with Strait’s mother in Los Angeles. According to police her ex-husband, Samuel Strait, also living in the L. A. area, was questioned and determined to have been in Southern California at the time of the murder.
Linda Davila was a single mother of two children with no other family in the northern California area. The children’s father, Tom Gerritson of Reno, Nevada, is being questioned today by Gayner Police.
Darell read the article twice, one hand plucking at his lip.
Victim’s ages were fairly close. Varied ethnicities. Both divorced. Both mothers. Worked very different kinds of jobs in different towns.
Strait was new to the Bay Area. Was Davila?
Did they both know Craig Barlow?
That may not matter, considering Craig was a cop on patrol. He would see many women come and go from their homes and could track them with immunity.
As for his father, the man sounded like a real hothead. A police chief should keep his cool under fire. Lashing back at a concerned citizen would not win him any points with the public or media.
Darell rubbed his chin, thinking of his novels. If he placed a murder in a small town under the jurisdiction of a police force inexperienced with investigating homicides—wouldn’t he have a smart police chief request help from outside sources?
Of course he would. In fact his police chief had done just that in
No, not that one.
No, not
What
Maybe
“Pssh,” he muttered. Didn’t matter.
Darell stared at the screen, trying to retrace his line of thought.
The chief.
Why would he not ask for help? Especially after the second murder.
A horrific thought surfaced. Did Chief Barlow know about his son?
Prickles hotfooted between Darell’s shoulder blades—the sensation he used to feel at the rise of an unexpected plot twist. His thoughts snagged on the feeling, the excitement it generated. Yes, yes, this was right. Just what he’d do in a book!
He’d reveal the twist … halfway through the story.
No. In the crisis/climax.
Maybe Leland Hugh was the son of a police chief.
No, too close to this real case. The son of a … county sheriff.
Or the coroner.
A state senator.
Yes—a state senator immersed in pushing through tougher legislation on crime …
Darell’s gaze drifted out the window. Thoughts of his story swirled and dipped like leaves in a mercurial wind.
Sometime later—he didn’t know how long—the gusts abruptly died. Images of Hugh, the senator, the psychiatrist plummeted to earth and stilled.
Darell blinked.
He swung his focus back to the monitor. What was … ?
The news article. He’d been reading about the Gayner homicides. The chief.
Did the man know his son was the murderer?
Darell’s eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility.
Perhaps. It would explain why the chief hadn’t asked for help. He didn’t
Had anyone explored links between the victims? Or sought the origin of the black and green fabric? It could be sent to an outside lab, tests run to determine its unique makeup. From there they could discover what company made the cloth, where it was sold. Try to track down who purchased it.
Darell gazed at his keyboard, a realization dawning. For two years he’d cut himself off from the world. What a disser vice to his career. Just fifteen minutes’ drive away this fascinating case had been playing out for the past twelve months. Real life that could have fueled the fire of his creativity. Were novels not slices of life, reflections of the world?
Little wonder his imaginative flame had barely flickered.
Tiredness seeped into Darell’s veins.
He sighed. Dinner was hitting his digestive system. He took deep breaths, scowling at his weakness. It could be hours yet before Kaitlan phoned.
The hair on his arms nudged up.
He wrenched his eyes back to the screen. He must help her. He needed to concentrate. Read another article.
Before Darell’s hand could click the mouse, Leland Hugh pulsed again into his thoughts. Trailed by his senator father …
Chief Barlow …
The fabric and a body on the bed …
Hugh’s psychiatrist … Kaitlan … Craig …
Darell’s brain floundered. It turned in futile circles, seeking direction.
He was lost.
Darell pressed both hands to his temples and closed his eyes.
Even in his halcyon days he’d struggled. His suspense plots were Daedalean labyrinths, fraught with red herrings and foreshadow and innuendo and assumptions, both right and wrong. Some tunnels misled readers. Others ended in truth. Theme and metaphor lay in yet other passages. Each fed off the other, creating an intricate and precarious maze. One tiny change in plot, veer two degrees instead of four—and everything shifted. Every character motive, every word and thought. How then to retrace his steps to the beginning, rewrite everything as required?
Sometimes his writing had wandered for days, searching for the silken thread of Theseus to lead it back.
Darell’s head flopped to one side. His tiredness now surged on a high, dark tide.
Maybe after a good night’s sleep he could think again.
But Kaitlan needed him now.
He stared at the monitor. With mouth-firming determination he clicked to a second news article. He hunched forward, fighting to read it.
The words blurred.
Darell sagged back against his chair. His gaze floated to the edge of his screen, then out the window …
With a sigh he pushed away from his keyboard and stared dully at the soulless night.
twenty-four
They spoke little in the car.
Craig drove a souped-up blue Mustang, the final touch to the perfect picture of muscled cop with good looks and charm. Or so Kaitlan once thought. Now that picture looked mottled and ugly, acid-stained.
Her pulse skimmed.
The Mustang’s top was down, and cold wind whipped hair against her tingling cheek. She tensed in the chill. Northern California was so different from L. A. When the sun set, the temperature dropped. Kaitlan gathered her hair in one hand and held it against the nape of her neck. The leather upholstery beneath her whispered a tale of horror. Had this seat been the last thing that woman’s body warmed?
