All the pretty faces gra.., p.15
All the Pretty Faces (Graveyard Falls), page 15
“If so, maybe she knows something about who Patty was with.”
The problem was—where was Neesie Netherington?
Josie couldn’t help but worry about Neesie and the other young women in town as Dane drove toward the cabins on the river. Actresses had flocked to Graveyard Falls with big dreams—only now two of them were dead.
Her phone buzzed.
The number read as an unknown. Could it be the killer?
He’d texted before—was he finally going to talk to her in person?
She punched Connect. “Hello.”
“Miss DuKane?”
A woman’s voice. “Neesie?”
“No, this is Bailey,” the girl said in a voice laced with tears.
Josie’s heart melted. “Bailey, honey, what can I do for you?”
“I don’t know,” Bailey cried. “I miss Charity. Do you and that detective know who killed her yet?”
Josie massaged her temple and glanced at Dane. He arched a brow in question, and she mouthed that it was Bailey. “I’m afraid not yet, honey, but we’re working on it.”
Bailey gulped. “Some reporter named Michaels is bugging me for an interview about Charity’s death,” Bailey said. “I didn’t know what to tell him.”
Of course the reporters would swarm. When they discovered there was a second body, they would run with it and everyone would panic.
“You don’t have to tell him anything,” Josie said.
Dane’s expression darkened. “Tell her not to talk to any reporters.”
Josie gestured that she understood. “Agent Hamrick said not to talk to the press. He’s trying to protect you and the investigation.”
Bailey sniffled. “I appreciate that. I want to talk about Charity, but I don’t want just anyone writing about her. They might make her out to be something she’s not.”
“I understand. She’s your sister and you loved her,” Josie said sympathetically. “She deserves to be remembered for the special person she was.”
“That’s it,” Bailey said. “I knew you’d understand, Miss DuKane. That’s one reason I called. I want you to write about Charity.” Her voice grew bolder. “If you do, people will see what a good person she was.”
“Of course, I’d be honored.” The girl’s trust touched her deeply. “We’ll get together when you’re feeling better and make some notes.”
“Thanks,” Bailey said. “I just took a sleeping pill so I could sleep tonight. Last night I . . . Well, I had terrible nightmares.”
Josie’s breath rasped out as Billy’s face flashed behind her eyes. Bailey’s words sank in. “I can relate to your nightmares, Bailey. You will be okay, won’t you? I mean, you aren’t drinking and mixing pills—”
“No. I’m not going to do anything stupid,” Bailey said with conviction. “I’m determined to land a part in this movie for Charity. She would want that.”
Relief made Josie sag. “Yes, she would. I’m proud of you.”
Bailey sniffled. “I figured if you can face this town after what happened to you, I can be tough, too.”
Tears welled in Josie’s eyes. She wanted to be an example for other young women, but she didn’t deserve this girl’s admiration. Not when she carried the weight of Charity’s death on her shoulders.
“Anyway, thanks, Josie,” Bailey said. “You have no idea what it means to be able to talk to you.”
Josie wiped at her eyes. “Of course. Call me anytime day or night that you need me, and I’ll be there.”
She ended the call, desperately trying to gather her composure. The thought of speaking for another dead girl weighed on her shoulders. She wanted justice for Charity and her sister, though.
“Is she all right?” Dane asked.
Josie shook her head. “No, but she will be. That reporter is bothering her. She wants me to write Charity’s story.”
Dane’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I really wish you weren’t involved. Maybe if you left town—”
“I’m not running from this, Dane. You should know that by now,” she said, annoyed.
“I do, but a man can hope.” Worry underscored his voice, softening his sarcastic tone.
She jammed her phone into her purse, ignoring his grim look. “Where to next?”
He checked his watch. “To check on McCray. The sheriff is looking for Easton.”
The Billy Linder lookalike made Josie’s skin prickle. If he’d killed Charity and Patty Waxton, she’d gladly help lock him away.
