CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The shirt came from a diner, a tee that advertised their business. Whch was better than what the other one seemed to “advertise.”

By ten, we were at Imogen’s house. Or the house where she lived, which actually belonged to her mother. At twenty-four, I’d felt too old to still live at home. Imogen was forty-three.

When we arrived, I was certain we’d made a mistake. We were looking for a house. This was a street of walk-ups and apartments. And, as it turned out, one house, wedged between two towering buildings, like a recalcitrant dwarf squatting between giants, refusing to give ground. Which is, I suspect, exactly what happened. Imogen’s family had refused to sell, so they were left there, in the shade of those apartments, with only a house and a strip of grass.

Gabriel knocked. When a stooped, elderly woman answered, he still did the “foot in the doorjamb” trick. Rightly, as it turned out. She took one look at me and tried to slam the door.

“Get your damned foot out of there,” she said. “Or I swear I’ll crush it—” She yanked feebly on the door, her face reddening. Then she peered up at Gabriel. “I’ll call the police.”

“We’d like to speak to Imogen Seale. She’s your daughter, I presume?”

“Get the hell off my property.”

“We believe Ms. Seale has information vital to a case—”

“What case? Setting two psychos loose?”

She turned on me, her wizened face threatening to fold into its own creases. Our research said she was in her early seventies, but she looked more like ninety, her wrinkled skin yellowed by tobacco, the stink of the cigarettes blasting on her breath.

“I don’t know why you’re here to see my girl, but you’re not going to. She’s barely been out of her room since you turned up in the news, reminding her of all that mess. Do you know how long it took to get her right again? After what you people did?”

“You people?” I said.

“Your parents, murdering the man she loved. After that, she wasn’t right for years. Years. And now you pop up in the news, upsetting her again. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

I could have pointed out the logical inconsistencies in that. Sometimes, though, it’s clear you aren’t dealing with a logical person. Or even a particularly bright one. So I let her rant and nudged Gabriel to silence when he seemed ready to jump in.

“She can speak to Mr. Walsh alone, then,” I said when she paused for breath.

“How’s that supposed to help? It still dredges up . . .” She continued talking.

I counted to three, then cut in with, “Gabriel? I’m going to let you handle this. I don’t want to cause trouble. I’ll wait in the car.”

As soon as I started down the stoop steps, he eased over, blocking Mrs. Seale’s view of me before resuming his requests to speak to Imogen.

I made certain the old woman’s attention was on Gabriel. Then I scooted between the house and a neighboring apartment. Ahead, a shadow scurried behind that next-door building. Imogen, making her escape. I jogged along the wall until I could peek around it.

A middle-aged, painfully thin woman with badly bleached hair stood midway between the apartment and the adjacent parking garage. Her gaze darted about, dark eyes too big for her gaunt face. She reminded me of a bird. Not a raven or an owl, but an undernourished sparrow that’s had one too many run-ins with the big guys. She was breathing hard, fluttering in place as she watched for trouble.

I evaluated my position. Five feet from a window in the Seale house. Ten from the back door. In other words, too close to where I could be spotted by a pissed-off momma bird. But Imogen just stood there, catching her breath after the short dash and watching her house, as if expecting us to come after her.

I picked up a fist-sized rock and sent it rolling her way. Hardly a sign of descending enemies, but Imogen was skittish enough to flee. I followed. Again she didn’t go far, stopping in the mouth of the parking garage.

I texted instructions to Gabriel. Then I settled in to wait. A few times Imogen peeked from her shadowy spot, as if contemplating a return to the nest, only to decide it was too soon.

When I got a text from Gabriel, I set out. I made it halfway to the garage before Imogen did one of her peek-checks. She saw me and retreated fast. I heard a shriek, and I burst into the garage as she was wheeling to run back out, a large shadow blocking her other escape options.

I lifted my hands. “We just want to speak to you.”

“I don’t have anything to say.” Her voice was girlish. Everything about her was, now that I closed in and got a better look. A pink blouse, white jeans, bare feet with hot-pink nails. She even had pink barrettes in her hair. Cute on a seventeen-year-old. Sad at forty-three.

“Your mother says you’re having a rough time,” I said. “With me popping up in the news. Bringing back memories, is it?”

Her sharp chin bobbed.

“Memories or guilt?” I asked.

“Wh-what?” Then she glanced quickly at Gabriel, her look pleading. A woman accustomed to turning to men. When Gabriel only stood there, silent and impassive, she inched toward him and directed her answer his way. “I don’t have anything to feel guilty for,” she said.

“No?” I stepped toward her. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

She flinched.

I continued. “Marty knew the first victims: Amanda and Ken. Their connection is very intriguing. One that would be of great interest to others. The police, the press, my parents . . .”

She dove to the side. I had no idea where she thought she was going. We were in an enclosed parking garage. Cars lined either side of the narrow lane. One exit was behind me, another behind Gabriel. But she chose to race sideways, smacking into the rear bumper of a pickup. Then she dropped and scuttled under it.

I looked at Gabriel. He shook his head and took up position on the other side of the truck. It didn’t seem as if she planned to escape that way—or any way at all. She was just hiding.

“All right,” I said. “I take it that means you’d rather speak to the police.”

“I’m not talking to anyone,” her breathy voice whispered.

“I don’t think you’ll have much choice in that. It’s a murder investigation. You did hear that it’s reopened, didn’t you? I proved my parents didn’t kill Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans. All the murders are being reexamined. As soon as I tell the police about that very interesting link I found—”

“It was her fault.”

I paused. “Amanda’s?”

“No, Lisa. Marty’s bitch wife. It was her fault. Her idea.”

I glanced at Gabriel. He was thinking fast, his gaze gone distant, but no answer seemed to be forthcoming quickly enough.

“Is that what Marty told you?” I said.

“It’s the truth. He always told me the truth. She tricked him into marrying her, and then she threatened to hurt him if he left. She tricked him into the other thing, too, and threatened him if he told anyone.”

“He was ex-military and twice her size.”

“That doesn’t matter. She knew stuff—satanic stuff. She was evil.”

Gabriel’s eyes snapped wide, as close to a genuine Holy shit look as he could manage. Luckily, being under the truck, Imogen couldn’t see us staring dumbfounded at each other.

In fishing for a connection, I’d been throwing my hook wide and blind, having no idea what could connect the two couples. This hadn’t occurred to me.

“That’s why they did it,” I said. “Witchcraft.”

“Satanism,” Imogen said. “It’s not the same thing.” A two-second pause. Then, belatedly, “I mean, that’s what the bitch was into. I don’t know what you mean about why they did it. Did what? I never said anything.”

“Um, yes, you said she made him do it. We both know what we’re talking about, Imogen.”

“I never said—”

“Marty and Lisa killed Amanda Mays and Ken Perkins.”

Another two seconds, during which I heard her breathing. Then a weak, “What? You’re crazy. I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to,” I said, and walked away.