Illusions of Death Page 3

  Barbara placed a warning hand on Mario’s forearm to ensure his silence.

  “Yes, the tabloids have speculated about the marriage and my client’s filing for divorce. The paparazzi have sold numerous pictures of Mr. Taylor with other women, both during the marriage and the separation. But my client has never made any of this public.”

  Benton shook his head. “None of this is news to you, Counselor. And now my client has generously offered all proceeds from the sale of an approximately million eight condo and its contents to go to Mr. Taylor. Or he may choose to continue to be a resident thereof. The choice is his, but the free ride on my client’s coattails is over.”

  Mario said through gritted teeth, “You give me no choice. I cannot afford to live there.”

  Benton sat back, crossing his hands in his lap. “Then sell the property, Mr. Taylor. It should net a healthy profit. You will have a tidy sum in your pocket, and you will be free to pursue your art—and love of women—to your heart’s desire.”

  Mario pushed back his chair and stood. “I will sign,” he spat out. “Anything to be rid of . . . her.” He began pacing the room.

  Benton reached for a different stack. “Here are the papers drawn up as you requested, Karlyn. Let me get my notary.” The attorney reached for the phone and pressed a few numbers. “Yes, now, please.”

  Moments later, a young redhead entered with her registry and stamp. Karlyn noticed Mario’s eyes light up with interest as he assessed the woman. In less than five minutes, all the paperwork had been completed and would be filed. Karlyn watched her ex-husband walk out of the room and her life. For good.

  Benton turned to her. “That was expensive, Karlyn. You were rash to give him so much.”

  She shrugged. “He’ll squander it and then find some rich, older matron to keep him in Prada and Armani. He’s a fair artist with gigolo looks and a flamboyant personality. I don’t think any rumors about what went wrong in our marriage have hurt his career. It steamrolled downhill long before that.”

  “Enough about Mario Taylor. What will you be doing now? I know writing is your salvation.”

  She laughed. “After months of negotiation, I’m starting work on my first screenplay and trying to finish writing a new novel at the same time.” She paused. “I’ll need to find somewhere to live. I’ve been staying at Alicia’s apartment.”

  Karlyn patted Archibald’s hand. “I know you think me foolish, but I need to cut the old ties and usher in my new life.”

  “Well, let me know where to send my bill.” Benton chuckled. “And you promised me a signed copy of your next Matt Collins book.” The lawyer’s face lit up in pleasure thinking about it. “I think every man wants to be Matt Collins.”

  “And every woman wants to sleep with him,” she quipped. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you for everything, Archibald.”

  Karlyn left, her step lighter with the burden of her marriage over. She turned the corner and spotted a Starbucks and decided to grab a coffee.

  She walked in and ordered a grande mocha with a light whip and moved to the side to await her drink.

  Suddenly, someone invaded her personal space.

  Mario.

  She forced herself to stay calm as she looked into his eyes.

  “You are a bitch, Karlyn Campbell,” he ground out. “You write commercial shit. You are not an artist as I am. You crank out worthless drivel. I think so. Your father thinks so. You know we are right. You have no talent.”

  She remained silent. She wouldn’t give into tears. She wouldn’t let Mario get to her. Ever again.

  Nor her father.

  “Grande mocha, light whip,” called out the barista.

  Karlyn stepped around Mario and picked up her drink. Without a backward glance she left the coffeehouse, gripping the cup tightly.

  She flagged a cab and climbed in. “Drive. Anywhere. I need to think.”

  Fortunately, the cabby remained silent as the buildings went by. Tears gathered in her eyes. She kept them at bay as she sipped the hot brew, hoping it would dispel the chill running through her.

  So what if her novels were popular with the public? What was wrong with that? Both Broderick Campbell and Mario Taylor seemed to think it was a crime to make money through her writing. Both denigrated her with cutting words and looks.

