“No.” Kateri’s calm fa?ade hid a wealth of anxiety. “What’s in the morgue can wait—it’s not going anywhere. Head to the B and B.”
He handed her the microphone. “Call in the nearest law enforcement unit. They can beat us there.”
“No. We’ve got a paid assassin, one who was good enough to recognize and kill his or her rival. We know he likes to torment his victims, that he’s strong, intelligent and meticulous. Like a college professor. We won’t want everyone swooping in, sirens blasting, so he gets in a hurry, gets sloppy.” Kateri thought hard. “Merida doesn’t like Benedict Howard, but he’s the kind of man who gets things done. Let me call him … not that I have his number, and wealthy men aren’t listed in the phone book.”
“Phone book? What’s a…?”
Sometimes Moen made her feel so old and creaky. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ll call the B and B.” She punched in the number and let it ring.
The answering machine picked up and Phoebe’s cheerful recorded voice said, “Thank you for calling the Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast…”
“Where’s Sean Weston?” Moen asked. “He’s got a thing for Merida Falcon. In his free time, he’s always hanging around trying to catch a glimpse of her. Maybe he’s there now.”
“It’s really late. You think he’s there now?”
“Maybe?” Moen sounded uncertain.
The chill Kateri felt grew stronger. “Maybe he’s the killer.”
“What makes you say that? He’s a great guy!”
“No one thought the assassin was anything but a cleaning woman with four kids and an abusive husband.” Kateri pulled out her phone. “Let me call Bergen and Garik, notify them, tell them we’ve got a situation and we need to go in quietly. They’ll know what to do.”
As Kateri and Moen drove along, the streetlights gave off an eerie blue illumination that made Kateri wish for a clear night sky and a full moon. But the marine layer, those high clouds off the ocean, had come in and covered the sky, and a few wisps slipped down to coil around the lights like ghosts dancing to unheard music.
Too many ghosts lately. Too many deaths.
Tonight, they needed to save her friend.
*
Benedict sat down with his laptop and Merida’s and, without a twinge of conscience, used Merida’s software to move the proof of embezzling from him to Rose and Albert. They would be surprised. But not as surprised as when they discovered his notation beside the unexplained fee they’d paid to a yacht mechanic at the time of his parents’ death. He wondered if it would occur to them that murdering his parents was cruel and immoral, or whether they were so lost to decency they’d be bewildered by his defection.
Damn them. They deserved so much worse and yet, for them, nothing could be worse than losing the business. The business was their only love, their only passion, their only need.
Standing, he gathered his computer gear and headed into the bedroom to pack. On the nightstand, he discovered the note card Merida had made depicting Carl Klineman’s message.
WAS ON
WES UN
Merida said the letters were blurred and she wasn’t sure she correctly remembered them.
WASON
WESUN
WES. The killer was Wesley somebody? Maybe, but that was a big pool to choose from.
WASUN …
WA could be Washington. Washington SUN? Was that a newspaper? Was the killer someone tanned?
Benedict snorted and dropped the card. But his brain worried the problem as he packed his clothes. Washington something. WA S UN.
He stood up straight. WSU. Washington State University.
That was where Dawkins Cipre was supposed to teach next year.
Sitting down at the computer, he immediately found Dawkins Cipre, his honors, his teaching credentials. Then he dug deeper.
Dawkins Cipre wasn’t on the WSU autumn schedule.
Benedict looked out the window.
Dawkins and Elsa Cipre had the attic room above Merida. One small light shone in the attic. All of Merida’s lights were on.
Picking up his phone, he called Merida.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Elsa stood, dragged one of the heavy dining chairs out and, hooking her arms under Merida’s, deadlifted her onto the seat.
Half blind with pain, Merida tried to lunge away.
With her bony fist, Elsa hit her behind the right ear.
Merida retched and blacked out.
She woke seated in the chair with her joined hands behind the chair back.
With calm severity, Elsa said, “I don’t like to compromise the finished product, but I will. The important thing is doing the job. And getting paid.” She spoke briskly, instructively, like a … like a professor.
Merida’s vision returned, dissolved in watery agony, returned again. She looked at the door. It was shut and locked.
Elsa saw her. “Have you ever heard the world’s shortest ghost story? A man stayed in a bedroom reputed to be haunted and before he slept, he locked all the locks on the door and windows and barricaded himself in. When he was done, he climbed into bed, turned off the light and a cheerful little voice said, ‘Now we’re locked in safe for the night.’” She laughed merrily. “Just like you and me.”
Merida’s phone rang.
Elsa located it, lifted her booted heel and stomped as hard as she could.
The glass shattered.
It rang again.
Elsa lifted her heel and stomped, stomped, stomped, each time the force of her blow growing greater. She stomped until the ringing ceased, then stomped again. When she at last stopped, she was breathing heavily. As if her frenzy was Merida’s fault, she said, “We don’t have an unlimited amount of time. We’ll have to get the job done ASAP. Of course, I’m prepared and I’ve practiced, so don’t worry. We’ll get there!” She removed her ugly, misshapen black cape and spread it on the table, the lining up. She smoothed the material. Scissors, knives, sewing tools, box cutters: their handles stuck out of a myriad of pockets. In that instructional tone, she said, “I found a purse to be an inefficient way to carry the necessities a woman needs. So when I design my clothing, I add a holder for each item. A place for everything and everything in its place. Tonight, of course, I was wearing my cutting cape.”
Merida breathed deeply, working through the pain in her head. Okay. She was seated on a heavy wooden chair, her wrists cuffed behind her.
Not for the first time. She’d been held like this when Nauplius had chosen to exert his power, punish her with the inability to speak with her hands.
Elsa wore black leggings and a black sleeveless racerback tank. Her eccentric clothing had hidden how wiry she was; her thin arms were deeply muscled, her wrists resembled a wrestler’s. This woman worked out, ran, lifted weights.
Elsa retrieved a handkerchief and blotted the blood off the corner of her eye. She had that, a split lip and a bruise on her face, but the body bruises Merida had imagined Dawkins Cipre had inflicted didn’t exist.
Why not? What was the thump from the attic, the sound of a body falling? What had Elsa done to Dawkins Cipre?