Deserves to Die Part 27

Shivering, the cold of the morning seeping into her bones, Anne-Marie said, "I'm not going back to New Orleans." She stared pointedly at the man in shadow. "Gun or no gun." But she did climb off the couch, her bare feet touching the floor. "Come on in. You don't have to guard the d.a.m.n door. Where do you think I'm going in this?"

As if to add emphasis to her words, the wind squealed around the house and the d.a.m.n limb started banging against the exterior wall again. Ignoring him, she walked the few steps to the fireplace and went to work, grabbing chunks of split wood she'd hauled inside the night before, prodding at the charred logs with the poker, searching for an ember glowing red beneath the ash. When she had success, she blew on the coals so that they burned brighter, a flame sparking against the moss and dry hemlock as the wood caught fire.

Settling back on her heels, she watched as the flames began to grow, crackling as they devoured the fuel. Her fingers tightened over the poker still in her right hand. She didn't want to harm Ryder, but she wasn't going back to Louisiana with him. No way. She never wanted to see her family again and there was a chance that he would find her there. Now that she felt a new security, that she realized it was Ryder who had been following her rather than the monster who had tossed her into the Mississippi, she could finally feel some sort of relief and believe that she did have a chance for a new life for herself. A life without any ties to the past and that included Troy Ryder.

"Drop it," he ordered.

Still crouching near the grate, she looked over her shoulder to see that he still had the gun pointed at her. For the love of G.o.d, did he really think she believed for a second that he would shoot her? She didn't let go of the poker, but stared at him over her shoulder. He was still near the door, about eight feet from her. If she sprang and swung, she might be able to hit him hard. She needed to take his advantage away and somehow, remove his gun. She had the poker, and her little switchblade was hidden in the folds of the clothes she'd piled near the couch.

Maybe there was some way to disarm him, gain the upper hand. As the fire burned brighter and hotter, the room lightened. Finally she saw his face, no longer in complete shadow and her heart twisted again. His was a rugged visage. His features were oversized-his jaw strong, big eyes deep in his sockets, a nose that had been broken a couple times, a hard line of a mouth, and a square jaw covered in a couple of days' worth of stubble.

"I said, 'drop it,' Anne-Marie. Don't even think about it."

Her grip tightened.

"Jesus, are you serious? You think you're going to get the better of me with a poker?"

"You won't shoot me. I'm not going back to New Orleans. Not ever." The fire popped then and her muscles jumped. Then, as if he'd been reading her thoughts all along, she saw him reach into his pocket with his free hand only to withdraw a stick of some kind . . .

Click! Her switchblade snapped open in his hand, its spring-loaded blade suddenly reflecting the shifting light from the fire.

"How-?" Inadvertently, her gaze slid to the stack of folded clothes where she was certain she'd hidden the deadly knife. She didn't finish the sentence. Her mind spinning, she wondered how the h.e.l.l he'd known she had it, how he'd found it as well as the gun. She'd a.s.sumed he'd guessed she had hidden a weapon under her pillow, but the knife from her clothes? Had he rifled through her things while looking for the pistol and found the switchblade first, then continued his stealthy search while she'd been restlessly sleeping unaware or had he . . .

"You spied on me?" she charged, astounded, her mind taking hold of the idea and churning wildly. "You were in here before and planted devices and spied on me?" That was a big leap, a major vault, but he didn't immediately deny it. She remembered feeling as if she were being watched, that though the shades had been drawn, the doors locked tightly, that there had been hidden eyes following her every move. "What is wrong with you?"

"I had to make certain that Jessica Williams was really Anne-Marie Calderone. And that my leads were right, that Jessica was also the same person as Stacey Donahue in Denver and Heather Brown earlier on."

Dear G.o.d, how long had he been following her? He knew all of it.

"I wasn't going to barge in on the wrong person, so I had to make sure."

She shook her head, disbelieving, not even understanding how he, a d.a.m.n half-broke rodeo rider, could understand about high tech electronics. It suddenly occurred to her that because their romance had been so white-hot and rushed and she'd decided to marry him after knowing him only a few weeks, there was much more to the cowboy from somewhere in West Texas than met the eye. She hadn't known him and his secrets any better than he'd known her and the lies that were the bones of her past.