  She didn’t care. She loved getting lost in her world of characters. Stories poured from her, and she published two to three novels a year. She didn’t care that she hadn’t won a Pulitzer or National Book Review Award, as her father had on multiple occasions. She didn’t strive to compete with his career. She was a respected author in her own right. She took pride in the work she’d done and the stories and characters she’d created.

  Her cell rang. She pulled it out reluctantly and stared at the Caller ID as it continued to ring.

  Why would her mother be calling her?

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Karlyn. I’m so glad I reached you.”

  “Mother? You sound odd.”

  “Oh, honey. I don’t know where to begin. But your father wanted me to call you.”

  Karlyn froze in disbelief. “Is he there? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

  “He’s asked for you, dear. He’s had a stroke. You need to get here as soon as you can.”

  Chapter 4

  He looked at the bald, strapping man lying helplessly on the dirty linoleum floor. His wrists and ankles duct taped to restrain him. More duct tape over his mouth. His eyes wide now in panic that his new drinking buddy wasn’t much of a buddy to him at all.

  He flipped through the wallet. A couple of gas cards. A VISA and MasterCard. A Costco card. Eleven bucks in cash. He pulled out the driver’s license and held it close to the man’s face, comparing the picture with his specimen on the floor.

  “Randolph? Hmm. Your mama and daddy stuck you with a pretty pretentious name for such a happy-go-lucky guy. No wonder you introduced yourself to me as Randy.”

  Randy whimpered behind the tape.

  He returned the license to its slot and tossed the wallet aside. He wasn’t a thief. He didn’t need the money.

  What he needed was the kill.

  He looked back at his specimen and smiled. “Well, Randy. I’m happy to share with you that you’re Number Eight. I’ve worked my way through all seven colors of the rainbow.”

  Randy’s eyes widened in panic.

  “Oh, I see you’re familiar with my work. I’m sorry I didn’t clue you in from the beginning. They’re calling me Roy. Roy G. Biv—for the colors of the rainbow.”

  Randy started this funny-as-all-get-out scoot. Wiggling his fat ass and trying to push his heels in. Trying to get away. From what was ahead.

  “Oh, come on big boy. You’re going to be famous.” He smiled at the truck driver. “I have become quite the news story in Atlanta.” He raised both arms and air-quoted, “Rainbow Killer Strikes again.” And laughed.

  Randy kept scooting.

  “I’ve had the time of my life on this spree, my new friend. An Asian hooker. A gay white architect. A retired teacher.” He thought a moment. “She was a black widow.” Laughed at his own little pun. Thought a moment. “Who was next? Hmm. I know. The Hispanic plumber with five kids and one on the way. Oh, then another gay. Atlanta’s full of ‘em these days. He was a black bookstore owner. Then it was the white accountant. Divorced. Cried for his kids in the end.

  “And I finished up with the white immigration lawyer last week. No, she was married to an immigration lawyer. I think she did tax law. Anyway, she was a handful, let me tell you. Talked dirty—and fought dirty when the time came. She was an awesome specimen.”

  Randy had run out of crawling room. He’d hit a line of cabinets that formed an L. Backed into nowhere.

  He took a
step forward and watched the fright dance in Randy’s eyes. God, he loved his job!

  That’s what he thought about killing. It was his job. His calling. His raison d’etre. He couldn’t imagine anything more fun or more satisfying.

  “So I thought that would be the end. That I’d move on to something else. I’d gone through the entire cycle of colors. But I’m really enjoying this, Randy. This time I’ve gotten more press than ever before.” He chuckled. “I suppose I’ve become addicted to the fame.”

  He took out his knife. And the piano wire.

  “But you know what comes next. If you’ve been listening to the news. Or reading the papers. Or trolling the Internet.”

  Randy blubbered behind the tape, tears leaking from his bloodshot drinker’s eyes.

  He crouched next to his specimen. Ran the knife’s blade against his temple. Watched the thin red line of blood form.

