Shoot / Don't Shoot

“It’s possible,” Joanna said evasively. “We’ll have to check it out. Where will you be if I need to get back to you?”

“Right here at my desk,” he answered. “I’m way behind on my paper. I won’t get out of here any before six or seven.”

It was a struggle, but Joanna managed to keep her tone suitably light and casual. “Good,” she said. “If any of this checks out, I’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Heart pounding with excitement, Joanna di­aled Carol Strong’s numbers—both home and office—and ended up reaching voice mail at home and a receptionist at the office.

“What time is she expected?” Joanna asked.

“Detective Strong is scheduled from four to midnight today,” the receptionist said. “May I take a message?”

What Joanna had to say wasn’t something she wanted to leave in message form, electronic or oth­erwise. “No,” she answered. “I’ll call back then.”

Disappointed, Joanna put down the phone. It was barely twelve-thirty. That meant it could be as long as three and a half hours before she could reach Carol Strong. If that was the case, what was the most profitable use she could make of the in­tervening time?

Reaching for pencil and paper, Joanna drew a series of boxes, to each of which she assigned a name that showed the people involved. Serena and Jorge Grijalva. Rhonda and Dean Norton. Leann Jessup and Dave Thompson. She drew arrows between each of the couples and then studied the paper trying to search for patterns, to see what, if any they all had in common.

The use of pantyhose for restraints was the most obvious. In the upper-right-hand corner of the page, she wrote the word “pantyhose.”

What else? Both Serena and Rhonda had been bludgeoned to death. No stab wounds. No guns wounds. Bludgeoned. Leann Jessup hadn’t died but there were no wounds to indicate the presence of either a knife or a gun. In the corner, she wrote: “Bludgeon (2) ? (1).”

In each case, there had been a plausible suspect who became the immediate focus of the investigation. Both Jorge Grijalva and Professor Dean Norton had a history of domestic violence. So did Dave Thompson, for that matter. That became the third notation: “Domestic violence.”

She sat for a long time, studying the notes. And then it came to her, like the second picture emerging from the visual confusion of an optical illusion. With a physical batterer there to serve as the investigative lightning rod in each of the three separate cases, the real killer could possibly blend into the background and disappear while someone else was convicted of committing his murders. Her hand was shaking as she wrote the fourth note “Handy fall guy.”

For the first time, the words serial murderer edged their way into her head. Was that possible? Would a killer be smart enough to target his victims based on the availability of someone else to take the blame?

Lost in thought, Joanna jumped when the phone at her elbow jangled her out of her concentration.

“Joanna,” a reproving Marliss Shackleford said crossly into the phone, “your mother told me you’d call me back right away.”

Irritated by the interruption, it was all Joanna could do to remain reasonably polite. “I’ve been a little too busy to worry about that picture, if that’s what you’re calling about, Marliss. I’ll try to take care of it next week, but I’m not making any promises.”

“Too busy with the Leann Jessup case?” Marliss asked innocently.

For a guilty moment, Joanna felt as though Marliss, like Jenny, was some kind of mind reader. “You know about that?”