They lapsed into silence, the night sounds of the forest reverberating in the wind rolling off the mountains. Last year at this time, snow still dotted the ridges and the temperature was frigid.
The dark clouds above obliterated the moon and the stars, making the area look desolate and eerie as they drove into the heart of the mountains to the river.
Dane pointed to the corner cabin set against the forest. Shrouded by thick oaks and pines, it was more isolated than the others—a good place to hide. If a woman screamed for help, no one would even hear her.
A low light burned inside, but otherwise things seemed quiet.
Dane parked and checked his weapon. “Stay here.”
“No.” She reached for the door handle. “I want to see his reaction when you question him. Besides, he’s been wanting to talk to me. Maybe he’ll open up if I’m there.”
Dane hesitated, then nodded in resignation and they got out.
A coyote howled, storm clouds rumbling. Dane ushered Josie behind him as they approached.
“He’s not going to shoot at us or come out in the open and attack us,” Josie said. “He likes this cat and mouse game too much.”
Dane gripped his Glock by his side, planting himself in between her and the door as he knocked.
Dane kept his senses honed in case McCray was combative or tried to escape out the back. He hoped to hell some incriminating evidence was on the man or inside his cabin. Seeing another woman’s face butchered had made his stomach sour.
Footsteps shuffled inside, and he braced himself to guard Josie. He shouldn’t have agreed to let her come here. Not with the killer taunting her, and McCray’s resemblance to Linder. He could have easily sent her the message with the doll to entice her to play his game.
The wind shook the trees again, tossing twigs onto the porch and pummeling the roof. The damn wind roared like a freight train through the sharp ridges. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and an owl hooted—the wildlife a reminder of how deeply the town was buried in the Smoky Mountains.
The door opened, and Porter McCray stood on the other side.
Dane quickly scrutinized him—he wore jeans and a wrinkled plaid shirt. His hair stuck out in tufts as if he’d either run his hands through it or he’d been sleeping. No visible blood on his shirt or hands.
McCray squinted up at him with a scowl. As soon as he noticed Josie, he straightened, his eyes twitching Billy Linder–style. “What can I do for you now?” McCray asked.
“We need to talk,” Dane said bluntly.
McCray lifted one eyebrow. “It’s late. I have a callback for another audition tomorrow.” He slanted a sinister smile toward Josie. “I appreciate you putting in a good word for me.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Josie said, her tone indicating she was in no mood to entertain his sick fantasies.
“Yes, you did. You wrote a killer book.” A dark chuckle rumbled from him at his own wordplay.
Josie glared at him.
Dane fought the urge to wring the man’s neck and jammed one foot into the doorway. “Are you going to let us in, or do we need to take this chat to the sheriff’s office?”
McCray rubbed his fingers down his neck, then gestured for them to enter. “I suppose I don’t have a choice.”
Dane surveyed the front room of the cabin. Wood floors, den and kitchen combination. Acting magazines and scripts scattered on the coffee table.
A stuffed coyote on the mantel. A raccoon on the desk. Linder’s work?
“Are those yours or did they come with the cabin?” Dane asked pointedly.
McCray smirked. “The elk head and bear skin rug came with the cabin. I brought the others. Thought having some of Linder’s taxidermy work would be inspiring.”
Josie shuddered beside him. Dane wanted to pull her in his arms, but he had to keep it professional. Feeding McCray any personal connection between Josie and him might work against them at some point.
“Josie, you look tired,” McCray said in a quiet tone, as if the two of them were intimate.
Josie offered him a bland look. “I’m tired of violence, of men hurting women.”
“Where were you tonight?” Dane asked.
McCray turned his attention toward Dane. “I stayed at the community center until six when everyone finished up, mingling with the other actors. Have to get to know one’s competition.”
Dane needed exact time of death, but he didn’t have it yet. “Then what?”
