Dancing in the Dark Page 13

  “So who'd you think the Frank in Frank and Angie's was?” Molly sipped her ice tea, eyes flashing with laughter. “Frankie Avalon?”

  “I never thought about it one way or another.” He was turning red again. “I figured Frank was the owner or something.”

  Sara reached over to pat his hand. “That's totally understandable. I wouldn't know it myself except I asked once. Angie is the owner's mom. And she had a thing about Frank Sinatra. So there you go—Frank and Angie's.”

  “I didn't mean anything by it, honestly.”

  Molly laughed again. “Of course you didn't. It's just that I thought, under the circumstances, this place was a little too on point. You know?”

  “I can see where you'd think that.” His grin was weak, his discomfort fading.

  “So why don't you tell us how the new assignment's going?” It wasn't, strictly speaking, a change of subject, but at least it had a more positive focus.

  “I don't have a lot yet. But I've scheduled an interview with Allison Moore's family. I thought if I presented things from their point of view, it would go a long way toward humanizing the piece. It seems that with murder, especially this kind, the victims often get lost in the shuffle.”

  Sara nodded her approval. “I think it's perfect. How'd you manage the interview?”

  “I'm not sure, really. I expected to be turned down. In fact, I think she planned to turn me down. But then, when she heard that I was the one who'd written the article about Lydia Wallace, she changed her mind.”

  “Sounds like a coup to me.” Molly raised her glass in salute.

  “Thanks.” Nate ducked his head, swallowing another mouthful of spaghetti. “But I've still got to turn it into something marketable. You think maybe I could get you to take some photographs?”

  “No problem. Just tell me when.” Sara frowned, another thought pushing its way front and center. “Has Eric talked to you?”

  “We talked a little at the party, but I haven't heard anything more.”

  “I suspect he's been a little busy.” Molly leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “It seems like every time we turn around there's been another murder.”

  Sara took a sip of ice tea, eyeing her friends over the rim of the glass. “It does seem as if things are escalating.”

  “In a sick kind of way. The killer's a real piece of work. I'm betting he can't even get it up.” Despite her words, there was anger in Molly's voice.

  “Maybe he has a reason,” Nate offered tentatively.

  “Like what? Voices in his head telling him what to do?” Molly glared at Nate. “You think there's an excuse out there that would validate what he did?”

  “No,” Nate said, staring down at his bowl, avoiding her gaze. “I just meant that despite the horror of the results, there's usually an explanation of some kind.”

  “I'm sorry, Nate.” Molly's smile was genuine. “I didn't mean to lash out at you.”

  “It's okay.” He sighed, his tone indicating that it really wasn't.

  Sara started to say something to try to smooth things over between them, but before she could get the words out, her phone rang. Signaling to Molly and Nate, she grabbed the phone, and headed for the restaurant's entrance.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello yourself.” Eric's voice washed through her, warming her in places she hadn't even realized she was cold. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Nothing important. I'm at Frank and Angie's having lunch with Nate and Molly.”

  “Seems an off choice of venue.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

  “Believe me, we've more than covered that ground. It was Nate's idea.”

  “Well, I won't keep you. I just called to let you know I tracked down the number.”

  Sara couldn't help the intake of breath, her heart rate accelerating as she waited to hear what he'd found.

  “The call was placed from a pay phone at a bowling alley. Highland Lanes. Can you think of any connection you or someone you know might have with the place?”

  “I don't even bowl.” Disappointment mixed with relief.

  “It's probably random, but think about it and let me know if you think of anyone you know who might frequent the place.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?” It was frustrating to feel like her hands were tied. “It's like this guy is running my life. Or at least my nights.”

  “Unfortunately there isn't anything to do at this point except wait for another call. If it's from the same place, then we can try a stakeout. If not—”

  “Then we're back to square one,” she finished for him on a sigh.

  “Not necessarily.” There was a pause, and when he spoke again it was with conviction. “We'll find him, Sara. It just takes time.”