  “I’m just sorry that brown isn’t one of the colors of the rainbow. You know—painting you brown. How appropriate that would’ve been for a UPS guy.”

  He drank in the terror. Let it wash over him like a balm.

  And then got to the business at hand.

  Chapter 5

  Logan glanced at his watch and logged off his work computer as he turned to his partner.

  “I’m outta here.”

  Brad flipped another page of Sports Illustrated. “Got a hot date?”

  He snorted. “Yeah. Cruising down to Peachtree Plaza to rendezvous with Mila Kunis. We’ll pick her up a little slinky something at Victoria’s Secret before grabbing drinks. Then we’ll head over to the W Hotel and crash in a suite where we’ll have wild animal sex all night long.”

  Brad tossed the magazine into his lower desk drawer. “I love it when you talk dirty.” He paused. “But that sounds like one of my nights, Choir Boy. Not yours.”

  Logan stood. “I’m going to my parents for a home-cooked meal.”

  “And break up Mahjongg night? Or is it pinochle?”

  Logan flashed a grin. “Hey, we’ll be old, too, someday. That’s probably all the action we’ll be able to handle.”

  Brad shook his head. “Not me. Never gonna get married. Just like James Buchanan, our only bachelor president. In fact, never gonna fall in love. Or play board games. The only cards I’ll ever pick up will be for strip poker.”

  He stood. “Besides, I’m the one who plans to zip down to the city and catch some action tonight.”

  Logan shook his head. “Just keep tomorrow’s hangover to yourself, okay?”

  “Right, Mr. Boy Scout. Will do.”

  They both pulled their suit jackets from the back of their chairs and slid into them as they walked out of the station. Logan watched as Brad climbed into his year-old Corvette, midnight blue and as fast as the devil. He figured Brad had family money, based upon how frequently he traded in expensive sport cars, as well as his fashionable wardrobe. No way could he look like he did on a small town cop’s salary.

  He never asked, though. Brad was all smiles and charm, but he didn’t advertise his personal life. Logan understood because he kept most of his bottled up. That made them a perfect team.

  He started up his modest sedan and pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto Franklin. Within five minutes he’d arrived at his parents’ ranch-style house. Violet and white pansies bloomed in the flowerbeds. The paint job he and his dad did last fall still looked good.

  Logan rang the doorbell. His mother answered, drinking him in as if she hadn’t seen him in months.

  “Oh, sweetie, how are you?” She wrapped her arms around him. “I made lasagna. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Sounds good, Mom. I’ll be sure and take any leftovers off your hands if Dad’ll let me.” He followed her into the kitchen, where the table was set for three.

  Mitchell Warner tossed a salad. “Hey, son. Thanks again for coming.” He lifted his nose in the air and breathed deeply. “Smells delicious.”

  “Oh, Mitch, you act as if I starve you.” Resa swatted her husband’s butt with a dishtowel. “Tell Logan the truth. After forty-two years, you’re tired of my cooking. You’d rather eat out or zap a microwave pizza or Hot Pocket.”

  “Whatever you say, honeybun. Why don’t you check the sourdough? Should be warmed by now. Logan, open that wine, please.”

  They gathered around the table, the food rapidly vanishing as the conversation flowed.

  “So you closed those B&E’s. Anything else new?”

  “Broderick Campbell collapsed today in the middle of the road.”

  Resa gasped. “My goodness, is he all right?”

  “We called an ambulance. It might’ve been a stroke.”

  Mitchell Warner perked up. “Stroke, you say? Did he go to Our Lady?”

  He nodded. “Brad and I went to his house and drove Mrs. Campbell to the hospital. I haven’t heard how he is.”

  His mother sighed. “My book club wanted Martha Campbell to join when she first moved here. She expressed no interest, which I found odd for an author’s wife. She does come in every eight weeks for a color and cut, but she doesn’t say much.”