McCray folded his arms across his chest. “I drove up to Graveyard Falls and went for a hike to get a feel for the falls and the woods where Linder lived.”
“Did you go to Linder’s old house?” Dane asked. That place had been roped off as a crime scene. As far as he knew, it had sat empty since mother and son had been incarcerated.
“Not yet.” He smiled at Josie, irritating Dane more. “I was hoping Josie might show me the house.”
That was not going to happen.
Dane gestured toward McCray’s shirt. He wished to hell the asshole did have blood on it so he could drag him to jail. Even if he hadn’t killed the women, Dane didn’t like the way he looked at Josie. “Is that what you’ve been wearing all day?”
“Yes.” McCray’s jaw twitched. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Another woman was murdered tonight.” Dane didn’t bother to ask permission or wait for McCray to stop him. He pushed past him and walked into the kitchen.
He opened the kitchen cabinets and drawers searching for a sharp sculpting tool, knife, or scalpel that McCray could have used as a weapon, but he found nothing but standard kitchen knives that were stocked in all the units.
McCray mumbled a protest as he followed on his heels. “Wait just a damn minute. Don’t you need a warrant?”
“Not if I have probable cause.”
McCray fidgeted. “What cause is that?”
Dane fought a grin. McCray’s slip out of character meant Dane was getting to him. “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
Dane pushed past him and searched the lower cabinets, the small desk in the corner, then the garbage.
“You think that if I’d killed someone, I’d keep the weapon? That would be stupid, wouldn’t it?” McCray asked sardonically.
“Not all criminals are smart.” Dane flipped on the hall light. One bedroom held a bed, but the other looked as if it was being used as an office.
Beside a desk sat several foldable cardboard stands filled with articles about the Bride Killer and Thorn Ripper. Photos of the victims and a large picture of Josie holding her book along with the press release for the movie were tacked on one.
Even more disturbing, another board held photos of all the female actors who’d signed up for auditions in Graveyard Falls.
Charity Snow’s photo was in the middle of the board.
But the table in the corner made him suck in a breath. It held taxidermy tools and a squirrel with its eyes carved out.
Dane cursed. If one of those tools had Charity’s or Patty’s blood on it, he’d be able to nail the bastard.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Josie barely stifled a gasp at the sight of the photos. Porter McCray had immersed himself into Billy Linder’s life, but seeing the gruesome pictures of the Bride Killer victims on the wall seemed wrong, even cruel.
That dead coyote’s piercing eyes sent nausea through her.
Dane gestured at a book on taxidermy beside the tools. “Practicing carving up animals?”
McCray’s eerie smile twisted his face. “It was a unique part of Linder’s character.”
A very disturbing one.
Dane walked over to examine the tools, curious at the blood dotting them. “Is that all you’ve been carving?”
“Yes,” McCray said. “Before you ask, I didn’t kill the squirrel. It was already dead.”
Josie couldn’t tear her eyes from the pictures. “Where did you get those photographs?” she asked. “The press never released them.”
“Neither did the police,” Dane said sharply.
McCray shrugged. “I did some research.”
“You paid someone for them, didn’t you?” Dane asked. “Someone from the police department?”
A vein pulsed in McCray’s neck. “No.”
“Then you had someone hack into police files,” Dane guessed.
“Let’s just say I did my research.” McCray ran a finger over the coyote’s head. “Many actors go to great lengths to learn accents for roles. They change their physical appearance, lose or gain weight, dye their hair, take classes, do special tactical training, learn different languages, even immerse themselves in different cultures.”
Dane pointed to Charity’s photograph. “Why is Charity Snow’s picture in the middle of your board?”
McCray looked at her with interest. “I was scouting out the females who might play opposite me.”
“Did you know Patty Waxton?” Josie asked, her voice cold, accusatory.
“I met her earlier today.” He shrugged. “I met a lot of other people, too, Josie. You know everyone is chatty there at the center.”
Dane wanted the man’s attention off Josie. “Did you take her up to the falls to check out the locations of the murders?”