  “All right.” She forced a smile. “I'll keep a good thought.”

  “That's my girl.” The words weren't meant as an endearment, but nevertheless she was absurdly pleased with the way they sounded. “You have plans for dinner?”

  “No. You got something in mind?”

  “You.” This time there was no mistaking the intimacy of the word.

  She swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I think that can be arranged.”

  “Good. I'll pick you up at seven.” There was a definite smile in his voice. “And I'll be thinking about you until then.”

  His words reminded her of the flowers. “I almost forgot. Thank you for the roses. They're beautiful.”

  “I'd love to take credit, but I didn't send roses, Sara. What made you think they were from me?”

  Disappointment threatened to silence her. She sucked in a breath, forcing her emotions into control. “I just assumed …” she paused, striving for nonchalance. “There was a note, but no signature.”

  “What did it say?” His tone was suddenly coplike.

  “‘All I can do is think of you.’ I think that's it.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. That's it.”

  “Did you check with the florist?” Eric sounded angry now.

  “Of course not. I thought they were from you.”

  “I'm sorry, Sara, I didn't mean to grill you. It's just that I don't like the idea of you getting anonymous flowers.”

  She wondered if he was talking professionally or personally. Hopefully a little of both. “I'm sure there's an explanation. Someone I've photographed or something.” Which, of course, made absolutely no sense at all, but she didn't like to think about the alternative.

  “Look, whoever it is, we'll get to the bottom of it.” He blew out a breath. “I'd come by sooner, but I've got my hands full with this murder investigation. Will you be all right until seven?”

  “Of course. I'll be fine.”

  “Okay.” He didn't sound like he believed her, but in truth there wasn't anything he could do about it. “I'll see you tonight, then.”

  He hung up, and she stood staring stupidly at her cell phone, Frank Sinatra crooning in the background. Her eyes widened, and she strained to hear the lyrics. Frank's voice soared, the notes underscoring the words, “All I can do is think of you.”

  She shivered, a horrible thought pushing its way into her head. But the idea was preposterous. There was no connection between her and the Sinatra killer. She was jumping to conclusions. The words on her flowers were not from a song. Anyone could have said them.

  The big question, of course, was who?

  Chapter 15

  “Got a minute?” Eric and Tony stood beside a '65 Chevy, talking to Jack Weston's feet.

  The mechanic rolled out from under the car, frowning up at them. “Can't it wait until I finish?”

  Eric shook his head. “I'm afraid we need to talk now.”

  Jack stood up, wiping his hands on the back of his coveralls. “How can I help you?”

  Tony shot a look at the busy garage. “Why don't we talk in your office?”

  “All right.” Jack nodded to another mechanic, who took his place on the dolly. “This way.”
/>
  They walked in silence, and Eric took the opportunity to study the younger man. Here in the garage he seemed rougher around the edges than he'd appeared at the party. Maybe it was just a product of the environment, or maybe there was more to Jack Weston than appearances. Either way, he intended to find out what Weston knew.

  They walked into a small cubicle, with a window looking into the garage. Jack wound the blinds shut, then indicated two chairs sitting in front of a beat-up old desk. “So tell me what this is all about.” He sat behind the desk, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “You tell us.” Tony dropped the photograph on the desk.

  Jack picked it up, studied it for a moment, then put it down again. “I was standing on a corner. Is that against the law?”

  “Normally not. But this particular corner just happened to be where Sara was photographing Lydia Wallace. I'm guessing your being there is a little bit more than coincidence.”

  Jack blew out a long breath. “I was following Sara.”

  It was Eric's turn to frown. “I don't understand.”

  “It's really simple. I worry about her. So I watch out for her.”

  “Without her knowing?” This from Tony.

  “Yeah, if necessary. I don't see much point in alarming her. Besides, if she knew, she'd be madder than hell. Probably send me away. So sometimes I watch over her from behind the scenes.” He shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”

  “And the reason you've appointed yourself Sara's guardian?”

