The Intended Victim Page 16

  Ash chose his words with care. “It’s possible that someone besides you drove it.”

  “Who else would drive it?” Albert demanded. “Mrs. Liza? Ms. Hodges?”

  Ash shrugged. He had to agree it seemed unlikely the two women were involved. “I was thinking more about the employees who’ve worked here over the years,” he clarified. “I remember Gage complaining that his home had a revolving door for the staff.”

  The stiffness in Albert’s shoulders slowly eased. Still, his expression remained guarded.

  “Mrs. Liza can be demanding,” he admitted slowly.

  Ash pressed his lips together to prevent them from curling into a mocking smile. Liza Harding-Walsh was a tyrant when it came to her employees. Gage had told him more than once that he never bothered to learn the names of the maids and gardeners. They were certain to be gone by the end of the week.

  Only Ms. Hodges and Albert had remained longer than three months.

  “Very diplomatic,” he murmured.

  Albert’s brows snapped together, as if he was offended by Ash’s response. “Do you know how I got a job here?” he asked.

  Ash was caught off guard by the question. Gage had talked about Albert during their time as partners, although he hadn’t ever abused the older man’s privacy. “All Gage said was that you needed a job as a condition of your parole.”

  Albert folded his arms over his chest. “I’d just finished serving a six-year stint for car theft,” Albert admitted. “Before that, I’d been in and out of trouble since I was in grade school. No one wanted to hire me and I don’t blame them. I was a bad risk.”

  Albert’s tone was flat, but Ash sensed the older man carried deep scars. Had he endured a violent childhood? Or was it just regret for his bad choices? Hard to say.

  “Gage clearly had faith in you,” Ash told his companion. And it was true. Gage had trusted this man as much as he trusted anyone. “He understood that you’d paid for your crimes and were ready for a new start.”

  Albert lifted his brows, as if surprised by Ash’s words. “Mr. Gage wasn’t the one who hired me,” he said. “It was Mrs. Liza.”

  Ash took a full second to absorb what the handyman was telling him. “Liza hired you?” he demanded, wondering if he’d heard wrong.

  Albert nodded. “Yep.”

  Ash shook his head, trying to picture Liza Harding-Walsh choosing an ex-con to work at her elegant mansion. “How did she know about you?” he demanded in confusion.

  “My uncle worked for her family.”

  “Ah.” A derisive smile curved Ash’s lips. Remi’s mom was so rigidly proper and such an important member of Chicago society, it was easy to forget she came from a family of gangsters.

  “Uncle Jake called Mrs. Liza, and she agreed to give me a chance as a handyman around the estate.” Albert eyed him, clearly sensing Ash’s lack of appreciation for what the older woman had offered. “I’ll always be grateful. If it hadn’t been for her, I would have been back in jail.”

  Ash dismissed the tiny voice in the back of his mind that questioned whether Albert’s uncle had a way to force Liza to give his nephew a chance. He was prejudiced against the older woman after she’d made it painfully clear he wasn’t good enough for her daughter.

  Something a trained detective understood was dangerous. It blurred his ability to see clearly.

  “But the other employees weren’t as loyal to the Walshes?” he asked.

  “They weren’t loyal to anyone,” Albert said in disgust. “They spent more time trying to avoid work than just doing it. I wasn’t sorry to see most of them go.”

  “How many of them had keys to the garage?”

  Albert studied him, as if waiting for him to finish the sentence. “How many since when?”

  Ash considered the question. They’d never precisely pinpointed the start of the Butcher’s killing spree. It was assumed it had been going on at least three years before they discovered the connection of the murders, but it could have been longer.

  “Let’s make it in the past ten years.”

  “Ten years?” Albert stared at him in confusion. “Are you serious?”

  “Unless you’ve had the locks changed since then?”

  Albert shook his head. “I doubt the locks have ever been changed.”

  “I just want an estimate,” Ash assured him.

