The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 Page 6

  Shivers ran up my spine. Usually, I stuck my nose where I shouldn’t and that’s when the bad guys came after me. I’d never had a case where someone threatened me just because. It made me feel powerless.

  And I hated feeling powerless.

  “We made up some sketches of what Jones might look like if he’s using a wig or glasses.” He pulled out some papers and handed them to Riley. “We thought you might want to take a look at them.”

  I looked over his shoulder. I still couldn’t believe that Milton Jones would be able to make it across the country. He’d have to be one of the most clever criminals I’d ever encountered, if he did. The logistics of how he would work that out would have to be so precise. He couldn’t have missed a step.

  Riley rifled through the photos. I soaked in Jones’ square jawline, the sagging skin beneath his eyes. He looked almost normal in most of the photos.

  Other photos showed him with a tan. With bushy eyebrows and without them. With different hairstyles and glasses and clothes.

  Riley shuffled the pictures. He paused at one. The face that stared back at me caused me to gasp. My finger jutted out, pointing at the photo. I shook my head as fear clutched my heart.

  “What is it?” Riley asked, his forehead wrinkling with concern.

  I stared at the picture of the man with a beard and glasses. I still couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be.

  But it was . . . “He’s the man who let me into the house I cleaned yesterday.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Two hours later, Dale, Detective Adams, and the forensic unit had all cleared out of our apartment building. Riley was still as uptight as ever. I had to admit: At this point, I couldn’t blame him. I was feeling pretty uptight, too.

  I could no longer deny that Milton Jones was here and that he was bent on revenge.

  “How’d he get here?” I rubbed my temples. “How in the world did Milton Jones make it across the country in that amount of time?”

  Riley shook his head, looking just as perplexed as I was, as he leaned back on the couch. “I have no idea. The police are checking surveillance at airports and bus stations across the country. Maybe some kind of clue will turn up.”

  “Could he have planned his escape?”

  “Prison officials didn’t tell anyone when the transfer would be taking place. That’s what would make it nearly impossible for someone else to have been working with Jones when he got away. The other fact is that it would have been extremely difficult for him to plan anything while in prison. His phone calls were monitored and recorded.” He shook his head again. “I just don’t get it.”

  “Me neither.” And the more I thought about it, the more my head pounded. Finally, I stood, stretched, and rubbed my hands together. “As much as I wish I could sit around and think about this all day, I guess it’s time for me to get to work.”

  Riley had been sitting at the table, his jaw flexing and unflexing. Suddenly, I had his attention. He raised his head, his eyes wide with surprise and possibly agitation. “Get to work? Are you crazy?”

  I shrugged, trying to look more casual than I actually felt. “What else am I going to do? Sit around here all day?”

  “That sounds like a great idea, actually.” From the intensity of his stare, I could tell he was serious.

  I sighed and shook my head, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “I can’t do that.” I didn’t want to be the idiot who went out and made myself easy prey for a killer who was bent on making my life miserable. But I didn’t want to put my life on hold and hide out like a scared little rabbit either.

  Riley shook his head . . . and kept shaking his head as he sliced his hand through the air. “I’m going to cancel all of my appointments and go with you today.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ll be just fine. Besides, you need to go to that task force meeting.” I had to admit—I really wanted to be involved also. But I knew there was no way I’d be getting an invitation. “Crime scene cleaner” didn’t quite fit with FBI, local police, and other authorities. “That will be the best way to help. Help find him and put him away again.”

  He leaned forward. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Riley, I’ll be okay.” I squeezed his hand. “Milton Jones only struck at night, correct? I don’t think he snatched anyone in broad daylight. I’ll be fine.”

  Riley stared at me, an unreadable emotion in his eyes. “You’ve done some research.”

  “Of course.” That couldn’t be a surprise to him.

  His head dipped, as if his thoughts were too heavy to hold. “Jones was at one of your crime scenes. He’s got you in his sights.”

  His words didn’t comfort me, but I tried not to let it show. “Jones didn’t try to abduct me. He was obviously just sending a message. To stay inside all the time would be showing my fear. It would be letting him win. I won’t do that.”

  Riley’s gaze, almost tortured, met mine again. “Will you check in with me throughout the day? I don’t want to be overbearing, but . . .”

  “Of course. And we have a cookout at six, so I’ll be back for that. But I’m already way behind. People are going to start leaving bad online reviews for Trauma Care if I don’t get busy.”

  Riley nodded slowly. “I get it.”

  I disappeared into Riley’s bathroom to get ready. Earlier, Adams had given me permission to get a few things from my apartment. I’d grabbed some clothes, toiletries, and cereal.

  After I was dressed, I grabbed the box of cereal to take with me, told Riley goodbye, and started down the stairs.

  When I stepped outside, I stopped in my tracks . . . again. Clarice leaned against my van, a fruit cup in hand and trendy oversized glasses already on. I glanced down at my box of sugary cereal and guilt flashed through me. My metabolism wouldn’t keep up with my bad eating habits much longer, I feared. Despite that, I popped another Fruit Loop into my mouth.

  I raised my hands in the air in confusion as I walked toward her. “You’re here . . . again.”

