she’d once enjoyed, but she’d splurged on this outfit the day she hit her goal weight a year ago. Now she was even more slender. “As I was saying, I’m with The Last Stand, a victims’ charity here in Sacramento, and I’m currently involved in an investigation in which Boss’s name has surfaced. I was wondering if we could get together. I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

“What sort of investigation are you talking about?”

Jane packed her briefcase while she talked. “An abduction. Two African-American teens were taken three weeks ago.”

“That doesn’t sound like the man I’m looking for.”

She dropped the file folder she’d grabbed and straightened. She’d expected him to immediately agree. Wasn’t he the one who’d shown up in Sacramento, asking for help-asking for answers? “How many men named Wesley Boss are there in this area?” she asked.

“In Northern California? None that I’ve been able to find.”

“My point exactly. And I’m telling you I’ve come up with one.”

“I’ve already got a lead on the man I’ve been searching for, and I have a big day ahead of me, Ms…what did you say your name was?”

“Burke. Jane Burke.” She folded her arms. “You don’t think there’s any chance they could be one and the same?”

“No way. My Wesley Boss is the biggest racist I’ve ever known.”

“He’s white?”

“He’s white. And he’d never touch a woman who wasn’t.”

“You know him that well?”

“I should. He was my son’s stepfather. I heard what he said when Colton took a Japanese girl to Homecoming.”

“Maybe Wesley Boss has changed his M.O.”

“I highly doubt it. Besides, kidnapping could compromise what he’s already accomplished.”

“Which is…”

“Getting away with murder.”

“Maybe he thinks he can get away with this, too.”

The silence stretched, and Jane wondered if Sebastian was considering her response. “I need another cup of coffee,” he finally muttered.

Still feeling the effects of her strenuous morning workout, she sat in a kitchen chair. “What?”

“Just a minute.” He was gone for several seconds. When he came back, he asked, “What do you have on your Wesley Boss? Do you have an address?”

“Do you have a few minutes to meet?” she countered.

“Ms. Burke, as I’ve mentioned, I have a busy day ahead of me. Someone else could be hurt if I don’t find this SOB.”

“I certainly don’t want to see anyone hurt, Mr. Costas. That’s why I owe it to these sisters to-”

“Did you say sisters?” he cut in.

Jane stood and scooped her purse off the counter. “Yes.”

“The teens who were abducted were sisters?”

“Yes.” She looked inside her purse for her keys and managed to dig them out from beneath her wallet.

“Malcolm’s having trouble with some roommates,” he said. “He told me they were sisters.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“I’ll explain later. Where should we meet?”

“Now you’re willing?” she asked in surprise.

“Now I think we might be after the same person.”

“Our offices are on Watt Avenue, not far from El Camino. Can you come there?”

“Give me an hour.”

“See you at nine-thirty.” She provided the address and hung up. Mr. Costas was articulate. And direct. She wondered if he could somehow be right about Malcolm Turner.

After a glance at her wall clock, she picked up her pace. Time was getting away from her.

Grabbing her phone, she dialed Gloria’s number on her way out. “We have the name of the man who owns the cell your sister used last night,” she announced as soon as Gloria answered.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Wesley Boss. Have you heard of him?”

“Never.”

“We’re working on getting his address and we’ll check him out. I just wanted to give you an update.” Her car chirped as she pressed the button on her key chain to unlock it.

“Luther came by las’ night and put a note on my door,” Gloria told her. “I found it when I lef’ for work this mornin’.”

Jane tossed her briefcase on the passenger seat. “What did it say?”

“‘You think that skinny white bitch who came to see me cares any more than the cops do what happens to people like us? You should’ve come to me. I’ll find Latisha. Lucifer.’”

Skinny white bitch? Jane knew she should be offended, but she’d worked so hard to lose weight that the skinny part was almost a compliment. “I thought Lucifer was a name you only used behind his back,” she said.

