A Perfect Evil Part 19

CHAPTER 45.

Christine treated herself to Wanda's homemade chicken noodle soup and b.u.t.tercrust rolls. Corby had given her the morning off, but she had brought her notepad and jotted down ideas for tomorrow's article. It was early, and the lunch crowd filtered in slowly, so she had a booth to herself in the far corner of the small diner. She sat next to the window and watched the few pedestrians shuffling through the snow.

Timmy had called and asked whether he and his friends could have lunch at the rectory with Father Keller. The priest had joined them sledding on Cutty's Hill and, to make up for the inevitably canceled camping trip, he had invited the boys for roasted hot dogs and marshmallows by the huge fireplace in the church's rectory.

"Great series of articles, Christine," Angie Clark said as she refilled Christine's cup with more steaming coffee.

Caught off guard, Christine swallowed the bite of warm bread. "Thanks." She smiled and wiped a napkin across her mouth. "Your mom's rolls are still the best around."

"I keep telling her we should package and sell some of her baked goods, but she thinks if people can take home a batch, they won't stay here for lunch or dinner."

Christine knew that Angie was the financial mind behind her mother's business. Not able to build on to the small diner, it was Angie's advice to start a delivery service. After only six short months, they had added an extra cook and were keeping two vans and drivers busy, without jeopardizing their normal crowded breakfast, lunch and dinner rushes.

Sometimes Christine wondered why Angie had stayed in Platte City. She obviously had a mind for business and a body that drew plenty of attention. But after only two years at the university and a rumored affair with a married state senator, she had returned home to her widowed mother.

"How's Nick?" Angie asked while pretending to rearrange the silverware on a nearby table.

"Right now he's probably p.i.s.sed at me again. He hasn't appreciated my articles." She knew that wasn't what Angie had wanted to hear, but Christine had learned long ago to keep out of her brother's love life.

"Next time you see him, tell him I said hi."

Poor Angie. Nick probably hadn't called her since any of this mess started. And though he denied it, Christine knew his mind was filled with the lovely and unavailable Maggie O'Dell. Perhaps his heart would finally get broken, and he'd get a taste of his own medicine.

She watched Angie greet two burly construction workers who came in and began peeling off their layers of jackets, hats and overalls. Why did women knock themselves out over Nick? It was something Christine had never understood as she had watched him go from one woman to another without any explanation or hesitation. He was a handsome, charming jerk, and even after days-maybe even weeks-of not calling, she knew Angie Clark would still welcome him back with open arms.

She sipped the steaming coffee and jotted down "coroner's report." George Tillie was an old family friend. He and her dad had been hunting buddies for years. Maybe George could supply her with some new information. As far as she could tell, the investigation was at a standstill.

Suddenly, the volume on the corner television blasted the room. She looked up just as Wanda Clark waved at her.

"Christine, listen to this."

Bernard Shaw on CNN had just mentioned Platte City, Nebraska. A graphic behind him showed its location while Shaw talked about the bizarre series of murders. They flashed Christine's Sunday headline, From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community With Boy's Recent Murder, as Bernard described the murders and Jeffreys' killing spree six years before.

"A source close to the investigation says the sheriff's department still has no clues, and that the only suspect on their list is one who was executed three months ago."

Christine cringed at Shaw's hint of sarcasm, and for the first time she sympathized with Nick. The rest of the diner broke into applause and waved thumbs-up gestures at her. They'd simply heard that their town had made the national news. The sarcasm and befuddled-country-folk references fell on deaf ears.

The volume went down, and she went back to her notes. Soon her cellular phone began ringing, screaming at her from the bottom of her purse. She dug for it, removing wallet, hairbrush and lipstick and scattering them on the table. She looked up to find all eyes on her again. Finally, she ripped the contraption from the bag and waved it at her audience, who smiled and went back to their meals. The phone rang two more times before she found the On switch.

"Christine Hamilton."

"Ms. Hamilton, h.e.l.lo. This is William Ramsey at KLTV Channel Five. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. Your office gave me this number."

"I am having lunch, Mr. Ramsey. How can I help you?"

The last several nights the television station had depended on her newspaper articles for information on the murders. Other than a few fluff pieces interviewing relatives and neighbors, their newscasts had lacked the hype they counted on for ratings.

"I wonder if we might get together for breakfast or lunch tomorrow?"

"My schedule is very full, Mr. Ramsey."

"Yes, of course it is. Then I guess I'll have to get to the point."

"That would be nice."

"I'd like you to come work for Channel Five as a reporter and weekend coanchor."

"Excuse me?" She almost choked on her roll.

"Your gutsy reporting on these murders is just the kind of thing we need here at Channel Five."

"Mr. Ramsey, I'm a newspaper reporter. I don't-"

"Your style of writing would lend itself very well to broadcast news. We'd be willing to coach you for the anchor position. And I happen to know you're quite easy on the eyes."

She wasn't above flattery. Fact was, she craved it, having had so little in the past. But Corby and the Omaha Journal Omaha Journal had given her a big break. No, she couldn't even entertain the idea. had given her a big break. No, she couldn't even entertain the idea.

"I'm flattered, Mr. Ramsey, but I just can't-"

"I'm prepared to offer you sixty thousand dollars a year if you start right away."

Christine dropped her spoon. It catapulted off her bowl, splattering soup onto her lap. She made no motion to wipe it up.

"Excuse me?"

Her surprise must have sounded like another decline, because Ramsey hurriedly said, "Okay, I can go to sixty-five thousand. In fact, I'll throw in a two-thousand-dollar bonus if you start this weekend."