  She nodded and, for a moment, I felt like Reese Witherspoon had stepped off the screen of Legally Blonde and into my life. She wore a bubble gum pink fitted cotton top, white linen pants, and ballet flats. Malibu Barbie’s brunette cousin, anyone?

  “Of course. This is my job that I’m going to make stick, remember? I know some creepy things have happened, but nothing will persuade me to give up. I’m going to refine my reputation and become someone who has stick-to-itiveness.” She leaned closer, like she wanted to share a secret. “That’s my new word of the week. Isn’t it great?”

  Now of all times she decides this? Why couldn’t she have decided this during her last job? I stopped in front of her, keeping my eyes on her face for a telltale sign that this was all an act.

  “Aren’t you at all worried after the messages we found?”

  She shrugged. “I’m with you today. You won’t let anything happen to me.”

  Perhaps she didn’t know about all of the times I’d almost been killed. Instead of reminding her, I nodded slowly. “The police are going to meet us there.”

  “I hope the officer is cute.” She paused and nodded behind me. “I hope he’s the officer.”

  I glanced back as Riley stepped out of the apartment building. He wore khakis, a striped shirt, and his blue tie flapped behind him. My heart still skipped a beat when I saw him.

  “Actually, he’s not an officer. Clarice, this is my fiancé Riley Thomas. Riley, Clarice.”

  They shook hands.

  Clarice’s lips parted. “He would work well on your reality TV show.”

  “Reality TV show?” Riley asked. A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows.

  I fluttered my hand through the air. “Long story.”

  Clarice turned to me, a new light in her eyes. “I talked to my friend. He wants to do a pilot on you. Maybe put it online first and see what the response is before approaching the networks about it. It could launch his career.”

  I couldn’t care les
s about launching someone’s career at the moment. “This is a really bad time to talk about anything like that.”

  “You’re right. Of course.” She nodded, but I had a feeling she was unconvinced.

  “Besides, most of reality TV is fabricated.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  I resisted a sigh and cocked my head to the side instead. “You do realize how serious this situation is, don’t you?”

  “Totally. It’s like Castle.”

  “Not really.”

  “Law and Order?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Monk?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got nothing.”

  Riley waved goodbye, sent me one last look of concern, and then climbed into his car. I nodded toward my van. “Let’s get going. Time is money, right?”

  “Of course!”

  “You were just humming that song from Wicked. I think it’s called ‘Something Bad.’ I love that musical,” Clarice announced.

  “I was?” Note to self: Must stop humming inappropriate songs around Clarice.

  “You know what other musical I loved?”

  No, but I was sure she’d tell me.

  “Little Shop of Horrors,” Clarice said. “It’s such an odd little story, isn’t it? Suspense, humor and romance. What a combination. But it works, I think.”

  “Sure.”

  “I love the dentist song from that movie. It makes me laugh every time.” She started singing and even threw in jazz hands.

  Was there any aspect of pop culture this woman was not in touch with? I doubted it. It actually made me like Clarice a little more.

  “Speaking of dentists . . . I have a date with one tonight!” Her voice sounded sing-songy and way too perky for this hour.

  “A dentist? Where did you meet him?”

  “He was in the coffeehouse yesterday. Absolutely dreamy. He’s a little old—almost thirty. But I’ve always liked older men.”

  I was feeling ancient right about now.

  I focused on the road, trying to keep my thoughts from veering to social security and wearing Depends.

  Silence stretched for a few minutes. That alone was suspicious. Clarice never stopped talking.

  I glanced over at her. She was nibbling on a cotton candy colored nail and staring out the window.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, hoping I didn’t regret it.

  She shrugged. “Do you ever feel like people pigeonhole you to be someone you’re not?”

  I thought about it before nodding. “Sure. People think I’m tough, but I’m not always that way. I guess we all put on fronts and wear masks at times.”

  She stared out the window again. Wordlessly.

  I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I kept talking. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was with a friend last night who referred to me as an airhead. I know people say that behind my back, but hearing him say it to my face really knocked me off balance.”

  Guilt—my automatic go-to emotion—pounded at me again. Now would not be a good time to admit that I’d thought the same thing about her. Instead, I said, “Ouch.”

  She nodded. “I know people think that about me. So, sometimes, I play it up. It’s who people expect me to be, so why disappoint them? The thing is, the more I think of myself as an airhead, the more I feel like I become one. Isn’t that strange?”

  “As the mind goes, so goes the rest of the body,” I muttered. “What brought this up?”

  “I’m thinking about my date. I know I sounded excited—and I am—but this dentist guy . . . well, he talks down to me, you know? Then I realized I was letting him. Why? Because sometimes I think guys like an airhead, you know? They don’t want someone who’s independent and strong.”

  “Not all guys are like that.”

  She glanced over at me. “I guess your fiancé isn’t, huh? My Auntie Sharon always says I shouldn’t care so much about guys. She says I’m obsessed and I find my identity in them.”

  Sharon had a tendency to lean toward the more feminist side of that argument. “You have to be happy with yourself, Clarice. You can’t find your identity in other people. You can’t live to make other people happy. At the end of the day—and at the end of your life—no one else will be accountable for your actions or how you lived except for you.”