But now she wanted to.

"Who are you?"

After hanging up from Detective Montoya, Alvarez coordinated the information he'd given her with what was known about the crimes in Montana. Zoller had e-mailed some information on Anne-Marie Calderone and was checking to see if there had been any similar killings in the last year in other parts of the country. So far, the department hadn't heard of women who had been murdered, the ring fingers of their left hands severed, nor had they found any other crimes where the Calderone woman's fingerprints had shown up.

But, she told herself, it is still early.

The Pinewood Sheriff's Department might be on the track of one of the most deadly female serial killers in history.

I'm getting ahead of myself, she thought, leaning back in her desk chair and taking a sip of her tea that she'd gotten from the break room. It was stone-cold, the tea bag still steeping in it, the orange-spice so strong she nearly gagged. Setting her cup aside, she concentrated on her computer screen, reminding herself that most likely there were no other identical crimes anywhere close by or she would have already found mention of it. Because of computers and communication systems, like crimes were more quickly identified.

She glanced at her e-mail, searching for more reports and heard a text come into her cell phone. One look and she smiled.

The short missive was from Gabriel, her biological son with whom she'd recently reconnected. No school!!! Along with the two words he'd attached a winking smiley face.

She quickly texted back, Have fun. See you soon.

Her heart swelled at the thought of him, the teenager who'd been raised by Aggie and Dave Reeve. Aggie was Dylan O'Keefe's cousin and not all that happy that her son had discovered his birth mother, but the two women were working things out. Alvarez kept her distance as she didn't want to intimidate the woman who had spent all of Gabe's life caring for him, raising him, teaching him right from wrong.

She added a smiley face to her text despite the fact that she loathed all the emoticons. But when in teenaged Rome . . . She hit SEND.

She turned her attention back to the matter at hand-running Anne-Marie Calderone to the ground. Whether the woman who'd left her fingerprint on the belongings recovered from the victims was the actual killer or an accessory, or something else, she had some explaining to do. Some serious explaining.

Taking a swing at him wouldn't help, so Anne-Marie let loose of the poker, stood, and dusted her hands.

"Who am I?" Ryder repeated. "I'm not the one with myriad disguises, a series of fake IDs, and multiple aliases."

"But you were spying on me. I don't remember you being some kind of techno geek who could bug rooms. Where the h.e.l.l are they?" she demanded and turned around in a tight circle, searching in the dark corners, the lamps, wherever.

"You never bothered to find out that I was in the Special Forces and specialized in communications, did you?" When she looked at him as if he were mad, he admitted, "Afghanistan. Nothing I really want to dwell on."

"Was this pre- or post-cowboy?"

"Between," he admitted, snapping the switchblade closed and putting it, along with her gun, into a pocket.

Now that it was light, she could see that pocket was already bulging. "Wait a minute. You have your own d.a.m.n gun?"

He smiled then. That reckless, roguish smile she'd found so irresistible. "You didn't think I'd come in here unarmed."

"But you stole my gun."

"Didn't feel like having you use it on me."

"I wouldn't have . . . well, if I'd known it was you, anyway."

Apparently satisfied that she wasn't going to flee or attack him, he started stripping small microphones and cameras from the tiniest of places around the room-a crack in the fireplace, a dark corner of the bookcase, even the d.a.m.n wood box.

"Really?" she said, watching in disbelief and suddenly feeling bare and vulnerable, all of her worst fears coming to the fore. He'd been observing her every move, whether she'd been awake or asleep. He'd seen her break down or flop in despair or rail at the heavens. "I can't believe you would do all this-"

"Believe," he said without emotion.

She was trying to make sense of it all but couldn't. She'd thought, once they'd broken up, she would never see him again. He'd been so furious with her that she'd thought he might strangle her. He'd said as much. "Go to h.e.l.l, Anne-Marie," he'd said, "and don't look over your shoulder."

So, why would he be there now, dissecting her life . . . no, injecting himself back into it . . . trying to force her to retrace her steps and return to a city she'd sworn she'd never set foot in again?