  “I care about her. Look, D'Angelo, I told you yesterday that Sara and I go way back. I've been looking out for her since we were kids. It's a habit I've carried right into adulthood. Especially with Tom gone.”

  “You're telling us the only reason you were on Chicon that day was to check up on Sara?” Tony wrote something in his notebook, the repetition a ploy to keep Jack talking.

  “To watch over her, yeah. In case you haven't noticed, it's not the safest environment.”

  “And she had no idea you were there?” Eric studied the other man, trying to judge his honesty.

  “None at all. Unless she saw me in the photograph.”

  “Did you know Lydia Wallace?” Tony asked, the question a not-so-subtle shift of subject.

  “The dead girl? No. I saw her, of course, with Sara, but I never met her. You guys thinking I had something to do with her death?”

  “We're just checking all the angles, Jack. Looking for a connection.”

  “Well, you won't find it with me, or Sara, either, for that matter.”

  “You mentioned protecting Sara at the party, too. Something to do with foster care. Can you tell us a little more about that?”

  Jack fixed his narrow-eyed gaze on Eric. “You asking professionally or personally?”

  “A little of both, I guess.” Truth was, he didn't know for sure.

  “I don't see how it could possibly impact your investigation, but there's no big secret about it. Our so-called foster father was a little too free with his hands.” Jack's voice was bitter. “We tried to get social services to remove her, but they wouldn't listen. Told us it was all in her imagination.”

  “But it wasn't.”

  Jack shook his head, lost in the past. “The bastard cornered her in her room one night. She screamed for help; I came running.”

  “Sara was molested?” Eric fought against emotion, trying to maintain professional perspective, but it was hard.

  “No. I hit him over the head with a poker before he could hurt her. We thought he was dead, and so we ran.”

  “You could have claimed self-defense.”

  “You obviously have never been in the foster-care system. No one listens to the kids, believe me. Anyway, we didn't want to take a chance. So we hid out until social services caught up with us.”

  “What happened?”

  “We found out the pervert wasn't dead. And, of course, in an effort to keep his awful secret, he hadn't told anyone anything other than that we'd run off. So they relocated us. Separately.” The last was said with anger.

  “But you stayed in touch.”

  “Hell, yeah. Sara was the only family I ever had. I wasn't about to let the system take her away from me. Anyway, we persevered and here we are. Successful, and for the most part emotionally healthy.” His smile was crooked, almost charming.

  “And you still watch out for her.”

  “Damn straight. Always will.”

  “She's lucky to have a friend like you,” Eric said, the faint pull of jealousy coloring his perception of the man.

  “No, D'Angelo, you've got it wrong. I'm the lucky one.”

  “I think you should tell Eric.” Molly was sitting on the edge of Sara's desk. Sara had waited until they were alone to share her fears.

  “I called the station. He wasn't there. So I figured I'll tell him about it tonight. It's probably nothing. I mean the words in the note were pretty generic after all. Just because I heard them in a Sinatra song, doesn't mean they're from the Sinatra killer.”

  “I know. But you can't take a chance.” Molly frowned, her eyes narrowing as she glared at Sara.

  “All right already. I told you I'll tell him.” Sara raised a hand in defense.

  “I'm sorry.” Molly's expression changed to apologetic. “I just want you to take care of yourself. Besides, even if the note isn't a lyric, the whole thing is still really weird.” She shot a look at the roses. “I mean, someone had to have sent them to you.”

  “I called the florist, and they couldn't help. Whoever bought them paid cash, so there's no record. And the woman who was working the counter doesn't remember anything. Evidently they've been really busy with the holidays so close; centerpieces and door decorations.”

  “Anything special about the roses?”

  “You mean something that might identify the sender? No. They're just stock roses. Not a special order or anything. Whoever sent them obviously wanted to stay anonymous.”

