Murderous Twins Page 9

  “Thank you for coming by to let us know where things stand,” Steve said as he and Owen stood.

  “Under the circumstances, I figured it was better that I told you in person, rather than you reading about it in the paper, or online. Gary, take care of yourself and listen to your doctor.”

  “Like Steve would let me do otherwise,” Gary replied, smiling at his husband.

  Steve walked with Owen to the front door, closing and locking it when he’d left. When he returned to the living room, he saw lines of pain and tiredness etched on Gary’s face. He got two of his pills and a glass of water. When Gary had taken them, Steve suggested he lie down and get some rest.

  “If I can get comfortable on the sofa,” Gray replied.

  “Gary…”

  “I mean it. I’d rather be down here with you than upstairs, reliving everything again.”

  “All right.” Steve went up to get a couple of pillows, putting them on the sofa so that Gary was reclining the way he needed to, to rest. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, beside him, Steve took his hand. “Are you all right?”

  Gary snorted. “Depends on how you look at it. Physically, not really. Not yet. But I’ll get there. Mentally? Yeah, I’m coming to terms with what happened, thanks to you.”

  “I live to serve,” Steve replied with a smile, leaning in to give him a kiss.

  “You do it very well.” Gary cupped his free hand at the back of Steve’s neck, pulling him down for another kiss. “As long as you’re volunteering to serve…” He grinned. “What’s for lunch?”

  “I guess it’ll have to be sandwiches, since they’re about the only thing you can eat lying down. Before you argue…don’t.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” Gary replied as Steve went into the kitchen to make them lunch.

  * * * *

  While Gary and Steve were eating, Blaine was preparing for his departure from the city—but not until he made one more ‘farewell’ kill. The urge, the need, was strong. He knew it was the result of all that had happened, from Lloyd’s arrest to the police invading the house. Now he wanted to thumb his nose at the detective. To show him that he might have gotten lucky in catching Lloyd, but he wouldn’t have a chance to stop the other serial killer who was stalking the city. To wit, me. He smiled malevolently at that thought.

  He didn’t want to spend time setting it up. He didn’t have time. Leaving, before Lloyd’s insanity took a turn for the worse and he said something to implicate Blaine, was of primary importance.

  He knew about that because the detective had paid a courtesy call, as Blaine sneeringly thought of it, to inform him that Lloyd was on a seventy-two hour hold at some psych ward. The detective had told him which one, but by that point Blaine was past caring, or even listening as far as that went. He was already planning his next kill as Detective Kemp babbled on. As soon as he’d left, Blaine locked the doors, vowing to ignore anyone else who knocked, as he had with the reporters bold enough to open the gate and walk up to the door.

  Blaine had everything he was taking with him packed and in the car. It wasn’t much—clothes, personal items, his laptop. He’d leave the car in the airport’s long-term lot, buy a ticket to Chicago, and then vanish once he got there.

  He looked at the clock as he got dressed for his evening out. He had already stopped at his bank to withdraw the almost all of the money in his account. He’d confided to the teller that he was going to buy a new car, using the cash for the down payment.

  “It must be a very expensive one, that you need this much,” she’d replied.

  He’d smiled, saying, “More like the bigger the down payment, the smaller the monthly payments, and since there are three people interested in it, I thought I’d beat them to the punch this way.” He’d bitten back a laugh when she believed him, and seemed quite impressed, to boot.

  “Well, Ms. Paulson,” he murmured as he adjusted his bowtie, “Let’s make your evening very special.” He’d found her name in the society column of the paper, soon after the detective had left. According to the story, she was one of the chairpersons for a black-tie charity gala beginning at six-thirty at the Botanic Gardens.

  When he arrived at the Gardens, he chose not to park in the lot, which was almost full. Instead, he found a spot on the street a block away and walked to main entrance. There, he waited until the man checking invitations was distracted by a group of guests and slipped inside without catching his attention.

  He knew what Ms. Paulson looked like from her picture in the paper. He also knew, from doing some quick research, that she was forty-six, single, and owned a realty company—his ideal victim. Now, all he had to do was find her in the mass of attendees. He did, eventually. She was holding court in the amphitheater behind the tropical conservatory.

  Mingling at the periphery of the guests surrounding her, he watched and listened and learned. She was very touchy-feely when it came to the men within her sphere, resting her hand on one man’s an arm, leaning in so her shoulder brushed another man’s as they talked, all the while batting her eyelashes like some chick trying to pick up a guy at a bar—or so Blaine thought. Since the majority of the men were with wives or dates, she seemed doomed for failure—if it wasn’t for him. That idea brought a feral smile to his lips, which he instantly wiped away before someone noticed and wondered.

  Taking advantage of a brief pause when several of the people wandered off to inspect the gardens, Blaine unobtrusively moved to Ms. Paulson’s side.

  “This is quite the event,” he said.

  She turned to look at him, smiling. “Thank you. It took a lot of planning.”

  “By you?” he asked, acting impressed.

  She nodded. “Well, not only me, but I was in charge.”

  Of course, since he supposedly wouldn’t know her name, he asked, then introduced himself in return. “Have you had a chance to take a break from your…well, duties, I guess.”