“He musta heard it. I guess he ain’t offended. I guess he likes it.”

Yikes. Anyone who purposely adopted a name like that had to be dangerous. “He’s wrong, you know. We do care. We’re doing all we can.” She didn’t add that David had to deal with a homicide today. She figured the realities of police work would appear to support Luther’s side of the argument. Those waiting for news of a loved one didn’t want to face the fact that police officers had a lot of different cases, a lot of people to help, and that they also had to eat and sleep and look after their own families.

“I appreciate that you’re tryin’,” Gloria said.

It would’ve been difficult to miss the reticence in those words. “But…”

“If Latisha’s dad can finally do somethin’ for the poor chil’, I’m grateful for that, too.”

Oh, hell. Now they had a three-hundred-pound pimp with killer pit bulls on the case. “Gloria, don’t share any of the information I give you with Luther, okay?”

“Why not?” she asked.

Because Jane had no idea what he might do with it. “His methods could be a little sketchy.”

“He mean business.”

“It’s the way he does business that worries me. He could hurt somebody. He might even hurt the wrong somebody. You need to trust the police. And me,” she said, hoping it wasn’t quite so apparent than she had little faith in herself.

“I jus’ want my sisters back.”

Jane opened her mouth to try and convince her to give them more time before allowing Luther to get involved. But she knew it wouldn’t help. It was too late. Gloria saw Luther as power. She wanted action, results, not more talk. Despite a concerted effort, the police hadn’t been able to offer her even a hint of relief in three weeks. At this point, she’d take any shortcut. And Jane couldn’t blame her. She knew she’d probably do the same thing if she were in Gloria’s shoes. “You won’t listen to me, will you.”

“Like I said, I jus’ want my sisters back.”

“Then heaven help Wesley Boss if Luther gets to him before we do,” she said and disconnected.

The man who walked into Jane’s office at precisely nine-thirty stood over six feet and weighed about two hundred and fifteen pounds. Somewhere in his mid-forties, he was wearing expensive jeans, a rugby shirt and a brown leather bomber jacket, but even dressed so casually he looked like a yacht owner or executive on holiday. Maybe it was his autocratic bearing-or his staggering good looks. He had an abundance of dark hair, currently on the long side, an olive complexion, brown eyes with thick sweeping lashes and the kind of muscular build that would’ve made the stylists in Jane’s last salon drool.

Hoping he hadn’t noticed her jaw hit the floor, she struggled to ignore his physical assets so she could concentrate on the purpose of his visit. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Costas.” She put out her hand and experienced a firm grip as his warm, dry palm met hers.

“Ms. Burke.”

Lisa, the volunteer who’d let him in, hadn’t left. She stood behind him, mouthing, “Oh my God!” while fanning herself.

“That will be all, Lisa,” Jane said, her smile pointed.

Blushing when he turned to look at her, Lisa ducked her head and moved on.

Jane motioned to the chair she’d placed across from her desk for Gloria yesterday and stepped back. She felt as if she was acting again, pretending to be a professional victims’ advocate instead of a mere trainee. But she instinctively knew Costas was the type of man who’d assume she didn’t deserve his respect if she didn’t demand it. “Please, have a seat.”

His lithe movements graceful yet extremely masculine, he did as she directed.

Jane cleared her throat. “Thanks for coming.”

“Hopefully, we’ll both be glad of this meeting,” he said. “What do you have on Wesley Boss?”

Jane didn’t sit down. She felt more in control standing. “Not much. Yet.”

“You said you have an address?”

“I have a P.O. box. Detective Willis is working on a street address.”

“Have you met Boss? Can you tell me what he looks like?”

“No. At this point, he’s only a name to me.”

He studied her so intently she felt the blood rush to her face. “How did he come up in connection with the two missing African-American girls?”

“One of them made a call last night using a cell phone that corresponds to his name.”

Costas folded his hands in his lap. “Interesting.”

