Hour Game Part 6

He'd driven past the morgue earlier, where the M.E. was probably pulling her red hair out over three bodies that represented very different things yet had common themes. The clues would be minimal. He knew what to look for and thus to remove, but no one was infallible and forensic science could dredge up much from microscopic wreckage. She'd find some things, draw some correct conclusions, but on the key points she'd come up empty. The no-see-ums wouldn't trip him up.

He drove through the intersection as several police officers ran out of the building and climbed into their patrol cars and sped off. They were probably running down irrelevant leads, wasting energy and time, which didn't surprise him considering the weak attributes of their leader, Todd Williams. However, Sylvia Diaz was first-rate in her field. And at some point, as the killings mounted, the FBI would be called in to take over the investigation. He was actually relishing the challenge.

He drove to another intersection, pulled up to the mailbox and dropped the letter in before speeding off again. When they got his next communication explaining the circ.u.mstances of Steve Canney's and Janice Pembroke's deaths, the police would know they were in for the fight of their lives.

King picked up Mich.e.l.le from the morgue and filled her in on the details about the Zodiac letter. She, in turn, brought him up to speed on the autopsy results for Pembroke and Canney. Unfortunately, reciting the details didn't make the puzzle any less inexplicable.

"So it seems the killer wants to make clear that even though he's somewhat copying the Zodiac crime with Rhonda Tyler, he'snot the Zodiac," she said. "What do you make of that?" the Zodiac," she said. "What do you make of that?"

King shook his head. "It seems these murders are just the opening salvo."

"Do you think we'll see another letter?"

"Yes, and soon. And though Todd's not convinced of it, I'm sure it'll deal with Canney and Pembroke. He's going to talk to Lulu Oxley and obtain more info on Rhonda Tyler."

Mich.e.l.le looked out the windshield. "And where are we headed?"

"To the Battles'. I called and set up an appointment." He glanced at her. "We've got a paying job, remember?" He grew silent and then added, "You've already been through a lot today. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"After what we've seen, how bad can the Battles be?"

"You might be surprised."

CHAPTER 14.

THE BATTLE ESTATE WAS SET ONtop of an imposing hill. It was a sprawling three-story structure of brick, stone and clapboard surrounded by acres of emerald gra.s.s and dotted with mature trees. It screamed old money, though the mounds of cash that had built it were only decades old. King and Mich.e.l.le stopped at a pair of ma.s.sive wrought-iron gates. There was a call box set on a short black post next to the asphalt drive. King rolled down his window and tapped the white b.u.t.ton on the call box. An efficient voice answered, and a minute later the gates swung open and King drove through.

"Welcome to Casa Battle," he said.

"Is that what they call it?"

"No, just my idea of a joke."

"You said you know Remmy Battle?"

"As well as most people do, I guess. I also used to play golf occasionally with Bobby. He's gregarious and dominating, but he has b.a.l.l.s of iron and a really nasty temper if you happen to cross him. Now, Remmy's the sort who only lets you see bits and pieces, and strictly on her terms. And if you crossher, you'll need a urologist and a pack of miracles to put you back together." you'll need a urologist and a pack of miracles to put you back together."

"Where'd she get a name like Remmy?"

"It's short for Remington. The story I heard was that was her father's favorite brand of shotgun. Everyone who knows her thinks the woman was aptly named."

"Who knew so many interesting people lived in such a small town?" Mich.e.l.le looked ahead at the imposing home. "Wow, what a fabulous place."

"On the outside yes. I'll let you be the judge of the interior."

When they knocked on the front door, it was opened almost immediately by a large, well-muscled middle-aged man dressed in a yellow cardigan sweater, white shirt, muted tie and black slacks. He introduced himself as Mason. Mrs. Battle was finishing up a few things and would meet them on the rear terrace shortly, he informed them.

As Mason led them through the house, Mich.e.l.le looked around at an interior that was breathtaking. That the things she was seeing were costly there was no doubt. Yet what was also present was a sense of understatement that for some reason surprised her.

"The interior is beautiful, Sean," she whispered.

"I wasn't talking aboutthat interior," he mumbled back. "I meant the ones who are breathing." interior," he mumbled back. "I meant the ones who are breathing."

They arrived on the rear terrace to find a table laid out with both hot and cold tea and some finger foods and snacks. Mason poured the beverages of their choice and then left, closing the French doors quietly behind him. The temperature was in the seventies with a warming sun and the air a little muggy from the recent rains.

Mich.e.l.le sipped her iced tea. "So is Mason a kind of butler?"