  “I wish,” she replied with a moue of discontent.

  “Tell you what. I’m here on my own tonight and wouldn’t mind having a glass of wine and sharing a few canapés with a very lovely woman, if you’d like to get away from all this—” he waved his hand around, “—for a while. I saw they had a nice spread set out in the Garden’s Bistro.”

  She preened under his compliment, linking her arm with his when he offered. They did have some wine, and a few decent tiny sandwiches.

  “Do you know, well, no you wouldn’t, but this is my first time visiting the Gardens.”

  “Are you serious? You have no idea what you’ve been missing. Come, let me show you around.” With a fresh glass of wine in one hand, she took his hand with the other, gently tugging to make him come with her.

  By then it was dark, although the paths were lit by lanterns, as were some of the gardens, in deference to the party guests who wanted to explore. He strolled with Ms. Paulson, smiling inside when she urged him to put his arm around her waist, “Because it’s beginning to get a bit chilly.”

  “What’s that?” he asked a good twenty minutes later when he spotted a setting that might work. Changing my MO, but only a little. Instead of a parking garage, I’ll use a park of trees. He chuckled under his breath.

  “That’s the oak grove. It’s very romantic at night.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

  He smiled, pulling her closer to his body. “Let’s check it out, then.”

  The grove was small and dark, but large enough for what Blaine had in mind—and empty of any guests. When they reached the center, he saw a large oak and walked the over to it. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he pressed her against the trunk. She looked up at him, not the least bit afraid. Obviously, she expected him to kiss her and wouldn’t mind in the least if he did. So he acted on her expectations, brushing her lips with his, barely repressing a shudder of disgust since the kiss gave him the chance to take his knife from his pocket and flick it open.

  “You can do better than that,” she whispered.

  “I kno
w.” Blaine pressed the tip of the knife to her throat, watching her overly made-up eyes widen in shock and terror. He knew he had to do this fast, before she had a chance to cry out. Not that he wanted to. He loved heightening their fear slowly, savoring every second. But not tonight. It was the kill that counted. He could play slice and dice once she was dead. He pushed the knife in, twisting it to sever a jugular vein, stepping back fast to avoid all but a slight splash of the blood that poured out. She fell at his feet, the life leaving her eyes. Only then did he slash open the top of her dress and begin to cut her—adding his trademark to her death—destroyed breasts. “Take that, bitch, and that,” he whispered with each slice of the knife. “Maybe now you’ll think twice about trying to take Dad from me.”

  Finished, he wiped the knife on her skirt, closed it, and put it back into his pocket. He stood, looking around, assessing the best way to leave before someone discovered her body. Walking casually out of the grove, he stepped onto a dimly lit path which, if he remembered correctly, led to the south edge of the Gardens. He had, and reached the fence without running into anyone. Trees lined it, giving him the perfect cover to climb to the top and drop to the other side. It wasn’t until he reached his car and got in, that he gave his emotions free rein.

  Served you right, bitch. You got what you deserved, like all the others. Whores, destroying the bond between a father and son. Won’t happen again, will it?

  He pounded his fist on the steering wheel, shouting out his elation, the need to kill gone—for the time being.

  Chapter 11

  Steve awoke Saturday morning to the sound of his phone chiming. He grabbed it, pushing the answer button before the ringing could wake Gary. Easing out of bed, he went into the hallway and closed the door before he said, “Who the hell is calling at the crack of dawn.”

  There was a short bark of laughter before Owen replied, “It’s me. He struck again.”

  “How the hell? I thought he was locked up in a psych ward.”

  “Oh, sorry. Not Lloyd, obviously. I meant the man who’s been slaughtering business women.”

  “Damn. Your job is never done, is it? Where this time?” He propped his foot against the wall and leaned back as he listened to Owen’s reply.

  “In the Botanic Gardens, and I mean in them, not in the parking garage.”

  “The hell you say. Are you sure it was him?”

  “Yep. Other than the location, and the fact the ME thinks she was dead before the perp started cutting her up, it all fits. The victim was a Ms. Paulson. She owns a realty company, was on the planning committee for the gala last evening at the Gardens, and was forty-five.”

  “Her profile fits what he goes after. The location bothers me, though.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Owen replied. “Maybe he couldn’t get her to go with him to the garage, so he took a gamble and killed her in the oak grove. Do you know the Gardens?”

  “Yep. I can see why he chose the grove. Even during the day in can be pretty shadowy in there unless the sun is shining right down on it. Did anyone see her with him?”

  “She spent some time in the amphitheater, coming on to several men who talked with her. Of course that bit of information came from a slightly drunk and jealous wife so it could be an exaggeration, but it’s possible one of them is our killer. We may have gotten lucky, too. The planning committee hired a professional photographer to take pictures at the gala. I’ll be talking to him in an hour.” Owen chuckled. “He was about as happy about me waking him up before noon as you were.”

  “Before noon? It’s…” Steve checked his phone. “Okay, it’s nine-thirty. It sure feels earlier.”

  “Try it from my end,” Owen said, sounding tired, to put it mildly. “I’ve been going since around ten last night, with only three hours sleep since then.”