"I don't understand why you want me to go back to New Orleans," she said.

"I've actually got a couple reasons," he admitted. "The first is that after you and your husband disappeared-"

"Me and my husband?" she interrupted.

"Yes, after-"

"He left, too?" The dread that had temporarily abated came flooding back.

"You know that."

"No." She shook her head and swallowed with difficulty. Dear G.o.d, she was back to where she'd started. "Why would he leave?"

"You two had a major fight. The neighbors heard it."

Her knees went suddenly weak at the memory and cold terror slipped through her veins. She dropped back onto the mussed sleeping bag covering the couch.

"My name came up," Ryder said.

Of course. Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

"So, you both go missing and guess who's left holding the emotional bag? Yours truly."

"But you had nothing to do with it."

"As I tried to explain, but the police had a different idea. A guy by the name of Detective Montoya? He's pretty sure that somehow I'm involved in both disappearances."

"What? No!" She couldn't believe it. "But that's insane."

"Insanity to you and me. Motive to the police. The theory is that I might have been so d.a.m.n p.i.s.sed about the affair blowing up in my face the way it did, that I went into a jealous rage and got rid of you both."

"You're lying."

"That's your department, darlin'." Ryder's voice was cold. "The police are grasping at straws, and I told them that. But my alibi of being on the road that night didn't hold any water with them. That hotheaded homicide detective? Montoya? He's a real piece of work and he never quite believed my story. The only good news was that he didn't have a body, not even one . . . with two people missing, so they couldn't build a case against me. Not that he isn't trying. So, it would be a big favor to me, if you'd go prove that you're not dead."

"That still leaves my husband," she whispered.

"Your problem. Not mine."

"Oh, G.o.d," she whispered, believing Ryder's story, knowing she'd left a mess behind her when she'd worked so hard to disappear. And the mess kept following her. The only good news was that she was more convinced than ever that the two women who'd been recently killed around Grizzly Falls had nothing to do with her.

"So pack up because we're leaving."

"There's a storm outside," she reminded.

"Always a storm of one kind or another, always a road block." He cast a glance in her direction. "We'll take our chances."

"That's nuts."

"All relative, especially where you're concerned." He pocketed yet another camera, then walked into the kitchen and small bath.

He'd even seen her showering or on the toilet or . . . "You're a pervert, Ryder," she yelled, but her eyes were on the front door. She only needed her keys and she could race to the Tahoe and peel out of there. Or-c.r.a.p! Why hadn't she thought of it before? Her cell phone. It was . . .

In the pile of clothes where her switchblade had been hidden. She quickly tossed her jeans and sweater aside, but, of course, the tiny phone wasn't where she'd left it. Her keys . . . no, they were gone, too.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," she hissed just as he returned from the bathroom. "You really are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you?" She was standing in the middle of the living room, trying to come up with some kind of option because no matter what he thought, she was not returning to Louisiana.

"You know, I try my level best."

At the news of a potential suspect in the Cantnor and Pope homicides, Blackwater wanted an up-to-the-minute report on everything the department knew about the new suspect. If the lead panned out, he would order a BOLO-Be On The Lookout-bulletin for the woman.

He called in Alvarez and Pescoli, Zoller, the junior detective in charge of the Internet research, Deputy Winger as he trusted her advice, and Brett Gage, the chief criminal deputy.

Joelle Fisher, of course, couldn't let a meeting go without bringing in a tray with two kinds of coffee, cups along with napkins, creamers and sweeteners.

Blackwater finally understood that, especially with the receptionist, there was a certain amount of decorum that had to be followed, tradition, if you will. He could appreciate Joelle's single-mindedness when it came to a task, but worrying over who drank decaf or avoided artificial sweeteners or that the platter had a d.a.m.n paper doily covering it, weren't his top priorities. He wished Joelle would dial it back, just a notch or two, and he'd said as much.

She'd complied, but he sensed it was only temporary. Decorations and baked goods, celebrations of all kinds were part of her DNA, just like her throwback beehive hairstyle.

"Thank you," he said as she left the meeting room, each step reverberating quickly against the tile floor.