  “You’re right.”

  “You’re still young. You still have time to figure things out. But never discount yourself. If you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will either. You have a lot to offer, and don’t let anyone tell you anything different.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Gabby. That makes sense. I need to start making some changes. I need to prove to people that I’m better than they think.”

  “Don’t prove it to other people; just prove it to yourself.”

  My little pep talk resonated in my head. How did what I say play into my decision about my career? Was Sharon right? Would I be crazy to give up a job I longed for to be with the man of my dreams? Was I discounting my own career so Riley could have his career?

  I didn’t have much time to ponder it. I pulled up to our crime scene and saw an officer waiting there. It was the same rookie I’d met yesterday. I hadn’t given him a key to the place yet, so I took the one the homeowner gave me and put it in his outstretched hand.

  We waited inside the van—with the AC blasting—while he checked out things inside. Just as I was searching for something to talk about, my phone rang. Saved by the cell. “Gabby St. Claire,” I answered.

  “Gabby, this is Ramona from America Live.” America Live was Bill’s talk show.

  “Hi, Ramona.”

  “You’re going to want to turn on your radio right now. Bill told me to call you. Said it was urgent. I think you’ll agree.”

  I mumbled thanks and then turned on my radio. What I heard on the airwaves made my blood pressure rise.

  “So, you’re saying you are Milton Jones, the deranged serial killer who escaped from prison?” Bill’s voice was full of disbelief.

  “That’s right. I’ve got a message I’d like for you to share.” The man claiming to be Jones had a scratchy voice. Yet there was an underlying confidence there that made nausea roil in my stomach. This was a man with a plan.

  “What’s that? You want everyone to listen to my show?” Bill obviously wasn’t taking this call too seriously. His voice lilted. Was he amused? Entertained? Maybe he just didn’t believe this was Jones.

  “I want you to tell your friends that I’m coming. I’m coming,” Jones repeated, his voice low and raspy. “You know who you are.”

  On second thought, maybe giving in to my fears and hiding away at some remote location was a good idea.

  Too bad it wasn’t an option, though.

  CHAPTER 9

  Five, Six

  Getting my kicks

  As if the phone call from Milton Jones hadn’t been bad enough, the officer had found a message for me inside the crime scene. The police had come . . . again.

  We’d stayed around for the usual questioning, and then Clarice and I had made it to another crime scene. This one had no messages waiting for us. Maybe one a day was this killer’s quota.

  We’d finished that job, I’d dropped off Clarice, and I’d made it back just in time for the cookout.

  Right now, as I stood on the lawn, I couldn’t help but put all the rhymes together in my head.

  One, Two

  I’m coming for you

  Three, Four

  I’m hungry for more

  Gabby St. Claire

  Are you ready for gore?

  Five, Six

  Getting my kicks

  How sick was this guy? What I didn’t understand was why he was leaving these messages. He’d never done something like this before. What had changed? Had he nothing better to do in prison than plot ways to torture Riley? Or was this truly a different crime? What were the odds that two killers were taunting me?

  “You okay?”

&nbs
p; Riley’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I snapped back to the present. “I’m as okay as possible, I suppose.”

  I soaked in the cookout. A ratty picnic table that had seen better days had been covered with a mauve and blue flowered tablecloth. Rose had even bought some balloons that she’d tied to the branch of a live oak, to the handle of the grill (uh, yeah, that one had to come off), and a parking meter.

  “The police been able to trace that phone call yet?”

  Riley shook his head and flipped another burger on the grill. “Nope. It was too short. They have some equipment hooked up to Bill’s phone in case he calls again.”

  “Milton Jones will probably know that and not call back.”

  “The man could be brazen at times. He just might.”

  I turned from Riley and looked at everyone around me.

  Bill was here, of course. He was in radio talk show heaven. Suddenly, reporters from all over the country were calling him and wanting the inside scoop. This would definitely boost his show’s ratings and maybe even make people forget about that bad thing he’d said about a state senator.

  Adding to Bill’s delight was the fact that Rose was here, and she giggled at his every word. Bill was eating it up. His chest seemed more puffed up than usual.

  Mrs. Mystery had joined us, all 75 pounds of her. She sat at the wooden picnic table with her laptop, tip-tapping away at her new book. This was her idea of being social—writing with other people around her.

  I wished Sierra was here, and I couldn’t wait for her honeymoon to end so we could talk. She was a great sounding board for me. Besides, I had some questions for her about her spur-of-the-moment wedding.

  Then there was Riley and I. Riley had agreed to man the grill. Waves of heat poured from it, and the 90 plus degree weather didn’t help the miserable state of being outside. It was summer at its finest. Mosquitoes were out early in their quest to be annoying and flies had decided to dive bomb the potato salad and baked beans on the table.

  Meanwhile, the rookie cop was nearby. Apparently, Adams had assigned him to remain stationed either outside of my apartment or at the crime scenes I was cleaning. The order was twofold: both for my safety and for the possibility that Jones might appear, allowing the police to catch him. Thank goodness he wouldn’t have the officer following me everywhere. A girl needed some privacy, especially when she was snooping.