CHAPTER TWO

 

 

WHILE HE WAITED for Presley, Logan grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it, then checked the sawed-off shotgun to make sure it was loaded. If Del Vecchio made an appearance at his mother’s house, he wanted to be ready for him. Logan only hoped he didn’t have to shoot him in front of Mommy Dearest.

“What’s our cover story?” Presley asked once they were in the Hummer.

He glanced at her as he pulled out of the garage, his mouth quirking. “Cover story?”

“Yeah. I assume we’re not going to walk in there and tell her you’re a ghost hunter and I’m the woman who pushed her serial killer son off a balcony.”

“You do watch a lot of cops shows.” Logan chuckled. “But you’re right. We should probably be more discreet than that. I’ll tell her I’m a detective with the Stamford PD working on the new string of serial murders and that you’re assisting me with the case. We’ll say we’re there trying to determine if the person responsible for these recent murders might have had some connection to her son.”

He’d considered introducing Presley as his partner, but she didn’t look like a cop. He’d keep it simple and say she was just helping out. Joyce Reynolds would almost certainly buy that.

“Okay,” Presley said. “But how are you going to ask her if she kept anything from her son? I can’t imagine how you’re going to work that into the conversation.”

Logan shrugged. “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll work it in somehow.”

In reality, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. Exactly how the hell he was going to bring that up to the woman? Excuse me, Mrs. Reynolds, do you happen to have any of your dead son’s remains stashed in the house? Yeah, that’d go over really well.

The Reynolds home was a small two-story house on a quiet tree-lined street, with an old, concrete bird bath on the front lawn and a set of neatly trimmed hedges lining the modest porch.

“It doesn’t exactly scream serial killer, does it?” Presley asked as they walked up the steps.

Logan pressed the doorbell. “You’d be surprised.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the curtain in the window flutter like whoever was inside had peeked out to see who was at the door. But by the time he turned his head to look, the curtain had fallen back into place. He was wondering if he should ring the bell again when the door opened and a woman’s face peered out. Well past middle age, she regarded them suspiciously from behind oversized glasses.

“Mrs. Reynolds?” Logan asked.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

Logan pulled out his badge and held it up. “I’m Detective Malone with the Stamford Police Department and this is Ms. Kincaid. She’s working with us on the string of recent serial murders in the area. We were wondering if we could come in and ask you a few questions.”

Joyce Reynolds looked from him to Presley, then back to him again, as if trying to decide whether to let them in or not. After a moment, she opened the door wider. She held a fluffy orange cat in her arms and the animal blinked at them with curious gold eyes.

Logan waited for Presley to enter, then followed. He looked around as Joyce closed the door behind them and led them into the living room. Between the record player and stacks of vinyl LP’s, the gray-finished wood paneling, and the console television, the place looked like something straight out of a freaking Happy Days flashback. There was even plastic covering the flower-print couch and matching love seat.

“Please sit down,” Joyce said, gesturing to the couch. “I made some fresh lemonade. Can I get either of you some?”

Logan glanced at Presley, who nodded. He did the same. “Thank you.”

Setting the cat down on the floor, the woman disappeared into the kitchen. Logan was tempted to take a peek at the other room just to see if there was a Formica table and pastel-colored refrigerator straight out of the 1950s, but he resisted the urge and instead sat down on the couch beside Presley.

“So far, so good, I guess,” Presley said softly. “For a minute there, I didn’t think she was going to let us in.”

“Yeah. Me, either.”

The cat let out a meow and came over to rub against his leg.

Presley smiled. “I think someone likes you.”

Logan grunted. “Let’s hope her owner’s as amiable.”

He reached down to scratch the cat behind the ears. Apparently, the animal must have considered that some sort of invitation because she jumped up onto the couch to sit beside him.

“Carrot, you bad cat, bothering our guests.”

Logan looked up to see Joyce Reynolds coming into the living room. She was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. She set it down on the table, then gave him an apologetic look as she picked up the cat.

“I’m sorry about that. She’s not usually so forward.”

He gave her a smile. “Don’t worry about it. She was just introducing herself.”

Joyce put the cat on the loveseat, giving Carrot an affectionate pat as she sat down beside the animal. Picking up the pitcher, she filled the glasses with lemonade, then handed one to him before doing the same to Presley.

“What kind of questions did you want to ask me, Detective?”

He leaned forward on the couch. “Have you heard about the recent murders over in Stamford?”

She waved her hand. “Oh goodness, of course I have. I can’t believe the papers are calling it a copycat, though. We all know it isn’t some copycat killing all those women.”

Logan frowned. The woman couldn’t know about Del Vecchio’s ghost, could she?

“Ma’am?”

“It’s the Stamford Stabber. Which confirms what I’ve been telling the police all along when I said it wasn’t my little boy who murdered those other women. It was someone else and now that the real Stamford Stabber has started killing again, my boy’s name is going to be cleared.” Her lips curved into a smile as she went back to petting the cat again. “It also means that people will finally see that little whore fabricated the whole story about my Carson attacking her. Won’t they, Carrot?”