"Yes, been with them forever. He's actually more than a butler to them."

"A confidant, then? Perhaps good for our purposes."

"Probably too loyal for that option," King answered. "But then again you never really know where loyalties lie until you ask, preferably with something to give in return."

They heard a splash of water, and both went to the iron railing that partially enclosed the terrace and looked out over the exquisite rear grounds.

The sprawling outdoor entertainment area visible here included a stone pool house, a spa that could easily accommodate a dozen adults, a roofed-in dining area and a ma.s.sive oval-shaped pool outlined in brick and flagstone.

"I always wondered how the really rich lived," said Mich.e.l.le.

"They live just like you and me except a whole lot better."

Emerging from the clear blue and obviously heated waters of the pool was a young woman in a very revealing string bikini. She had long blond hair, was about five-seven, and her curves and bosom were solidly in the range of eye-catching. There were defined muscles in her legs, arms and shoulders and a belly ring in the navel of her flat stomach. As she bent over to pick up a towel, they could also see a large tattoo on the back of one of her partially exposed b.u.t.t cheeks.

"What's that tattooed on her b.u.t.t?" asked Mich.e.l.le.

"Her name," answered King. "Savannah." King watched the young woman towel off. "It's amazing what they can write on skin, and in cursive too."

"You can see that from here?" Mich.e.l.le asked with raised eyebrows.

"No, I've seen it before." He quickly amended this answer. "At a pool party I attended."

"Uh-huh. Her name on her b.u.t.t, what, so the guys don't forget?"

"I'm trying very hard not to think of the reason."

Savannah looked up, saw them and waved. She wrapped a short see-through robe around her, slipped on some flip-flops and headed up the brick steps toward them.

When she reached them, she gave King a hug that seemed designed to drill her large bosom right into his chest. Up close her facial features were not quite as flawless as her body; her nose, chin and jaw were a bit too sharply outlined and irregular, but that was nit-picking, Mich.e.l.le decided. Savannah Battle was a very beautiful woman.

Savannah looked King up and down admiringly. "I swear, Sean King, you just get better-looking every time I see you. Now, how's that fair? We women just keep getting older." This came out in a southern drawl that Mich.e.l.le thought was highly affected.

"Well, you certainly don't have to worry about that," said Mich.e.l.le, extending her hand. "I'm Mich.e.l.le Maxwell."

"Oh, aren't you sweet," said Savannah in a tone that wasn't sweet at all.

"Congratulations on your graduation," said King. "William and Mary, right?"

"Daddy always wanted me to go to college, and I did, though I can't say I loved it." She sat down and slowly dried off her shapely legs in what Mich.e.l.le interpreted as a seductive gesture aimed at King. Then she dug into the tiny sandwiches.

"What'd you major in?" asked Mich.e.l.le, thinking that the young woman must have gotten her degree in either cheerleading or throwing parties or perhaps both.

"Chemical engineering," was her surprising if mumbled reply. Apparently, no one had taught the girl not to talk with her mouth full. "Daddy made his fortune as an engineer, and I guess I took after him."

"We were sorry to hear about Bobby," said King quietly.

"He's tough; he'll pull through," she said confidently.

"I heard you might be heading out on your own," said King.

Savannah's expression darkened. "I expect people are having a good time trying to figure out what I'm going to do. Trust-fund Baby Battle," she added bitterly.

"I didn't mean it that way, Savannah," said King gently.

She waved off his apology with a dismissive karate chop through the air. "I've been dealing with that all my life, why stop now, right? I have my own way to make in the world, and it's not always easy with parents like I have. But I'll make something of myself. I'm not going through life using my credit card to buy happiness."

As she listened, Mich.e.l.le felt her opinion of the young woman turning more positive.

Savannah wiped her mouth with her hand and said, "I know why you're here. It's about Junior Deaver, right? I can't figure why he would've done anything so stupid. I mean, like my mother's going to just look the other way while he walks off with her wedding ring? I don't think so."

"Maybe he didn't do it," said King.

"Sure he did," said Savannah as she toweled off her wet hair. "From what I heard he left so much evidence behind he might as well have just sat on the floor and waited for the police to show up and arrest him." She shoved another piece of sandwich into her mouth and crammed in a handful of potato chips as a chaser.

"Stop eating like some d.a.m.ned pig, Savannah!" the voice said sharply. "And while you're doing that, try and halfway sit like a lady, if your imagination can possibly grasp such a concept."

Savannah, who'd been slouching in her chair with her legs spread wide like a hooker on the prowl, instantly straightened up and cemented her thighs together, stretching the robe over her knees.

