The Perfect Murder

Twenty-Three

It wasn’t as easy to get inside a condo as it was a house. He needed to be cautious. Make a plan.

Malcolm sat at the bus stop across the street from where he’d dumped Marcie’s body, wearing his female disguise. To cover his face, he’d wrapped a large scarf around his head the way some Russian immigrants did, and no one had looked at him twice. It was starting to rain, which helped; most people either stayed inside or sheltered beneath an umbrella. Only an old lady with no teeth, who kept her eyes closed and mumbled to herself, and two teenagers listening to iPods and purposely ignoring everything else around them, waited at the bus stop. When the bus arrived, the three of them got on, but no one seemed to notice that he didn’t.

Getting to Jane was going to be tricky. Although her unit was on the ground floor, her complex faced a busy street. Late at night, traffic thinned considerably-he knew because that was when he’d dumped Marcie-but because of it he didn’t feel comfortable entering from the front.

If he went around back, there was less chance of being spotted, but more chance of standing out if someone did happen to see him. He’d already circled the complex in his van to get a sense of the layout. Each unit had a back door, with a porch and a small patch of fenced yard.

That would be his point of entry. He could easily scale the fence and go in when he was sure Sebastian wasn’t there. According to The Last Stand Web site, some of the women who worked for the charity were experts in self-defense. They even offered courses. Jane could be one of them. There was no need to get in over his head. He’d take her on alone, kill her and wait for Sebastian to return. Then he’d get to witness Sebastian’s reaction…

Malcolm studied the units on either side of number 53. With such close neighbors, a gun would be too loud. Only a quiet killing would give him the time he’d need to wait for Sebastian, which meant he’d have to use his knife again. Fortunately, such an intimate murder wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. All it took was enough hate.

“Excuse me. Do you know how much longer it’ll be before the bus comes?”

He glanced up to see one of those freaky “green” types who biked to work in a suit. Tall and skinny, the guy wore biking gloves and had his bicycle with him. The gloves looked sporty-but his glasses were fogged up and he had a rubber band around one pant leg. Apparently, the guy was tired of getting wet or had left the office later than usual.

Malcolm had no clue about the bus schedule. Neither did he care. He couldn’t talk, anyway. Maybe he was small enough to pull off dressing as a woman, but there was nothing feminine about his voice.

Shaking his head, he waved as if he didn’t speak the language and shuffled off.

Once he’d turned the corner and was out of sight, he strode more briskly toward the van, which he’d parked on a nearby street. It was almost nine. He had to get back before Latisha woke up. She wasn’t anything like her sister-thank God-but he couldn’t leave her alone too long.

Imagining her sleeping in his bed, awaiting his return, he smiled. There was something to be said for hooking up with someone so young and naive. She didn’t fight him the way his previous wives had; she gave him complete control.

Maybe kidnapping her had been the best move he’d ever made, he thought, and took off his costume while he was still in the van so he could stop at the grocery store and buy her some flowers.

It was so cold. When she’d first left the house, Latisha had embraced the damp, chilly weather. That and a surge of adrenaline had helped clear her mind of the cobwebs left from the alcohol and the pills. But now she wished she’d taken a blanket from the bedroom. She didn’t have a coat. It had been bright and sunny the day she and Marcie had gone to buy doughnuts-and wound up in Wesley Boss’s van. Because they hadn’t planned on being away for longer than thirty minutes and had the car heater to take the edge off the sixty-degree weather, they hadn’t thought they’d need coats. And Wesley had bought them clothes but no outerwear.

Now Latisha’s hands and feet were so numb she couldn’t feel them. And her wet clothes-the new ones she’d got at the mall-clung to her, making her legs feel heavier and heavier as the rain continued. She would’ve been okay if the cold was all she had to contend with, but she didn’t feel well. She’d hoped the vomiting would get the drugs out of her system, but being sick made her even more light-headed.

Headlights appeared around a bend not far away. Latisha had been careful to stick to the road. It was her escape to the world outside the farmhouse where she’d been held hostage, her best chance of getting help. But it also presented the greatest risk of getting caught by Wesley when he came home.

Hurrying into the brush, she squatted down, out of sight, while waiting for the vehicle to pass. She’d checked under the mattress for his gun, but it was gone, which meant he’d taken it with him.

As the vehicle zipped by, she realized those headlights didn’t belong to a van. It was some kind of car. She should’ve flagged down the driver and would have done so if she’d known…

Tears blurred her vision as she lurched back to the pavement. She hated feeling that he could come upon her at any moment. But she was afraid to leave the road for fear she’d end up lost or run into a vicious animal or even a loose dog. She’d been hoping to find another house, but she hadn’t seen any lights.

Her shivering grew more violent as the minutes ticked by. Was she traveling toward town or farther into the country?

The thought that she might have to be out all night tempted her to go back to the house and retrieve a blanket, or layer up with the rest of her clothes. Maybe she’d have a better chance of getting away if she didn’t feel as if she might freeze to death…

But Gloria’s message kept her moving forward: Marcie’s dead. And that man killed her.