“No. What good would she have done me?” McCray angled his head toward Josie. “The only person I invited to go there was you, Josie. You could tell me things about Billy that no one else knows. Things that you left out of the book.” His voice grew low, disturbing. “Things that were personal, like how he talked to you, how he touched you.”
Memories bombarded Josie, making her lungs tighten. Billy had looked like a terrified child at the idea of his mother dying.
He was strong, though. His tentative touch had turned to cold steel when she’d thrown that gravy on him. She could still feel his hands around her neck, feel the thick ropes weighing down her arms and legs. Hear his mother’s cackle of laughter as he’d tied her to the bed.
“That’s enough.” Dane’s bark jerked her back to reality.
McCray wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. “That’s for Josie to decide.”
Josie rolled her hands into fists. “Mr. McCray, you’ve taken this role-playing entirely too far.”
Dane shoved McCray onto the chair. “Sit down and don’t move. If I find one thing in this cabin to implicate you, you’re going to jail.” He pulled on gloves and began to collect the taxidermy tools to send to the lab. “I’m starting with these.”
McCray’s bravado crumbled slightly, but he pasted on a slimy smile. “You know I’m just acting, don’t you, Josie? You don’t think I killed those women?”
Josie didn’t know what she thought. He liked toying with her so much he could have sent those dolls and pictures to get her attention.
In her eyes, any man sick enough to stoop to frightening women was capable of murder.
Dane searched the closet and desk, but found nothing.
He shot a look over his shoulder, daring McCray to move.
After all, he might be the unsub who’d brutally stabbed two women. If Betsy’s death was related, possibly three.
Hope warred with caution. Dane wanted them to be the same killer, wanted to free his mother of the burden of knowing that her daughter’s killer was still out there.
He needed concrete proof to make an arrest, and to appease his own mind. So far, McCray didn’t quite fit with being near UT at the time of Betsy’s death.
Refusing to leave Josie alone with McCray, he took her arm and strode to the second bedroom.
Josie wrapped her arms around her middle. “I can’t stay in the room with that creep any longer.”
“I’m sorry,” Dane said. “I know this is difficult for you.”
Josie offered him a brave smile. “I’m fine. Just do what you have to do.”
Dane wanted to comfort her, but he admired her show of courage, and time was of the essence. He nodded, then searched beneath the bed and mattress, then the closet. If he found something, McCray’s lawyer might argue that it was inadmissible because he didn’t have a warrant, but Dane would argue that he saw the blood on those tools, and that he’d thought another woman might have been abducted—meaning Neesie Netherington—and that he suspected she was being held at the cabin.
Besides, the tools and photographs were in plain sight.
McCray’s unnatural obsession with the serial killer Billy Linder suggested he could be honing his craft, establishing his own MO to gain fame like Linder.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Josie asked.
“Murder weapon. Also any bloody clothing or towels, his or the women’s. A strong-smelling soap. I think he cleaned the victims’ makeup off with it.”
Josie folded her arms and watched as he searched.
Clothing from the man’s suitcase had been dumped into the dresser drawers, and a plastic laundry basket held dirty clothes, although none had bloodstains or smelled of bleach or cleaning chemicals. No women’s clothing either.
If McCray had killed the women, he’d disposed of their clothes somewhere else.
From the bedroom, Josie made a strangled sound, and Dane rushed to her. “What is it?”
She stood in front of the wardrobe, her back to him, and she was trembling. Dane slowly walked toward her, his heart hammering. Clothing and hats, ones that looked like costumes for different characters, overflowed the wardrobe. Pancake makeup along with two different hairpieces, hair dye, eyeglasses, and a fake mustache sat on the vanity, and a cane leaned against the wall.
When Josie turned and looked up at him, fear clouded her eyes.
Damn.
There were pictures of Josie tacked on the inner door. Photographs taken at the crime scene at Linder’s house.