  The handyman thought for a second before offering his guess. “At least six or seven stayed long enough to be given keys to the garage.”

  “And any of them could make a copy.”

  “Along with anyone else who worked here.”

  Ash braced himself. He didn’t need Albert’s grim expression to know he wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Gage always tossed his keys in a bowl on the kitchen counter when he came home.”

  “Damn.” Frustration bubbled through him. He understood Gage’s lack of concern for security. Who would steal from a cop? But it doubled the number of people who could have keys in their possession. If he decided they needed to be investigated, it was going to take forever. He swallowed a sigh as he turned back toward the car. “Do you remember the last time you had the Mustang out?”

  This time Albert answered the question. “It was the first of the month.”

  “And it hasn’t been moved since then?”

  “Nope.”

  Ash circled the back of the Mustang. He really wasn’t much of a car guy. Most mornings, he got into his vehicle, turned the key, and hoped it started. Now he wished he’d paid more attention to his father’s lectures on the care and maintenance of his vehicles. Maybe he would be able to detect some small clue that would prove it hadn’t been out of the garage for the past two weeks.

  “Are you here every day?” he finally asked.

  “I have the weekends off unless Mrs. Liza needs me to drive her to an event.”

  Ash strolled to the side of the car, peering into the interior at the yellow leather seats and sleek dashboard. Gage had once taken Ash on a ride through the back roads outside the city in his beloved Mustang. The older man had scared the shit out of Ash as he’d raced over the gravel roads at a speed that would make anyone see their life flashing before their eyes.

  That was the last time he’d been in the car.

  “When do you usually arrive for work?” he asked Albert.

  “I try to be here around eight.” The older man smiled with wry amusement. “It used to be earlier, but my wife put her foot down and insisted that we have breakfast together.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Ash said, silently acknowledging that it was possible for someone to have taken out the Mustang on Friday and have it back before Albert arrived at the estate.

  He bent down to study the tires.

  “What are you doing?” Albert asked.

  “The witness told me that he’d had to jump into a ditch to avoid the car, which nearly ran him down,” Ash said. “If this is the car, there might be some damage.”

  Albert moved to stand at his side. “Is there anything?”

  Ash reached under the wheel well, searching for a stray branch that might have got stuck up there.

  “Nothing,” Ash said, glancing up at the man standing beside him. “Do you check the odometer?”

  “Only to see if it’s time for an oil change. I don’t keep a weekly log or anything.”

  Accepting that there was no way to prove or disprove this was the car Roo claimed was in the park, Ash started to rise to his feet. At the same time, his gaze caught sight of a small lump behind the tire.

  Ash reached out to grab the object, pulling it from beneath the car.

  “What’s this?” He rose to his feet, allowing the overhead lights to reveal a black leather glove. He held it toward Albert. “Yours?”

  Albert reached toward it, a weird expression on his face. “No.” His eyes became distant, as if he was overwhelmed with memories. “It belonged to Mr. Gage.”

  Ash jer
ked with shock. Gage’s glove? The man had been dead for five years. It couldn’t have been lying on the garage floor since then, could it?

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. They were a gift from Mrs. Liza.” Albert turned over the glove to reveal the gold G.W. that was stitched on the cuff. “She had them monogrammed.”

  Ash reached out to take back the glove, running his fingers over the butter-soft material. He should have guessed it belonged to Gage. It was too expensive for one of his staff to own.

  So where the hell had it come from?

  “Could the gloves have been in the Mustang?” he demanded. It was possible someone had accidentally kicked the glove when they were climbing in or out of the car.

  Albert gave an emphatic shake of his head. “No. He only wore them when he was forced by Mrs. Liza to go with her to a fancy event.”

  Ash believed the man. Gage was a cop who came from humble beginnings and liked the simple things in life. Ash had always been amazed that he’d ended up marrying Liza Harding. Of course, he’d never doubted that Gage adored his wife. It truly was a case of opposites being attracted to each other.