Wes was a murderer. But was it true that he used to be a cop? Was it true that his wife and son had been killed? That he was hunting the man who did it? If so, she felt sorry about the tragedy that had twisted him. But he was the one who’d ended her sister’s life. Gloria said so, and Gloria was always right-wasn’t she?

Suddenly, Latisha stopped. Gloria always thought she was right. But what if this was one instance where she was wrong? What if Wes had dropped Marcie off as he’d said, and someone else had killed her? In her attempt to get home, Marcie could’ve thumbed a ride with someone dangerous. She was probably frantic, not thinking straight. And there could be another explanation for that fire in the barrel and the blood on Wes’s shoes. I didn’t even ask him about those things. Maybe what she’d found wasn’t really blood. She’d been jumping to conclusions. She’d automatically thought the worst.

Sinking into the brush along the shoulder of the road, she curled up for warmth. Was she abandoning the man she loved? Or saving her life? She wasn’t sure. She was too cold and sick to decide-and too cold and sick to care. She didn’t think she had the strength to go any farther.

Another set of headlights appeared, these a little higher than those of the previous car. As the sound of the engine grew louder, Latisha knew before she ever saw the van that it was Wesley.

“Anything?” Jane asked. She’d just hung up after speaking to David. She’d called to let him know what Luther had told her.

Sebastian peeled off his coat and draped it on the back of a kitchen chair. “No.”

She gave him a saucy look. “Well…I got a tip while you were gone.”

Now that it was getting late, he was beginning to think about bed. And these days, whenever he thought about bed, he thought about Jane…

His gaze lingered on the opening of her robe, and he wondered if she’d let him slip his hand inside. “Who from?”

She placed her fingers under his chin, bringing his attention up to her eyes. “A pimp.”

“You know a pimp?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.

“Latisha’s dad. We seem to be friends now. At least, our relationship is improving.”

He backed her against the counter, grinning as she glanced behind him to check that the coast was clear. He had a feeling they might end up in the bathroom again tonight. “Glad to hear you’re winning him over,” he said. “What’d he tell you?”

“Malcolm is driving a white van. Luther couldn’t give me the license-plate number, but he’s got everyone he knows keeping an eye out.”

“And how would a pimp know what kind of vehicle Malcolm is driving?”

“Gambling isn’t Malcolm’s only vice.”

Moving his lower body against hers, he bent his head until their lips were a fraction of an inch apart. “Is Kate in bed?”

“That’s your next question?”

“Were we talking about something else?”

She laughed, then their lips met-right before Kate spoke from the entrance to the kitchen. Jane stiffened, but Sebastian felt that scrambling away from each other would only imply that they were doing something wrong. Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he turned to face her daughter as if it wasn’t any big deal that she’d caught them kissing.

“What did you say?” he asked Kate.

“Nothing,” she mumbled with a furious blush and hurried back down the hall.

“I think she’s on to us,” he told Jane, keeping his voice light.

She pulled away from him, her expression more concerned than amused. “I think so, too.”

Malcolm couldn’t believe it. Latisha was gone.

He stood in the bedroom doorway, holding his stupid flowers and gaping at the bed where he’d left her. He’d never dreamed she’d wake up so soon. He’d given her only one sleeping pill, but with all the booze he hadn’t thought she’d need more than that. She weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet!

So what now? He wasn’t sure what upset him more. The fact that he’d begun to trust her and she’d betrayed him, or the fear that she might remember where he lived. The safest approach would be to get out, leave and never come back.

Unless he could reclaim her. Was there any chance?

Tossing the flowers on the floor, he dashed back down the hall, checking each room he passed, including the closets. She wasn’t anywhere in the house. What had she done? Struck out on her own-walking? If so, maybe he could find her.

It was then that he spotted his computer. Why hadn’t he taken it with him? He’d been so eager to reach The Last Stand offices, so confident that Latisha would be unconscious for several hours, at least, that he hadn’t even considered what she could do on the Internet.

Jiggling his mouse, he dissolved his screen saver. She’d left nothing open on his desktop, but a quick check of his browser history revealed that she’d logged into her e-mail account. That meant she’d probably communicated with someone.

Damn it! How had she been coherent enough to do that? She should’ve been completely stoned!

Sweat trickled from his temple. Should he grab his stuff and go? Forget her? Or should he try to find her? Most of Emily’s money was gone. He didn’t want to pay for a motel, not when he’d just paid his rent and this place was so perfect.

He’d go after her, he decided. He’d find her and bring her back. Then he’d kill her and burn her body in that barrel. She’d become too much of a liability; she was more like her sister than he’d thought. He liked female companionship in bed, but the situation had changed and the price was too high. Over the next few weeks, he had to be more agile, had to be able to come and go as he pleased-at least until he’d taken care of his most recent problems.

