Dying to Please Read online

  She couldn't work here. She hated to leave him in the lurch, but she didn't think she would be; she felt as if there was no real need for her here, or at least not a need she wanted to consider. Exhaustion and desperation had led her to a bad decision, but it wasn't a permanent one.

  “There,” he said, bringing the tea tray over to the table and setting it down. He placed a cup and saucer before her. “I hope you like it; it's a blend I get from England. The taste is a bit unusual, but I find it's quite addictive.”

  She sipped the tea; the taste was unusual, but not unpleasant. It was slightly more bitter than she was accustomed to, so she added a thin slice of lemon to adjust the taste.

  He was watching her with an eager, expectant expression, so she said, “It's very good.”

  He beamed. “I knew you'd like it.” He picked up his own cup, and she sipped again as she tried to think of the right words.

  After a few moments, she realized there were no right words, just honest ones. “Mr. Densmore, I've made a mistake.”

  He set down his cup, blinking at her. “How so, my dear?”

  “I should never have accepted your offer. I deeply appreciate it, but the decision was too hasty and there were several factors I didn't take into account. I can't tell you how very sorry I am, but I won't be able to take the position.”

  He blinked a little faster. “But you brought your luggage.”

  “I know. I'm sorry,” she repeated. “If I've inconvenienced you in any way, if you've made plans based on my presence, of course I'll see that through, and I wouldn't feel right, under these circumstances, accepting any salary for doing so. I haven't been thinking clearly, or I would never have made such a hasty decision.”

  In silence he drank his tea, his head down. Then he sighed. “You mustn't distress yourself; mistakes happen, and you've handled yourself with dignity. But, yes, I have made plans for the coming weekend, so if you wouldn't mind staying until then?”

  “Of course not. Is it a party?”

  There was a tiny pause. “Yes, you know the sort, reciprocation for the invitations I've received. Catered, of course. About fifty people.”

  She could handle that. Since this was already late on Wednesday afternoon, there should be a fair amount of work to keep her busy, getting ready for a party on such short notice. She only hoped he had a regular caterer who would accommodate him, even if it meant bringing in extra staff. If he didn't, she would have to move heaven and earth both to find a caterer at this late date.

  “I'll take care of everything,” she said.

  He sighed. “I really wish things could have worked out differently.”

  CHAPTER 28

  HE WAS VERY DISPLEASED WITH SARAH, THOUGH HE supposed he should make allowances for the upset she had suffered, part of which was his fault. He simply hadn't expected her to be so . . . flighty, though perhaps that was the wrong word. Indecisive. Yes, that was a better description.

  He couldn't really be angry with her, because it was so obvious she had suffered over the past day and a half, but he could definitely be displeased. Why, how could she even think of leaving here? Couldn't she see how perfect his house was for her, a fit, wonderful setting for her own crisp perfection? She wouldn't be leaving, of course; he couldn't allow that. He had fantasized about her taking care of him, but it was obvious that, for the time being at least, he would have to take care of her.

  Hmm. That must be what was wrong. Sarah wasn't herself. She was very pale, and the serene glow that had first attracted him was gone. He would keep her here and take care of her, and when she felt better, she would be more rational.

  Luckily he had planned for all exigencies. No, not luck at all: careful planning and attention to detail. That was the key to success, whether it was in business or in personal matters. He hadn't thought it likely Sarah would be unhappy here, but he had allowed for that remote possibility, and as a result he was now capable of handling it. If he had made any oversight, it was that he hadn't predicted this after seeing yesterday how obviously distraught she was. Soon she would feel much better, and there would be no more foolish talk about leaving.

  The printout from the phone company showed three calls to the Lankfords from that pay phone in the Galleria—on Sunday night. There had been a fourth call on Monday night, at roughly the same time as the murders. It was impossible to pinpoint a time of death without a witness; all they could get was a time frame. But it looked as if the killer had intended to go to the Lankfords' house on Sunday night. According to the youngest Lankford daughter, Merrill, who was in college in Tuscaloosa, her parents had driven down to have dinner with her that night and stayed until almost eleven. That had extended their lives by twenty-four hours, and given their daughter one last opportunity to see them.

  Cahill wished to hell they'd had this printout on Tuesday, because Sarah couldn't possibly have made those phone calls; she'd been with him every minute Sunday. He wished a lot of things, number one of which was that he'd never met his ex-wife and let her fuck with his mind. That was the final analysis: he'd let his experience with her affect him. No more. No matter what happened now, he would focus on the person concerned, and not filter everything through his memory of Shannon. He'd been emotionally free of her for two years, but for the first time he felt mentally free. She had no influence on him now.

  Those multiple phone calls opened up an avenue of opportunity that hadn't existed before. He'd gone back to the shop in the mall that had the camera with the best angle, and got the tape for Sunday and Monday nights. The angles were still piss-poor and none of the images were good, but it was the same man. Same hair, same body build, same style of dress.

  That was the bastard. That was the killer. There was no doubt in his mind now, or in anyone else's in the department.

  The problem was, no one seemed to recognize him. Granted, the stills taken from the tape and enlarged were poor quality, grainy, and never really showed his face. But you could get an impression of him, and still no one had said, “Hey, he reminds me of so-and-so.” The police needed a break, a stroke of fate, a miracle. They needed someone with an artist's eye who would note the line of the jaw, the way the ear was set, and make the connection to a live human being.

  Mrs. Wanetta didn't recognize the man, but she was so tranquilized she might not have known her own mother. None of their three grown children found anything familiar about him, so that eliminated the possibility of his being a friend of the family; same thing with the Lankford daughters. It had to be a business connection, but again, none of Jacob Wanetta's employees recognized the man in the photos.

  Somewhere, someone had to know this bastard.

  Leif Strickland, the department's resident electronic genius, stuck his head in the door. His eyes were wide with excitement, his hair sticking up where he'd run his hands through it. “Hey, Doc, come listen. I think I've got the son of a bitch on tape!”

  Everyone within hearing distance quickly crammed into his electronic lair. “This is from the Lankford answering machine,” Leif said. All answering machine tapes were seized as a matter of course; if the machines were digital, the whole thing was taken.

  “Don't tell me he left a message,” Cahill said.

  “No, not quite. See, the phone Mrs. Lankford was trying to use had one of those buttons for instant record, you know, like if who you're talking to starts threatening to kill you, you can, like, press this little button and bingo, it records on your answering machine. Now, she probably wasn't trying to record anything, she was trying to call for help, but she was nervous, right? She's grabbing at the phone, punching buttons she doesn't mean to punch. I listened to all the messages, but there was this one space with a funny noise on it. Not . . . I don't know, it just sounded funny. So I isolated it and ran it through some enhancement programs, and—”

  “For God's sake, we don't need to know how,” Cahill interrupted. “Let's listen to it.”

  Leif gave him the wounded look of a true techie dealing wit