Was she talking about Presley? If she was, that was an interesting take on things. Keith Tobin had obviously been right about Del Vecchio’s mother. The woman clearly had a few screws loose. Logan glanced at Presley to see her looking at the other woman in astonishment.

“Ma’am,” he said, turning back to Joyce. “Are you referring to the woman who was stabbed in her apartment by your son several weeks ago?”

Her gray eyes narrowed. “Of course, that’s who I’m talking about. And Carson didn’t stab her. She probably did it to herself after she murdered him so she wouldn’t go to prison for killing an innocent man, the scheming little bitch.”

Beside him, Logan saw Presley’s hand tighten on the glass of lemonade and he gave her a warning look, afraid she might be tempted to tell Joyce who she really was and that Del Vecchio was indeed a murderer. Hell, he was about half a second away from speaking up in Presley’s defense himself and telling Mommy Dearest what a sick fuck her son was. But to his relief, other than looking a little pale, Presley seemed to be keeping it together and staying in character.

Logan clenched his jaw. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be able convince Joyce that her precious son had been the infamous Stamford Stabber. Not that it mattered. He and Presley were there to find out if the woman had anything keeping Del Vecchio in the land of the living. He still needed to lay a little groundwork yet before he tackled the subject of body parts.

He was about to steer the conversation toward Del Vecchio’s funeral when the front door slammed. Logan turned his head to see a teenage boy come walking in. About sixteen, he was dressed in a black leather jacket, black pants and thick-soled tanker boots. He could have been mistaken for the everyday typical teenager even with the piercings on his face, but it was the heavy, black eyeliner that told Logan he was into the whole Goth thing. The kid took one look at him and Presley, then headed for the stairs without a word.

“Dillon Reynolds!” Joyce screeched. “Get back down here right now. Where are your manners? We have guests.”

There was silence as Dillon hesitated on the steps. After a moment, he turned and stumbled back down. “They’re not guests, Mom. They’re cops. And my name’s Thorn now, not Dillon.”

Logan frowned, wondering how the kid had concluded he and Presley were with the police. Granted, he might still look like a cop, but Presley sure as hell didn’t.

“Don’t be a smart aleck, Dillon,” his mother scolded. “These nice people are here to help clear Carson’s name. Now be a dear and get us some cookies.”

Dillon rolled his eyes but stomped into the kitchen to do his mother’s bidding, his big boots making a ruckus on the mint green linoleum floor as he went.

Joyce shook her head with a tsking sound. “Thorn indeed. In my side, that’s for sure. Now if the police told me Dillon was a crazy serial killer, I would believe them in a second.” She said the words loud enough for her son to hear in the kitchen. “Look at him. Dressed all in black and wearing eye makeup. He looks every inch the weirdo, doesn’t he? Nothing like my darling Carson. That boy was a mother’s dream. Handsome, smart, a great job.” She gave Presley a knowing smile. “You would have found him very charming, Ms. Kincaid.”

Presley looked ill as she returned the other woman’s smile.

“He never forgot about his mother,” Joyce continued. “Took very good care of me, he did. He even agreed to live down in the basement so he could be close in case I needed him for something. He could have moved out a dozen times, but he didn’t. Because he loved his mother.”

Logan tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound sarcastic or condescending, but nothing came to mind. Luckily, Dillon came out of the kitchen.

“Oh please, Mom, give it a rest already.” He set the plate of cookies down on the coffee table with a clatter. “These two aren’t buying your load of crap. Carson was a psycho who liked to slice up women and you know it. Everyone knows it. That’s why so many weirdos keep coming to the house. They want to see where the freak lived.”

Joyce turned so red Logan thought she might actually get up and slap her son. Instead, she settled for giving him a glare. “You hush your foul mouth, boy. Your brother was a better man than you’ll ever be. Isn’t that right, Carrot?” She ran her hand over the cat’s orange fur. “Carson loved you, didn’t he?”

Dillon snorted. “He loved the cat. Right. When you were here, maybe. When you weren’t, he tormented the hell out of her for fun.”

She jerked her head up to fix him with a hard look. “That’s a lie. Carson couldn’t hurt a fly. Your brother was a gentle, kind man.”

The kid shook his head. “Yeah, right. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mom. Look, if I’m done serving refreshments, I’m going to go up to my room and drive a spike through my eardrums so I’ll never have to hear about how wonderful Carson was ever again.”

Dillon didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned and stomped up the steps, leaving the living room in awkward silence that stretched on until Joyce let out a heavy sigh.

“He’s the burden God placed on me to make up for having such a wonderful son like Carson, I suppose.” She gave Logan and Presley a remorseful look. “I hope Dillon didn’t offend you too much.”

Presley shook her head and murmured something indistinct.

Logan gave the older woman what he hoped was an understanding smile. “Of course not. Teenagers can be a handful sometimes. Dillon did bring up something we’ve been wanting to talk to you about, though.”

“He did?” Joyce regarded him warily, as if afraid of what Logan might say. “What’s that?”

“He mentioned there have been a lot of people coming by the house, people interested in your son. Is that right?”