  “Where did he usually keep them?”

  The handyman waved a hand in the direction of the nearby mansion. “I guess he probably had them with the rest of his clothes in his closet.”

  Ash conjured up his memory of the tour of the house Remi had given him after they’d first started dating. He knew that her mother and father each had their own suites with large bedrooms, walk-in closets, and a connecting bathroom. He hadn’t found it odd. Rich people seemed to need a lot more space. Plus, a detective had crazy hours. It was hard to share a bed when a person was being called out in the middle of the night.

  “What did Liza do with Gage’s clothes?”

  The sadness returned to Albert’s face. “Nothing. She locked the door to his private rooms and no one has been allowed in there. Not even Ms. Hodges.” There was a faint buzzing sound, and Albert pulled his phone from the pocket of his coveralls. He glanced at the screen. “I have to go,” he said.

  Ash nodded, allowing the man to escort him out of the garage, although he kept the glove. He’d discovered all he could for now.

  “Thanks, Albert,” he said as they stepped into the brisk morning breeze.

  Albert sent him a worried glance. “Just keep Miss Remi safe.”

  “You have my word,” Ash promised in soft tones.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Remi reeled off several fine curses when she stepped out of the bathroom to realize that Ash had disappeared while she was showering. Grabbing her phone, she’d had every intention of calling him and demanding he return so she could go with him. They were supposed to be partners, weren’t they?

  Then, with a grimace, she tossed her phone on the kitchen counter. She was no longer Ash’s fiancée. Which meant she didn’t have the right to call and demand that he do anything. Even if he had promised they would work together to stop the Butcher.

  Pretending she didn’t care where Ash might have gone, Remi returned to her bedroom. Pulling on a casual pair of jeans and a cable-knit sweater, she braided her hair and headed into the third bedroom, which she’d converted into an office. She intended to spend a few hours at the youth center this afternoon and she wanted to create several worksheets that would help with her tutoring.

  It was nearly nine a.m. when a knock on the door interrupted her concentration. Remi left her office, feeling more curious than alarmed. She didn’t have any doubt that Ash had made sure there was a cop watching her house. He was nothing if not predictable.

  Still, she glanced through the spyhole in the door before pulling it open with a flare of surprise.

  “Mrs. Marcel?” she breathed, staring at the woman she hadn’t seen in years.

  June Marcel was a small woman with a halo of dark curls and a dimpled face. She looked far too young to have grown sons, but it was her frenetic energy that most people first noticed. It buzzed around her like a force field. Remi didn’t know if it was the result of being the mother of four epically active boys, or just a natural part of her.

  This morning, she was wearing the same plaid coat Remi remembered and holding a well-used Tupperware container.

  “No one calls me Mrs. Marcel,” the older woman chided. “I’m June. Or Mom.”

  A dull pain throbbed through Remi. Once, she’d shyly called this woman Mom. It wasn’t in an effort to latch on to a mother figure. She already had that. It was a symbol that she’d become a member of the Marcel family.

  “Come in,” she murmured, stepping back so the older woman could enter the house. “I’m afraid Ash isn’t here right now. I could call him if you want.”

  June waited until Remi had closed the door and turned to face her. “I’m not here to see my son,” she said with a smile that could warm even a frigid Chicago morning. “I’m here to see you.”

  “Me?” Remi felt a sudden jolt of anxiety. When she’d seen June standing on her porch, she’d just assumed she was here to see her son. “Why?”

  “We haven’t had a nice chat in years.”

  Remi wasn’t fooled by the sweet smile and innocent expression. By chat, the woman meant a quizzing that would rival the Spanish Inquisition.

  “I . . .” Remi licked her dry lips, searching for a reasonable excuse to escape. “Actually . . .”

  June held up the Tupperware container. “I brought coffee cake.”

  Remi’s mouth instantly watered. Like Pavlov’s dog. There was no one who could cook like June Marcel. “Cinnamon pecan?” she asked.

