John broke every speed limit getting to Carla’s house, which looked even more forlorn beneath a sky that was approaching full darkness. The full moon had risen, but wispy clouds threatened to keep it from being the vivid, spectacular blood moon that had been predicted.
They walked to her front door. Yellowish light filtered through window shades in a corner room, which John assumed was a bedroom. TV light flickered in the living room where they’d talked with Carla on their previous meeting. He pressed the doorbell, and as footsteps approached, he muttered, “Here goes nothing.”
The porch light came on above them. As before, Carla opened the door only a crack and peered out at them. “Didn’t your mamas teach you any manners? Like showing up at somebody’s house without an invitation.”
Beth said, “You did invite us, Carla. On the condition we had the person who took Crissy in custody. We believe we do. He’s being questioned as we speak.”
That took her by surprise. Mistrustfully, her eyes sawed back and forth between them.
“There’s a lot to tell, Carla, and we’re very, very short on time,” Beth continued. “In little more than an hour from now the episode on Crissy is going to air. I’m still trying to halt it. I came to ask for your help.”
“Help how? And why would I help at all? I told you I don’t give a damn about your professional reputation or that of your TV show. Who is this person anyway?”
“His name is Victor Wallace. Last night, he abducted John’s daughter, Molly.”
Carla shifted her hostile gaze to John, who said, “We rescued Molly and captured him before he did more than terrify her and give her a concussion, but he had some grisly activities planned for her tonight that would have resulted in her death. I’m taking it real personally.
“We’ve got him for kidnapping Molly. I’d love to attach him to Crissy’s abduction, too. As to why you would help? If we can nail Wallace for it, Billy Oliver would be vindicated.”
She screwed her mouth up into a frown of indecision. “I’ll think about it.” She tried to close the door, but John planted his foot in the narrow opening to prevent it.
Beth said, “Once that program airs, Billy will be regarded as the deviant monster next door who, when caught, took the easy way out rather than receive the punishment he deserved. Is that the legacy you wish for him?”
“It could be retracted.”
“But the seeds of doubt would have been sown. Too often retractions are overlooked because they’re not as sensational as the first news flash. You know that.”
Her lips pursed tighter; then she said, “What are you asking me to do, specifically?”
“Face Victor Wallace,” John said. “Accuse him of robbing your daughter of a long life. Accuse him of robbing you of her. It may crack him.”
“‘May,’” she huffed. “I doubt it.”
“For godsake, isn’t it worth a try?”
Carla looked at John with scorn. “Who are you doing this for? Crissy, Billy, me, or her?” She hitched her chin toward Beth. “I’m not stupid, you know.”
No, but you’re meaner than hell. He forcibly tamped down his temper, which would get him nowhere with her. Candor had worked before. “You told the people Beth works with that you suspected she and I were sleeping together. That was a crappy thing to do. But so what if we are? That has nothing to do with what happened to Crissy, or to my daughter.
“For terrorizing her, I want to put Victor Wallace away for a long, long time. I was able to stop him before he killed Molly, but I failed Crissy. For whatever he did to her, I want to put him away for life.”
“That’s your job, Mr. Detective. Not mine. I can’t help you.”
Before she could close the door on them, it was pulled open wider. “I can help.” The young woman standing just beyond Carla’s shoulder said, “I’ll face him.”
Chapter 38
Tom Barker assessed Victor Wallace through the one-way window. “So that’s the professor I’ve been hearing so much about.”
“That’s him,” Derby said.
Barker had invited himself to the sheriff’s office and had talked his way back to the hallway of interrogation rooms where he could observe the suspect through a glass pane. Derby resented Barker’s intrusion, but there was little he could do about it.
Their criminal cases often overlapped, so the two departments had reciprocity. Barker had a right, even a duty, to be here, but Derby was having a hard time being cordial to the man he believed had killed Frank Gray less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Derby had assigned Wallace to a pair of his best interrogators. He’d told them, “He looks and acts like Mr. Rogers. Don’t be deceived. Bowie said he likes to talk. Let him.”
So far, Wallace had remained unflappable. He didn’t answer any questions except the most mundane. Instead he rambled on a number of subjects, often mentioning the popularity of his lectures and the increasing interest in his book.
Barker said now, “I was expecting someone more sinister.”
“He’s sinister, all right,” Derby said. “He was going to slice and dice John Bowie’s daughter.”
“I heard you caught him red-handed with the girl. Why are you giving him the third degree?”
“The Crissy Mellin case.”
Barker gave a start. “Crissy Mellin?”
“Bowie thinks chances are good the professor here was the perp and that he’s been waiting three years to do it again, to coincide with the blood moon.”
Tom’s distorted features twitched with amusement; then he chuckled. “Just goes to show how far ’round the bend Bowie has gone since that case. To this day, he refuses to admit that the Oliver kid was guilty. I mean, Christ, the boy wrote a confession to killing her and disposing of her!
“And I was this close,” he said, indicating an inch with his fingers, “to getting him to tell me where he had dumped her body. I told him if he gave that up, it might be a bargaining chip he could cash in at his sentencing, that it would be a demonstration of his remorse, and so on. I sent him back to his cell to think it over. You know what happened.”
He affected sadness as he shook his head. “But Bowie had been trying to steer the investigation in the wrong direction. He absolutely would not acknowledge his error. His downfall started then, and it’s continued on a greased slope. Now, three years later, he’s completely irrational. Blood moon? Give me a break. That’s crazy. He’s surly and unreliable. Can’t control his temper.