Grabbing his keys, he tore out of the house. He was about to take care of one of them right now. If Latisha was on foot, she couldn’t have gotten very far.

Latisha could hear Wesley calling her. He wasn’t far away. He’d been driving up and down the road, stopping every few minutes to get out and stab through the brush with a flashlight. Once she saw the beam of his light pass right over where she was. She hadn’t moved since she’d curled up, was beginning to believe she’d die if she didn’t answer. The night sky swirled above her. She’d grown so dizzy she could no longer stand.

I think I’m falling in love with you, in love with you, in love with you…His voice seemed to echo in her head. You’d like to be a mother, wouldn’t you, wouldn’t you? How do you like the ring, ring, ring?

She liked the ring, all right. It represented everything she’d ever wanted.

“Latisha!”

He was drawing close again, sounding more and more frantic.

“Latisha? Where are you?”

“God help me.” Her lips moved, but she couldn’t even hear her own voice. Every time she opened her mouth, she heard Gloria yelling at her in her mind. Don’t you dare, Latisha! Keep your head down. Don’t let him find you!

“Are you trying to break my heart?” he yelled. “You know how I feel about you. I thought you loved me, too.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. The weird thing was…part of her did love him. Was that possible? She hated him and she loved him. Afraid of him though she could sometimes be, she wanted to go back and finish the movie they’d been watching, crawl into bed, talk about their plans.

“Latisha? Baby, please. I know you gotta be out here somewhere. I brought you some flowers-but you broke my heart.”

A tear slipped from her eyes. Gloria! Help me!

“You’re gonna make yourself sick if you don’t come in,” he said.

She was already sick-and so cold.

“Let me take care of you. Let me get you warm and dry. I’ll give you another massage. You liked that, didn’t you?”

In truth, she’d never felt anything so wonderful in her life. Wesley had introduced her to a lot of enjoyable activities, including drinking. Gloria had been so strict about alcohol. What was the big deal about having some fun once in a while?

“Hello?” Wes cried. “Latisha? You gonna leave me out here in the cold all by myself?”

No. She couldn’t continue to freeze. She was better off taking her chances with him, wasn’t she? She’d die for sure if she didn’t move.

Putting all the energy she had into sitting up, she concentrated on his voice and the beam of his light. He wasn’t that far away, and he was coming closer. Should she call out to him? Or just wait?

Then she spotted another pair of headlights. They were coming around the bend, like the ones before, only this car seemed to be going a lot slower than the others.

Remembering her sister’s bruised face, she clambered to her feet and stood there, swaying in the rain as she summoned the strength to walk. She’d do what Gloria told her. Gloria always had her best interests at heart. Maybe she and Marcie had resented their older sister for being so strict, but Gloria was loyal and fiercely protective. She was the one person in Latisha’s life who could be trusted.

“I’m coming, Gloria,” she muttered, and it was the thought of seeing her sister again that gave her the energy to put one foot in front of the other.

The car was drawing closer. She’d have to wave, yell-do something to attract the attention of the driver.

Suddenly, Wesley’s flashlight swept over her. It moved on, but then jerked back-and landed squarely on her.

He’d found her.

“Latisha, no!” he yelled and began to run.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall. If she crumpled now, she’d lose her one chance to go home. A heap at the side of the road wasn’t likely to get the attention of the person in that car.

Wes’s footsteps pounded the earth. She could almost hear his labored breathing. But he’d snapped off his light. He didn’t want to be seen by that car. He was hoping to get to her before she could get to whoever was coming toward them…

With one huge, final effort, she screamed, “No!” and stepped into the middle of the road. The oncoming car would either hit her-or stop.

When it began to slow, she thought she’d won. Help was only seconds away. Surely he’d back off now-run, hide.

Headlights blinded Latisha, tires squealed and the car began to hydroplane on the wet pavement. Flinching, Latisha threw up her hands to protect herself, although she knew that would do nothing.

The car didn’t hit her.

Had it stopped?

Yes. It was less than a foot away, its hot engine causing steam to rise in the cold weather.

Bolstered by a fresh surge of adrenaline, she glanced at Wesley. He was a few feet away and had drawn his gun. The rain was pouring down but she could see him well enough to know he had the muzzle pointed right at her.

Would he kill her in front of this stranger?

A resounding blast told her he’d try. She didn’t even have the energy to duck. She felt a burning sensation in her right arm and realized dimly that he wasn’t giving up, wasn’t afraid of whoever drove the car. He’d probably kill them, too. What would stop him?

Nothing.

The woman who shoved the gearshift into park and opened her door to poke her head out had to be at least seventy-five. It was an old lady with gray hair, and she couldn’t be more than five feet tall. “I just about hit you!” she cried. “What the heck are you doing?”

And then she seemed to understand what the blast had been about. As she spotted Wesley and his gun, terror dawned on her wrinkled face.

Latisha hadn’t saved herself. She was going to die-along with some white person’s grandmother.