  Resa shook her head. “Quiet, that one. Haven’t gotten to know her in all the time she’s come to the salon. She’s thoughtful, though. Brings me a little Christmas treat each year, like a candle or a box of Godiva chocolates. Nice lady. I sure hope her husband will be all right.”

  “I see him out walking every morning when I head to work,” Mitchell Warner volunteered.

  “Maybe he walks and thinks about his books,” Logan suggested. “He’s written enough of them. I remember junior year we read Time Marches On. Symbolism out the wazzoo. Mrs. Donovan raved about it, but it was worse than Faulkner. Way over my head.”

  “Yeah, dumb jocks like you don’t get literature,” his dad teased. “But then again, you only minored in English Lit in college.”

  Logan laughed. “I get Hawthorne and Hemingway. I can even jazz up a conversation about symbolism in The Waste Land. But Broderick Campbell remains over my head.”

  Resa patted his hand. “That’s why he’s so famous, dear. No one can understand him. Everyone buys him, but I doubt anyone ever finished one of his books.” She grinned. “Even Mrs. Donovan.”

  “Sounds like a scam to me,” Mitchell proclaimed. “Now how about some hot peach cobbler?”

  They dished up cobbler and vanilla ice cream and sipped on decaf coffee for the next few minutes, gossiping about what was going on in the Springs.

  Then his father changed the subject.

  “I saw where another of those Rainbow Murders happened north of the city. First time outside of Atlanta.”

  Logan grew somber. “People expect crime in a big city. Not in a small town like Mortonville. Especially with it being just a few towns over from the Springs.”

  “I hope it never happens here,” his mother said. “I couldn’t stand you being involved in something so sordid, Logan.”

  His mom had no idea of the horrors he’d witnessed in Atlanta on a daily basis. Aside from the knifings, rapes, and assaults while a patrolman, he’d seen a slew of murder victims during his time in homicide. Images haunted him even now.

  Especially the last ones of Ashley and Alex.

  His dad must have realized where his thoughts had wandered. “More cobbler, son?”

  “No. I better hit the road. Thanks for dinner.”

  His mother slid the remaining lasagna into a Tupperware container and handed it to him. “Your sister will be in town next weekend. Will has a soccer tournament. Try to make a game if you can. Cathy complained that she never sees you.”

  “I’ll try.”

  His dad walked him out to his car. “Good having you over, Logan. Don’t be such a stranger.”

  He waved
as he pulled out. The lasagna now sat like a hard lump in his stomach. He knew he should get over it. Cathy’s two boys were great kids, but he found it hard to be around them. All he could think about was Alex and Ashley playing with their cousins. How old they’d be now. What they would be doing. Playing soccer? Taking piano lessons? Wearing braces? Begging for a cell phones?

  Five years had done nothing to heal the rip through his heart.

  Especially since Carson Miller had never been caught.

  Chapter 6

  Karlyn’s temples throbbed as she exited the airport in her rented car. She was a poor flyer, and plenty of bumps occurred between La Guardia and Hartsfield. The plane being held on the tarmac for an hour hadn’t helped her growing headache. Hertz losing her car reservation iced the cake and brought the pounding to the forefront.

  Now she was driving a sleek BMW convertible that screamed money, which was the last thing she wanted as she drove to a place she’d only visited once. Karlyn remained frugal despite her writing success. Driving an ostentatious sports car made her uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it was either the convertible or a monstrosity that resembled a cross between a Hummer and an army tank. Since she rarely drove, she decided the BMW would be the lesser of two evils.

  She headed north toward Walton Springs and popped another two Aleve and guzzled the remaining half of her bottled water, fortifying herself for what lay ahead.

  Ambivalence filled her. The South—and Walton Springs—weren’t home. Her parents moved there from the Pacific Heights area in San Francisco while she was away at college. Karlyn made excuses not to come visit—Maymesters, a year of study abroad, a summer internship in Boston and then one in New York that was vital to her degree and career goals.