  June’s eyes sparkled with an evil amusement. “That’s the one.”

  Remi’s lips twitched. “You should have been the detective,” she told the older woman. “You could make the most hardened criminal talk.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Conceding defeat, Remi turned to lead June through the living room. “Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee.”

  June walked behind Remi at a leisurely pace, giving the older woman plenty of opportunity to glance around the living room with obvious curiosity. “What a charming house,” she said.

  “It suits me,” Remi said, crossing the kitchen to start the coffee maker.

  Eventually, June appeared and set the container on the breakfast bar before she was shrugging out of her coat. “Ash mentioned it belonged to your grandparents?”

  “It did.” Remi collected two mugs and spooned two teaspoons of sugar into June’s. She assumed the woman still had her sweet tooth. “I have a lot of great memories here.”

  “And that’s what makes a house a home.”

  “Yes,” Remi agreed.

  This house wasn’t a showstopper, but it had a warmth that came from the love her grandparents had shared. She gathered two plates and a knife before returning to pour out the coffee. By the time she’d climbed onto the high stool, the older woman had the cake cut and a large slice was shoved in front of her.

  Remi didn’t protest. She would take another jog in the gym at the youth center. There were some calories more worthy of sweat than others.

  She took a big bite, the cinnamon and sugar and butter hitting her tongue with glorious perfection.

  “Yum,” she breathed. “Just as delicious as I remember.”

  June settled on a stool next to her, sipping her coffee as she studied Remi demolishing the cake with a smile of pleasure.

  “It’s been too long,” the older woman finally said. “I thought about calling, but I didn’t know if you would want to talk to me.”

  Remi sent her a startled frown. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  June cleared her throat, obviously choosing her words with care. “I was never sure of the reason you broke off your engagement to my son. I was afraid you might be angry with the entire Marcel clan.”

  Remi glanced down at her nearly empty plate, feeling a pang of guilt. She’d been so caught up in her own emotional trauma that she’d never
considered how her retreat from Ash might have affected others.

  “I was never angry with anyone.” She forced herself to lift her head and meet June’s searching gaze. She owed the older woman that much. “Certainly not you.”

  June reached out, lightly touching Remi’s hand. “It’s not my business, but if you weren’t angry, why did you push Ash away?”

  Remi resisted the urge to shake off the woman’s touch. She didn’t want to talk about the past. Especially not now. The return of the Butcher had stripped away the thin layer of protection that had allowed her to pretend her life was getting back to normal. It left her feeling raw and vulnerable.

  “It was too painful,” she forced herself to admit.

  June squeezed her fingers. “Did you blame him for your father’s death?”

  “No,” she sharply denied. “Never.”

  A sad expression settled on the older woman’s face. “That’s what he believed.”

  Remi flinched. She wanted to tell June that she hadn’t realized what she was doing to Ash, but the words stuck in her throat. For five years, she’d told herself that she wanted to protect the man she loved. She’d already lost her father; she couldn’t bear to put Ash in danger.

  And that was a big part of her need to build a barrier between them. But it wasn’t the full reason.

  “I didn’t blame him, I blamed myself,” she confessed, her voice oddly harsh. “It was all my fault.”

  June stiffened her spine, a sudden anger flashing through her eyes. “Nonsense. How could you even think such a ridiculous thing?”

  “It’s not ridiculous.” A queasy sensation rolled through her stomach. She’d had endless nightmares about the horror her father must have endured when he walked into the house to try to find her. No one knew exactly what had happened. She’d been unconscious in the kitchen, and while there’d been a gruesome amount of blood on the living-room floor to indicate her father had received a killing blow, his body had never been found. Somehow, the fact they’d never had a proper burial for him had only made it more difficult to put the past behind her. “My dad was trying to save me when he was murdered.”

  “Exactly,” June said in a stern voice. “He was killed by the Butcher, not you.”