Remington Battle strode onto the terrace with as much presence as a Broadway legend convinced of her ability to effortlessly dominate an audience.

She was dressed impeccably in a dazzling white pleated skirt that fell several inches below the knee. On her feet were stylish if conservative low-heeled pumps. A patterned blouse of cool blue was partially covered by a white sweater that was draped around her shoulders. She was taller than her daughter by several inches-around Mich.e.l.le's height-and her touched-up auburn hair and makeup were expertly done. Her features were strong, indeed almost visually overpowering. Mich.e.l.le guessed that Remmy in her youth had probably been even more beautiful than her daughter. Now in her sixties she was still a very handsome woman. Yet with all that, it was the eyes that caught and held you: part eagle, part buzzard and intimidating as h.e.l.l.

Remmy shook hands with King and then was introduced to Mich.e.l.le. The latter felt the woman run a severe gaze over her and suspected that Remmy Battle found much to find fault with in her very casual clothes, nonexistent makeup and windswept hair. She didn't have long to ruminate on that, though, as Remmy turned her attention to her daughter once more.

"In my day we didn't greet guests without any clothes on," she said icily.

"I was swimming, Mama. I don't usually go swimming in my debutante gown," Savannah shot back, but her fingers flew to her mouth and she chewed nervously on a nail.

Remmy gave the young woman such a penetrating stare that Savannah finally grabbed another sandwich and a fistful of chips, rose, muttered something under her breath that to Mich.e.l.le sounded pretty close to "old b.i.t.c.h" and stalked off, her wet flip-flops smacking against the brick in a series of exclamation points.

Then Remmy Battle sat down and turned her full attention to King and Mich.e.l.le.

They each drew a deep breath as her gaze bored into them. To Mich.e.l.le it was quite an introduction to Casa Battle. Now she understood exactly what King had meant about judging the "interior."

CHAPTER 15.

"IHAVE TO APOLOGIZE FORSavannah," said Remmy. "I love her, but some days I can't believe we're actually related by blood, or anything else for that matter."

"It's okay, Mrs. Battle, she's just a kid," said Mich.e.l.le. "They all do crazy stuff."

Remmy snapped, "She's not a child. She's twenty-two! She's a graduate of one of the finest schools on the East Coast. Rings in her belly and tattoos on her b.u.t.t! I didn't send that girl to college so she could lose her d.a.m.n mind!"

Mich.e.l.le looked at King for help.

"Uh, Remmy, we were sorry to hear about Bobby. How's he doing?" he asked.

"His condition is still critical," Remmy answered in the same harsh tone, and then her hand crept to her lined forehead and she said in a more restrained voice, "I'm sorry. Here I am complaining about Savannah, and I'm not exactly being Miss Hospitality myself. It's just that a lot has happened lately." She paused and said slowly, "Bobby was in a coma for the longest time, and the d.a.m.n doctors didn't know when or even if he'd come out of it. But then he did. They were even able to take him off the ventilator. Two nights ago he said his first words."

"That must be encouraging," said King.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? Thing is, he was incoherent. Spouting off names, nothing he said made any sense. h.e.l.l, they don't know for sure if he's slipped back into the coma or not."

"I guess that's hard for the doctors to determine."

"With what they charge I expect them to walk on water and have a direct line to G.o.d," she replied bitterly.

"Is there anythingwe can do?" can do?"

"Right now a prayer or two couldn't hurt."

Mason came out carrying a tray of coffee. He poured a cup for Remmy and offered some to Mich.e.l.le and King-both declined-before retreating once more.

"There's nothing like a soothing cup of coffee in the afternoon." Remmy took a long sip and then settled back in her chair. "Harry Carrick's a d.a.m.n fine lawyer, and Junior's lucky to have him." She paused, took another drink of her coffee and added, "But Junior did it. I know it as though I'd seen him do it myself."

King pounced. "But that's the point, Remmy, youdidn't see him. No one did." see him. No one did."

She waved this comment off in a way that reminded Mich.e.l.le of Savannah's earlier chopping gesture. "The evidence is overwhelming."

"Right,too overwhelming. He could have been framed." overwhelming. He could have been framed."

Remmy looked at King as though he were speaking a language not of this earth. "Who in their right mind would want to frame someone like Junior Deaver?"

"Whoever really broke into your home and stole all that property," replied King. "And do you really see Junior fencing bearer bonds and fine jewelry?"

"He didn't know what was in there. He got cash too. It doesn't take an Einstein to spend cash, now, does it?" she retorted.