  “The joys of being a famous detective.”

  Owen snorted. “I wouldn’t know. I’m only a cop. You’re the detective who could become famous, if you put your mind to it.”

  “No thanks. I’m happy in my own little niche. I’ll leave catching killers up to you, and lend a hand when I can.”

  “You’ve done fine so far, doing the research on the Ayers twins so I didn’t have to.”

  “Uh-huh. I know you. You did it, too. I just, maybe, steered you in the right direction with some of what I found out.”

  “Which I appreciate. Okay, I’ve still got things I have to do before I can head home and fall on my face in bed.”

  “Let me know if you find out anything from the photographer?”

  “I will.”

  As soon as they’d hung up, Steve slipped quietly into the bedroom, and found Gary sitting up, his back against the headboard. “I hope you’re going to fill me in on why Owen called,” he said. “Like, what photographer and why is he talking with one?” He smiled when Steve cocked his head in question. “You weren’t talking as quietly as you thought at the end.”

  “Sorry. He called because there was another murder last night, by our killer who goes after business women.”

  “Oh, shit. One finally gets arrested and the other one pops up again.”

  Steve sat on the edge of the bed as he filled his husband in on the details. He didn’t give Gary a chance comment when he’d finished, instead asking, “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I got hit by a truck, but that’s better than the train if felt like yesterday.”

  “Aw, my poor love.” Steve gently cupped his face with his hands to kiss him. “Let me get your pills…”

  “I already took two, since I had to take a piss.”

  “You shouldn’t be walking around without—”

  Gary put a finger to Steve’s lips. “I’m a big boy now. I really can make it to the bathroom without your help, in spite of this.” He tapped the sling. “Breathing, on the other hand hurts, even more than my shoulder does. But enough of looking for pity.” He grinned, easing forward to kiss Steve. “Now, about our second killer. What do you think the chances are the photographer managed to catch him on film?”

  “Fifty-fifty. It was a charity event, from what I remember reading about it in the paper a couple of days ago. That means there were probably ten dozen people there, milling around, intent on being seen as do-gooders and maybe getting their faces in the Sunday society section of the Post.”

  “You can bet your life if the killer was aware the guy was around, he made certain to be somewhere else.”

  “Thus the fifty-fifty. He might have been so intent on culling Ms. Paulson from the herd, so to speak, that he wouldn’t have been aware the man was taking photographs.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the case.”

  “Exactly. For now though, let’s stop talking about it, okay? I’m starving. I’m sure you are, too.”

  “I could eat something. And just so you know, I’ll be sitting at the kitchen table when I do. One evening of pampering was…fun. But I’m not letting you keep it up. I have to get used to this damn sling and how to work around it.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t try to push yourself too hard, and I’ll try not to overdo being helpful. But—” he pointed a finger at Gary, “—you ask when you do need help. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  * * * *

  They ate a late breakfast, with Gary managing to handle it one-handed without too many problems, other than grimacing when he reached for something and aggravated his ribs. He was working on his second cup of coffee while Steve did the dishes when Steve’s phone chimed.

  As soon as he answered, Owen said, “I’ve been through the photos from the photographer. I want you to take a look.”

  “Sure,” Steve replied, wondering why. “Are you at the station?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. I need to meet with a client at noon that I had to reschedule, since I didn’t make it into work yesterday. I’ll stop by on my way to the office.”

  “Can you bring Gary if he’s up to it?” Owen asked. “I’ll make certain he ge
ts a ride back home. I think he’s going to find this interesting, too.”

  “You’ve definitely piqued my interest. We’ll be there in twenty, give or take.”

  “Now what?” Gary asked when Steve hung up.

  “Owen’s got some photos he wants us to look at. Do you think you’re—”

  “I could be on my deathbed and I’d still want to come with you,” Gary told him.

  “Figured as much.”

  When they arrived at the station, Owen came down to escort them up to the squad room. Once they were seated as his desk, Owen took a photo from the pile in front of him, showing it to Gary and Steve. “This is Ms. Paulson.” Then he handed them the rest of photos. “Look through them and tell me what you think,” he said.

  They were of guests at the gala, singly, in pairs, or groups. It took Steve a moment of thumbing through them before he came to one that had him raising his eyebrows.

  He gave it to Gary, who hissed in surprise, saying, “You have got to be kidding me.”

  It showed Ms. Paulson with a man they instantly recognized—Blaine Ayers. Or at least they had to presume it was him since Lloyd was locked away in a psych ward.

  “You think he’s your other serial killer?” Steve asked, although he knew what the answer would be, especially when he looked at the next photo on the pile which showed Blaine and Ms. Paulson leaving the amphitheater together, arm-in-arm. It wasn’t a good shot of him, but still Steve had no doubt it was Blaine.

  “Guess it runs in the family,” Gary said caustically.

  “In their family, at least,” Owen agreed. “I already have a BOLO out on him and I’ve sent officers to his house. They reported back, right before you got here, to say there was no answer when they knocked and rang the bell, and his car isn’t in the garage.”

  “So obviously he’s on the run. I wonder if this was his farewell nose thumbing at you and possibly the FBI,” Steve said.