Sixty-five thousand dollars was more than twice the amount Christine made even with her meager pay increase. She could pay off her bills and not worry about hunting down Bruce for child support.

"Can I get back to you, Mr. Ramsey, after I've had some time to think about it?"

"Sure, of course you should think about it. Why don't you sleep on it and give me a call in the morning."

"Thank you. I will." She slapped the phone shut and was still in a daze when Eddie Gillick slid into the booth next to her, shoving her up against the window. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

"It was bad enough when you tricked me into giving you a quote for your newspaper article, but now your little brother is giving me chicken-s.h.i.+t a.s.signments, so I figure you also told him I was your anonymous source."

"Look, Deputy Gillick..."

"No, hey, it's Eddie, remember?"

He helped himself to her coffee, adding a heap of sugar and gulping it without scalding himself. The smell of his aftershave lotion was overpowering.

"I didn't exactly tell Nick. He-"

"No, that's okay, because the way I figure it, now you owe me one."

She felt his hand on her knee, and the look of contempt in his eyes immobilized her. His hand moved up her thigh and under her skirt before she wrestled it away. The corner of his mustache twitched into a smile as she felt the color rise into her face.

"Can I get you anything, Eddie?" Angie Clark stood over the table, obviously well aware that she was interrupting and not about to leave until she had succeeded.

"No, Angie dear," Eddie said, still smiling at Christine. "Unfortunately, I can't stay. I'll just have to catch up with you later, Christine."

He slid out of the booth, ran a hand over his slicked-down black hair and replaced his hat. Then he sauntered back down the aisle and out the door.

"You okay?"

"Of course," Christine answered. She kept her trembling hands out of sight under the table.

CHAPTER 46.

The door flung open just in time for Nick to see Maggie race back across the room.

"Come on in," she yelled to him as she poked at the keyboard of her laptop computer. Then, she stood back and watched the screen. "I'm accessing some information from Quantico's database. It's proving to be very interesting."

He came into the small hotel room slowly, pa.s.sing the bathroom, and was immediately accosted by the scent of her shampoo and perfume. She wore jeans and the same s.e.xy Packers jersey from the other night. Its color was faded. The neckline was stretched and misshapen so that it draped down and exposed a bare shoulder. Knowing she had nothing underneath made him hot, and he tried to divert his attention to something, anything else.

She glanced up at him, then did a double take. "What happened to your face?"

"Christine didn't wait. There was an article in this morning's paper."

"And Mich.e.l.le Tanner saw it before you got there?"

"Sort of. Someone told her about it."

"She hit you?"

"No," he snapped, then realized there was no need to be so defensive. "Her ex-husband, Matthew's dad, sort of let me have it."

"Jesus, Morrelli, don't you know how to duck?"

The anger must have still been in his eyes, because she quickly added, "Sorry. You should put some ice on it."

Unlike Lucy, Maggie went back to the computer screen, offering no nursing services.

"How's the shoulder?"

She looked up again. Her eyes met his. For a brief moment they softened, remembering. Then she quickly looked away. "It's okay." She rolled it as if to check. "It's still pretty sore."

The Packers jersey slipped further down her shoulder, revealing creamy, soft skin. It easily distracted him. G.o.d, he wanted to touch her so bad it hurt. It didn't help matters that her rumpled bed was just feet away.

"So, you're a Packers fan." He filled the silence while she clicked through information on the computer screen.

"Actually, my dad grew up in Green Bay," she said without looking up. The computer screen changed quickly as she scanned its contents. "My husband keeps trying to get me to throw this old thing away. But it's one of the few things I have that reminds me of my dad. It was his. He used to wear it when we watched the games together."

"Used to?"

There was a pause, and he knew it had nothing to do with the information on the screen. He watched her tuck her hair behind her ears and recognized it as a nervous habit.

"He was killed when I was twelve."

"I'm sorry. Was he an FBI agent, too?"

She stopped and stood up straight, pretending to stretch, only he knew it was to buy time. It was easy to see the subject of her father brought back memories.

"No, a firefighter. He died a hero. I guess you and I have that in common." She smiled up at him. "Except your father managed to stay alive."

"Just remember, my father had a lot of help."

She searched his eyes, and this time he quickly looked away before she saw something he wasn't ready to reveal.

"You don't think he had something to do with Jeffreys being framed, do you?"

He felt her watching him. He purposely came up beside her to view the computer screen, making it impossible for her to examine his eyes.

"He gained the most from Jeffreys' capture. I don't know what I believe."

"Here it is," she said, watching the screen fill with what looked like newspaper articles.

"What is this?" He leaned forward. "The Wood River Gazette Wood River Gazette, November 1989. Where is Wood River?"

"Maine." She poked at the scroll b.u.t.ton, scanning the headlines. Then she stopped and pointed to one.

"'Boy's Mutilated Body Found Near River.' This sounds familiar." He started reading the article that stretched over three columns of the front page.

"Guess who was a junior pastor at Wood River's St. Mary's Catholic Church?"

He stopped, looked back at her and rubbed his jaw. "You still don't have any evidence. It's all circ.u.mstantial. Why didn't this case come up during Jeffreys' trial?"

"There was no need. From what I've been able to find, a transient working at St. Mary's Church took the blame."

"Or maybe he did it." He hated where this was leading. "How did you find out about it?"

"Just a hunch. When I talked to Father Francis this morning, he told me Father Keller had started a similar summer camp at his previous parish in Wood River, Maine."

"So you looked for murdered boys in the area at the time he was there."