  “So are you going to keep them?”

  Sara shook her head. “To tell you the truth they kind of give me the creeps. Do you think it'd be awful if I threw them away?”

  “No way. Frankly, I would have already done it. Why don't I take them on my way out?”

  “That'd be great. I haven't been able to bring myself to touch them. I know it's stupid, but I feel like they're tainted or something.”

  “I wouldn't go that far, but I do think you'll feel better when they're gone.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind.” She reached over to hug her friend. “Thanks for not thinking I'm a total loon.”

  “Hey, I already thought that.” Molly returned the hug, then grabbed the vase, already heading for the door. “Call me when you get home from dinner with Detective Dashing. I want to hear every single detail.”

  “Some things are not meant to be shared, Molly.” Sara laughed.

  “With your best friend?” Molly pretended to be offended as she peered over the top of the roses, their crimson color clashing with her fiery hair. “Tell me it isn't so.”

  “Okay. I'll call. I promise.” Sara held out her hands in supplication. “Now go. You're going to be late for rehearsal.”

  “I'm on my way. Right after I dump these flowers.” Molly turned and left, her laughter echoing down the hallway, one red rose petal wafting silently to the floor.

  “Your government dollars at work.” Tony grimaced at the cubicle-filled room, the decor sadly lacking.

  “Hey, beats the hell out of our offices. At least they have cubicles.” They came to a stop in front of what had been Allison Moore's office space. A black balloon marked the spot, a fellow employee's idea of a tribute.

  It hadn't been a particularly productive day. First Jack Weston and then a series of pointless interviews with the second victim's so-called friends. No one had an explanation as to why she had a parasol, but several remembered her carrying it with her everywhere. So at least they had a reason to believe it fit the pattern.

  “Can I h
elp you?” A frazzled-looking man with a bobbing Adam's apple popped out of the cubicle across from Allison's. Tony flashed his badge, and, if possible, the man looked more frazzled. “You're here about Allison.”

  “Just a few questions.” Eric purposefully pitched his voice lower, soothing. “Were you a friend of the deceased?”

  “We worked together.”

  “You're a case worker, too?” Tony asked, notebook in hand.

  “No. I'm a supervisor. Allison reported to me.”

  “Harold Cummings?” Tony consulted his notes. The man nodded. “Great. Mind if we talk for a bit?”

  “Anything to help. Why don't you come in and sit down.” He moved to the side, gesturing with his hand toward the cubicle. Situated in a corner, it was larger than the others and had a window. Perks of the job.

  Eric took a seat across from the desk, while Tony perched on the windowsill. Cummings sat down, twisting his hands nervously. “So what can I tell you?”

  “Can you think of anyone Ms. Moore had a beef with? Someone who would want her dead?”

  “Providing protective services for children isn't an easy proposition, Detective. Case workers constantly run into volatile people. Especially in abuse situations. And Allison often dealt with the more difficult cases. She had a knack for drawing out even the most troubled child.”

  “Would she have had cause to work with runaways?”

  “Possibly. Although it's not the norm. Usually indigents are handled by other organizations. Triad, for one.” The man swiveled his chair to face the credenza behind him, pulled out a drawer, and then, finally, a file. “This is her case record for the last six months.” He turned back to face them, handing the folder to Eric.

  Eric thumbed through the pages, disappointed to find no mention of Lydia Wallace. “Everything she was working on is here?”

  Cummings frowned. “I assign the cases, so the list should be inclusive.”

  “Any chance she was taking cases on her own time?” Tony's question brought a frown to the other man's face.

  “It happens. Not often, and not with my approval, certainly . But sometimes our people come across situations that warrant attention, attention my department either can't or won't take on. Last year we investigated just under three hundred thousand child abuse and neglect cases, Detectives. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. The truth is we simply don't have the money or the manpower to handle it all.” He shrugged, his expression grim. “So when a child falls through the cracks, sometimes a social worker will work the case off the record.”