“Yes.” Her mouth tightened. “In the beginning, it was mostly reporters, which was bad enough, but then it got even worse when the other people started showing up. They believed what the police said about Carson killing all those women and wanted to know if they could see his room. A pack of ghouls, I tell you, all of them.”

Having actually seen a pack of ghouls before, Logan seriously doubted that, but he let it pass. “I see. Well, we believe whoever is responsible for these recent serial murders might be attempting to maintain a link to your son and the crimes he was blamed for. Wrongly, of course.”

She frowned. “What do you mean, a link?”

“Something that would make them feel close to your son. They’d want items that would be considered very personal to you, such as baby pictures, a lock of hair from when he was a child, maybe. Things like that. Has anything turned up missing lately?”

Logan studied Joyce’s face closely. If she had something like a lock of hair or a box of baby teeth from when he was a child, she would either admit it without hesitation or run to check to make sure it was safe.

Joyce didn’t do either of those things. Instead, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

Logan swore under his breath. Ah, hell. He hadn’t meant to make the woman cry. He glanced at Presley, but all she did was shrug her shoulders.

“Mrs. Reynolds?”

She didn’t look at him, but only continued to sob.

Presley grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table and held it out to him, then gestured with her other hand toward Joyce.

Logan stared down at the tissue. Presley couldn’t be serious. She had to know he wasn’t a people person, right? But she only motioned with her hand again. He turned his attention back to the older woman. She was still crying softly into her hands and didn’t show signs of stopping anytime soon.

With a sigh of resignation, he took the tissue from Presley, then got up and moved around the coffee table to sit down on the plastic-covered love seat beside Joyce. He slowly lifted his hand and awkwardly patted the woman on the shoulder.

“There, there. It’s okay,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Reynolds.”

To Logan’s surprise, his touch had the desired effect. The woman stopped crying and lifted her head to give him a teary smile. She accepted the tissue he held out, then took off her glasses and dabbed at the corners of her red-rimmed eyes.

“Thank you, you’re very kind. Your mother must be proud to have raised such a caring, young man.”

Logan wanted to tell her his mother hadn’t given a rat’s ass about him, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave her a smile and muttered something that could have been taken as an affirmative.

The reply must have been good enough for Joyce because she continued. “I apologize for falling apart, but your question touched a nerve because I don’t have anything personal from my son.”

His eyes narrowed. “Nothing?”

She shook her head miserably. “Absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, Carson came into my life rather late, just a few years ago, in fact. He was raised by his father, an evil, vile man if there ever was one. I don’t even know what I saw in him. The bastard tore my poor baby out of my arms and took custody of him right after he was born. Claimed I was an unfit mother by saying I wasn’t right in the head. Then he had me committed to a mental institution and raised Carson in that cesspool of a city, New York. I tried to see him when I finally got out of that horrid place, but his father was powerful enough to make sure I could never get near my son. He never even told Carson I existed. Carson had to find me on his own after that hideous man died. He showed up here with nothing more than the clothes on his back. To answer your question, Detective, no one took anything that belonged to Carson because there’s nothing to take.”

Logan swore silently. Unless this crazy old woman was the most convincing liar he’d ever met—which was unlikely since he’d met some good ones—she didn’t have anything in her possession that could tie Del Vecchio’s ghost to this plane of existence. If there was some piece of this guy lying around somewhere, he and Presley were going to have to find it another way, because Mommy Dearest obviously didn’t have it.

He was about to thank her for her time and get out of there when Joyce started sobbing quietly again.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked.

Joyce Reynolds dabbed at her eyes again and sniffed. “I’m sorry. It’s just so hard. I have nothing of my son to remember him by. I didn’t even get a chance to give him a real funeral. Or at least not a proper one anyway. That damn incompetent funeral home went and screwed up, saying I asked them to cremate my son. They had the audacity to wave a piece of paper in my face and claim it was my signature. As if I wouldn’t know my own handwriting. Because of them, Carson didn’t even have a proper burial.”

She began to sob in earnest again, rambling on about her precious Carson being gone and having nothing to remember him by, not even a photograph. Taking that as his cue to leave, Logan got to his feet. Presley did the same.

“You’re leaving?” Joyce blinked up at them tearfully. “But you haven’t finished your lemonade or even had any cookies.”

“We appreciate you talking to us, but we have to get back to the station,” Logan said.

The older woman looked disappointed at that but nodded. “Of course.” She put her glasses back on and stood up. “You’ll keep me updated on the case, won’t you, and let me know when you’ve cleared Carson’s name?”

“Certainly,” Logan said.

“Do you have a card?” she asked as she followed them into the entryway. “So I can call you if anyone suspicious comes around looking to see Carson’s room.”

Logan wasn’t thrilled about the idea of her calling him every time some doofus showed up at her door looking for the scoop on Del Vecchio, but he didn’t see how he could refuse to give her a card. Taking out his wallet, he rifled through it until he found the right one—he had a lot of different cards for a lot of different fake occupations—and handed it to her.

Thanking her again for her time, Logan hustled Presley out the door before the woman could stop them.