"Let's get to it," he said as the invitees took spots around the table.

Other than Gage, no one bothered filling a cup. Alvarez and Zoller each had electronic notebooks, Gage and Pescoli notepads and pens. Blackwater had both at his fingertips. "I know about the prints and the connection, but what do we know about this person, Anne-Marie Calderone? You talked to someone in New Orleans, right?"

"Detective Montoya, yes," Alvarez said, taking the lead in the discussion and pa.s.sing out two pages, one with the picture from the suspect's Louisiana driver's license, the other a sheet of facts about the woman in question. "Anne-Marie Favier Calderone. She's thirty years old and, according to Montoya, been missing for several months. He's sending us the files and a timeline, but the long and the short of it is that she was married to Bruce Calderone, a medical doctor who, until recently, worked at a private hospital in New Orleans. Once connected to the Catholic church, it's now run by lay people. He was a surgeon."

"Was?" Blackwater interrupted, feeling his eyebrows slam together.

"He seemed to have disappeared, as well. Both he and his wife. From the interviews Montoya did with friends and family, it appears the marriage wasn't stable, with accusations of affairs on both sides. Though there were never any charges filed, there were rumors of abuse."

Alvarez continued on, saying that Anne-Marie Favier had grown up a daughter of privilege. The Faviers had once had family money, at least during Anne-Marie's youth. According to her parents' sworn statements, she was headstrong and brilliant but a little unbalanced. In high school, she spent three months in a mental hospital for undisclosed issues. Montoya had said the records were sealed as she'd been a minor at the time. Later, she'd not only finished a four year program but also held an MA in philosophy from Tulane University.

The trouble started after her marriage to Bruce Calderone, a medical student whom she'd helped through school. There followed breakups and reconciliations, even some long separations, which included the last one. She and Calderone had been separated and she'd filed for divorce. She'd signed, but Calderone had balked.

She'd ignored that little fact when she'd married her latest fling, a cowboy by the name of Troy Ryder in a tiny chapel in Las Vegas. When that relationship apparently soured, she returned to New Orleans sans the new groom, but when Calderone learned about the second marriage he'd blown a gasket. Though, again, not reported to the police at the time, the neighbors had heard screaming and yelling which ended abruptly around ten or ten-thirty. The next day, they were gone. Both of them. All of their worldly possessions left behind. It was, according to Montoya, as if they'd each just fallen off the face of the earth.

No cars taken, no credit cards used, no cell phones answered or turned on so the cops could locate them.

"That's basically it, except for one interesting fact," Alvarez said. "Though Anne-Marie wasn't close to either of her parents, she was adored by her grandmother. The grandfather died years earlier, but the weekend Anne-Marie and her husband went missing, the grandmother was robbed. She claimed she had fifty thousand dollars in her safe and no one, other than her granddaughter and her daughter, knew the combination, though they of course could have told others. Montoya thinks the mother is in the clear and that leaves Anne-Marie."

"She would steal from the one person she loved?" Pescoli asked.

Alvarez paused. "Maybe she was desperate. According to her parents, Montoya notes, that despite all of her education, their daughter never made any serious money or pursued a career in her field of interest. She held odd jobs all through school. Worked as a clerk or a waitress even after she graduated."

"While her husband finished medical school?" Blackwater asked.

Alvarez studied her screen. "Uh-huh. What little Anne-Marie made, coupled with his student loans, kept them afloat."

Blackwater asked, "Either of them ever steal before?"

"Neither had a criminal record. So if they had, they were never caught. But if they had the grandmother's cash to finance their disappearance, and maybe new ident.i.ties, it could explain why we can't find either one of them."

He rubbed his chin and shook his head as he thought. "They hated each other, so it's unlikely they were on the run together, and if he had a thriving medical practice-"

"Not thriving." Alvarez shook her head. "In fact, Dr. Calderone not only worked at the hospital but was a partner in a clinic. The business was going bankrupt, though his partners think he was not only syphoning off money but prescription drugs, as well. After he disappeared, a couple women came forward and reported that he'd been inappropriate with them. They're suing his practice as well as him personally, and as such, his wife."