Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [15]
“Tell them to send someone else, Maggie. We need this weekend together,” he pleaded, his voice now soft.
She looked into his gray eyes and wondered when they had lost their color. She searched for a flicker of the intelligent, compassionate man she had married nine years ago when they were both college seniors ready to make their marks on the world. She would track down the criminals, and he would defend the helpless victims. Then he took the job in Washington at Brackman, Harvey and Lowe, and his helpless victims became billion-dollar corporations. Still, in just a moment of silence, she thought she recognized a flicker of sincerity. She was on the verge of giving in to him when his grip tightened and his teeth clenched.
“Tell them to send someone else, or we’re finished.”
She wrenched her wrist free. He grabbed for it again, and she slammed a fist into his chest. His eyes widened in surprise.
“Don’t you ever grab me like that again. And if this one trip means we’re finished, then maybe we’ve been finished for a long time.”
She brushed past him and headed for the bedroom, hoping her knees would carry her and the sting behind her eyes would wait.
CHAPTER 8
Sunday, October 26
And so it begins, he thought as he sipped the scalding-hot tea.
The front-page headline belonged on the National Enquirer and not a newspaper as respectable as the Omaha Journal. From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community with Boy’s Recent Murder. It was almost as hysterical as yesterday’s headline, but, of course, today’s large Sunday edition would attract more readers.
The byline was Christine Hamilton again. He recognized the name from the “Living Today” section. Why would they give the story to a newcomer, a rookie?
Quickly, he turned the pages, searching for the rest of the story which continued on page ten, column one. The entire page was filled with connecting articles. There was a school photo of the boy. Beside it ran an in-depth saga of the boy’s sudden disappearance during his early-morning paper route just a week ago. The article told how the FBI and the boy’s mother had waited for a ransom note that never came. Then, finally, Sheriff Morrelli had found the body in a pasture along the river.
He glanced back at the paragraph. Morrelli? No, this was Nicholas Morrelli, not Antonio. How nice, he thought, for father and son to share the same experience.
The article went on to point out the similarities to the murders of three boys in the same small community over six years ago. And how the bodies, strangled and stabbed to death, had each been discovered days later in different wooded, isolated areas.
The article, however, made no mention of details, no description of the elaborate chest carving. Did the police hope to withhold that evidence again? He shook his head and continued to read.
He used the fillet knife to scoop jelly and spread it on his burnt English muffin. The stupid toaster hadn’t worked right for weeks, but it was better than going down to the kitchen and having breakfast with the others. At least here in his room he could have the solitude of breakfast and the morning paper without the burden of making polite conversation.
The room was very plain, white walls and hardwood floors. The small twin-size bed barely accommodated his six-foot frame. Some nights he found his feet dangling over the end. He had added the small Formica-topped table and two chairs, though he allowed no one to join him. The utility cart in the corner housed the secondhand toaster, a gift from one of the parishioners. There was also a hot plate and kettle that he used for his tea.
On the nightstand stood the most elaborate of his furnishings, an ornate lamp, the base a detailed relief of cherubs and nymphs tastefully arranged. It was one of the few things he had splurged on and purchased for himself with his meager paycheck. That and the three paintings. Of course, he could only afford framed reproductions. They hung on the wall opposite his bed so he could look at