“We think so, too.” Jane realized that standing might make her seem nervous, so she took her seat and tried to appear more at ease. “Tell me what you know about Boss.”

“As I explained to Willis, he’s really Malcolm Turner, the man who killed my ex-wife and son in New Jersey, then faked his own death.”

“Was he married to your ex-wife at the time of the murders?”

“Yes.”

Jane couldn’t help sympathizing. She also couldn’t help wondering if he’d remarried. She didn’t think so; he wasn’t wearing a ring. “I’m sorry. I know that must’ve been hard for you.” She could tell it was hard for him even now. “But what makes you believe Wesley is Malcolm?”

“In a roundabout way, I’ve been in touch with him via the Internet for nearly three months.”

“You…chat with him?”

“After setting up his new life, he sent an instant message to Mary McCoy, a former girlfriend who lives here in town. He claimed to be Wesley Boss, but some of the things he said reminded her of Malcolm, so she gave me a call. They’ve been e-mailing, with me sort of listening in, ever since.”

“How did she know to contact you?”

“After the murders, I spent months visiting every friend, family member and acquaintance Malcolm Turner’s ever had. They all know to contact me if they hear from him.”

“I see.” She straightened the objects on her desk. “You’re very thorough.”

“I’m determined to achieve justice for Emily and Colton,” he said.

“So you’ve made contact with Mr. Boss but don’t know where he lives?”

“Not yet. He’s getting more and more interested in Mary, though, and he has her address. That’s why I’ve got to find him, fast.”

“You think he might go to her house? That he might hurt her?”

“He’s a murderer, Ms. Burke. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

Jane was afraid her inexperience was showing. “What did you mean on the phone, when you mentioned roommates?” she asked.

“Last night Mary gave me the password to her e-mail account and I posed as her while chatting with ‘Wesley.’ I wanted to press him for his location, or get him to identify himself as Malcolm. He didn’t do either, but he seemed more distracted than usual and blamed two roommates.”

The phone interrupted. Jane ignored its ringing because she knew one of the volunteers would pick up. “And?”

“He mentioned they were girls, as opposed to women. He even said they were sisters.”

Excitement and hope shot through Jane. “My kidnap victims.”

“Possibly.”

“He talked as if they were still alive?”

“Yes.”

Jane had no idea what shape they’d be in but, given the odds, this was welcome news. “So if Wesley Boss is Malcolm Turner, and Malcolm’s such a racist, why did he take them? Why these two? Why not two white girls?”

“I’m guessing it was a crime of opportunity.”

“Earlier you said he was having trouble with them.”

“He made it sound that way.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“He didn’t specify. But if he has these girls with him, it would certainly explain why he’s been so reluctant to see Mary.”

Crossing her legs, Jane toyed with a ballpoint pen. “She’s willing to meet with him?”

“I’ll be the one doing that.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

The intercom buzzed. “Jane?” It was Lisa, the volunteer who’d shown Sebastian into the room.

Jane hit the button that would let her respond. “Yes?”

“Detective Willis on line one.”

“Thank you.” Standing, because she had too much energy to remain seated, no matter how much more relaxed it made her seem, she picked up line one. “David?”

“Jane, I’ve only got a second. I’m on my way to perform a search. But I had someone else get the address associated with Wesley Boss’s P.O. box. Are you ready?”

Her eyes connected with Sebastian’s; then she grabbed a piece of paper from the holder on her desk. “Ready.”

He rattled off an address in Ione, a small town in Amador County about forty-five minutes away.

“Got it,” she said.

“I’ve already called the sheriff’s department. A deputy will join you there, but I’m betting he’s closer than you are, so you’d better hurry.”

“I understand. Thanks for letting me know.” She hung up and grabbed her purse from under the desk. “We’ve got to go,” she said.

Sebastian came to his feet. “You know where he is?”

“I have an address. What we’ll find when we get there is anyone’s guess.”