Everyone had read that MSP article and thought Phelps was a god. Now they knew he was a murderer and a coward. In other words, everyone would know the truth.
“Now, on to Webster,” he said with a big grin. He knew how to hit Webster where it would really hurt. The man cared for his family.
Wednesday, February 24, 10:15 p.m.
Noah clenched his steering wheel as he drove away from the Bolyards’ house. “What happened between you and Abbott?”
“He wants me out of the way so you won’t be distracted. I told him I’d comply.”
Noah tamped down his temper. No easy feat. “By going to Sal’s?”
“I figured Sal would cover for me. Abbott tried to take me to the safe house himself and that wasn’t going to happen.” She drew a breath. “Noah, I don’t know what to say.”
He gave her a hard glance. “About what?”
“Those people, the Bolyards… They were killed while we were…” She shrugged.
“I know. But you told me that Jack made a bad choice, letting a woman he didn’t really know into his bed. You were right. The Bolyards made a bad choice, too. They could have told us what they knew and we could have picked Donner up before he shot their heads off. They didn’t. They wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Looks like they got it,” she said sadly. “But back to you. Abbott’s right. I’m a distraction to you right now. Drop me off at Sal’s. I’ll go home with Callie and ask one of the cops to follow us. I’ll even call you when I get there so you know I’m safe.”
“I’ve got an idea that I like better. Brock and Trina’s house,” he said, then blinked when she forcefully shook her head.
“No. They’ve got kids. No way will I lead Dell to them. I’ll go to a safe house first.”
His heart squeezed hard. He hadn’t expected her to say that, but now that she had, he was totally unsurprised. “They sent the kids to Brock’s dad for the night. He’s a retired cop and understands what’s going on. The boys will be perfectly safe there. I called Brock while I was in the Bolyards’ house and he says it’s fine with them.” He lifted his brows, engagingly, he hoped. “Trina is a really good cook.”
“I don’t want to put them out. And what about Callie?”
“I can have her taken to Brock’s, too. You girls can do each other’s nails and stuff.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Would it keep you non-distracted?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll go. Thank you for finding a different way.” She studied his face, hers troubled in the darkness. “Do you believe Donald Donner killed five women?”
He looked over at her. “Do you?”
She wagged her finger. “No fair answering with a question,” she said, mocking the Forest woman, then shrugged. “No, I don’t. He’s angry, but forgetful. Sometimes he’ll be teaching and just trail off, staring into space. He forgets what he’s assigned. His obsession is getting published. I don’t think he has the mental organization to do these murders, or frankly the physical strength. He’s pretty old.”
Noah nodded thoughtfully. “What you said.”
“But you’re picking him up anyway.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said grimly.
“I’m assuming this couple saw Martha at the Deli,” Eve said, “because that’s where Donner goes for lunch. Whether or not he’d go there on a Saturday night? Don’t know.”
“Hopefully the Deli’s security video will shed some light.” He glanced at the computer on her lap. “Did Donner know about Shadow-land? I mean, did he play?”
“I don’t know what he did at home. He needed me to explain the game to him, every time we talked. If he was faking his forgetfulness, he’s a damn good actor.”
“I agree. Did you check on your red-zone cases? Are they where they should be?”
“Yes.” She squeezed his hand lightly. “I’m sorry about the Bolyards. About Jack, about all of this.”
“Not your fault.”
“I don’t mean that. I’m not apologizing that it happened. I’m… sorrowful. Sorrowful that you have to see all this pain and death and that it hurts you.”
Emotion, exhaustion, exhilaration… all welled up in a wave that closed his throat. This is what he’d missed. What he wanted. What he needed. Unwilling to trust his voice, he pressed her hand to his cheek and held it there.
Wednesday, February 24, 10:30 p.m.
The Bolyards hadn’t locked their back door. Donner appeared to be more careful with his locks.
He broke a pane of glass in the basement door, reached in, and twisted the doorknob from the inside. A quick survey of the house revealed Donner and his wife were not home. Dammit. Donner was supposed to have been here tonight. They’d had an appointment. Bastard stood me up.
I should have grabbed him before I killed the Bolyards. This could be tricky. He could only hope that, wherever Donner had gone, his alibi would be as shaky as before.
This did save him from having to kill Mrs. Donner, though. Killing people not in his original plan chafed at him, and he was still plenty chafed over the Bolyards.
I should have stayed outside that coffee house and waited, like I did with the others. But the night he’d met Martha had been so damn cold. He would have drawn more attention to himself sitting outside in his car than going inside. But now he had two unplanned murders and a lot of extra effort to explain it away.
He had to hurry. The TV news reporter had probably already shown up at the Bolyards’ house to get the interview he’d promised from Stuart’s home phone, only to find Webster’s crime scene instead. Pretty soon this place would be crawling with cops. They were supposed to find the house empty, because he’d taken Donner.
He went straight to Donner’s bathroom and frowned. Both toothbrushes were gone, as were several toiletries, leaving gaps in the row of bottles and cans on the bathroom shelf. The Donners had gone away for more than the evening.
In Donner’s kitchen, however, he had to smile. There was a lone highball glass on the table. He sniffed at it. Donner had been drinking bourbon. He’d make sure the sixth of his six victims had a bottle in her house. He dropped the glass in a plastic bag.
Donald Donner had never been a real suspect in Webster’s eyes, but even Webster wouldn’t be able to explain away hard evidence.
As for Donner’s whereabouts… On a hunch he hit redial on the kitchen’s cordless phone and hung up before the number could connect. Committing the number to memory, he took out his BlackBerry, connected to the Net and did a reverse call lookup.
Ah. The number belonged to Adele Donner, Donald’s mother. He’d confirm it, of course, but instinct told him this was where Donald had retreated.
He dialed 411, let it connect, then hung up when the operator answered. He’d knocked Adele’s number from the last-called spot so the cops couldn’t do what he’d just done. They could get the number from Donner’s LUDs, but that would take them time.
Time was something he didn’t have a great deal of. He left the way he’d come, and none too soon. As he rounded the block, a squad car entered the neighborhood, lights blazing but siren silent. Sorry, boys. Dr. Donner has left the building.
Wednesday, February 24, 11:00 p.m.
“Nice place,” Eve murmured. Brock and Trina lived in a brick house with a chimney from which a cozy stream of smoke billowed. Just looking at it made her queasy.
“Nice people,” Noah said quietly. “Why are you nervous?”
“It’s serious when you meet family.”
“You know them from the bar.”
“This is different. This is… personal.”
“Damn straight it is. You introduced me to Tom tonight,” he noted.
“I know.” Her face still heated in embarrassment at the stern way Tom had studied Noah, as if Tom were the father and she were an errant teen. “Kid’s a pain in the ass.”