Excerpt: Two Can Play
Book 2: Audrey Harte Series
Ian Monroe didn’t look like a serial killer.
Audrey Harte stared at the mugshot in Monroe’s file. He didn’t have a vacant expression like Gacy or Bundy’s crazy eyes. He didn’t have that 70s gay-porn star look like Dahmer, or the full-on nut job vibe of Ramirez. He looked preppy and stylish — smart, like he was posing for his high-school senior class photo.
In fact, Monroe had only been out high school for two months when he was arrested for the murders of five girls in Portland, Maine. The yearbook, in which he wore a smile much like the one in his mugshot, had been dedicated to the memories of four of his victims. He’d gone to their funerals, the little prick.
Someone (a reporter) had given him the title of Maine’s youngest — and most handsome — serial killer — like it added prestige to the violence done by the then seventeen year-old. Monroe, a fairly textbook psychopath, didn’t need his ego stroked by being singled out. Like most psychopaths, he already believed himself superior to most of the world. As a subject of study, he was fascinating. As a human-being he was one of the worst.
He was finally going to trial, and the prosecution had asked Audrey to be an expert witness. They said it was because she was from Maine and understood the people there — that she would be invaluable in helping select jurists, but when a tabloid magazine ran a photo of her next to one of Monroe with the caption ‘Killer Doc to take on ‘Boyscout’ Monroe at trial’, she wondered if the D.A. wasn’t trying to stir up some publicity of his own.
If someone had told her when she was in college that having committed murder when she was 13 would actually make her professionally desirable, Audrey wouldn’t have believed it. But, with the murder of her former best friend, and partner in crime, Maggie Jones that summer, Audrey’s past had bit her on the ass so hard she still had a bruise. She didn’t like to think about Maggie, or the particulars of her murder, but she couldn’t deny it was partly responsible for her now having her own office at The Beharrie Centre. Her boss, Angeline Beharrie, had put her in charge of the East Coast location — a position in which she felt like a fraud at 32. And she was well aware that there were those at the centre who didn’t think she deserved the promotion.
Which meant she was going to have to prove that she did deserve it. She might be slightly notorious, but she loved her job, and worked hard at it. She was going to do everything she could to make sure the prosecution’s case against Monroe was air-tight.
A knock on her office door — which was open — made her lift her head. It was Lauralyn, who ran the front desk and handled appointments, calendars, and client concerns for the clinical psychologists in the office. Basically, no one there would know what to do without her. She was forty-something with curly blonde hair and a youthful, round face. She smiled as she stuck her head in.
“It’s two o’clock.”
Audrey glanced at the clock on the wall. She’d asked Lauralyn to remind her that she wanted to leave early. Traffic around Boston was horrible at the best of times, and she didn’t want to turn a three and a half-hour drive into five by being stupid enough to leave at rush hour.
“Thanks,” she said, closing the folder. “I’m staying at that B and B in Rockland, right?” It wasn’t far from Warren, where Ian Monroe was incarcerated, and a hour and a half from Portland, where the murders had taken place.
“Yep. I emailed you details and the Google map, and here’s your travel mug.” She set the tall mug on the desk. “The coffee’s fresh and I added that Italian Sweet Cream that you like.”
Fetching coffee wasn’t part of Lauralyn’s job, she was just that nice. “You are an angel,” Audrey told her with a grin.
The older woman winked. “I’ll remind you that you said that at my review. Safe travels, and good luck in Portland.” Then she left the office.
Audrey stood, gathering up Monroe’s file along with several others, and the binder in which she kept her notes. Her hand hesitated over the latest People magazine that had an article on Ian and the victim who escaped him, leading to his arrest. The writer spoke in depth to Victoria Scott — ‘The One That Got Away’— and several other people close to the case. Since a good part of her involvement in the trial consisted of assessments and interviews, the article would be a good one to have as a reference. Plus, it mentioned her. Audrey tossed it in her leather computer bag before slipping her laptop inside as well.
She slipped into her dark red peacoat and wrapped her scarf around her neck before slinging her bags over her shoulder and grabbing her coffee. She turned down the heat, shut off the lights and locked the door behind her.
The clinic was located in Cambridge, a bit of a walk from Harvard. Angeline chose the five story building for its location, and for the fact that its red brick facade was both academic and inviting. The first time Audrey had seen it, she thought it looked like money, and vaguely pretentious, but she wasn’t the one paying the rent. She had to admit though, it was a nice place to work.
And she had been working. A lot. Mostly to avoid going home. And because her work enabled her to continually psychoanalyze herself without anyone noticing. Of all the killers, violent offenders, and victims she’d interviewed, the workings of her own mind was what confounded her most.
She had a reserved spot in the parking garage attached to the building via a covered walkway, which helped her avoid the damp cold that had settled over the city for the last couple of days. As she approached, she hit the remote starter for her Prius so it would be nice and warm when she got in. Jake had laughed at her for getting the remote, but he hated to wear shoes, even in the winter, so obviously he was a freak of nature. A guy with that little body fat should not be warm all the time.
The drive to Rockland was uneventful except for the thermometer dipping a couple of degrees the further north she drove. In another couple of weeks it would be Halloween. She remembered it would sometimes snow while trick or treating as a kid.
After more than a decade in California, she wasn’t prepared for a New England winter. Hell, she wasn’t even prepared for fall.
It was getting dark when she pulled into the B&B’s drive. Hers was the only car in guest parking. This place probably did extremely well in the summer given it’s picturesque view of the water. The trees had turned color, and most of them still had an abundance of leaves. It might be colder than LA, but the air was clean, and it was a hell of a lot prettier. Not that LA didn’t have its moments.
Pulling her coat closed, Audrey got her bags out of the back seat and locked the car.
The door was opened by a smiling woman who looked to be in her sixties. “You must be Audrey.”
“I am.” She returned the smile. “Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Indeed. Come on in. It’s going to be a nippy night, I think.”
Audrey stepped inside. The interior was very English country-side — plush and rich but inviting. And was that roast beef she smelled? And apple pie? Her stomach growled.
Mrs. Fletcher showed her the dining room and common areas before taking her up to her room. Decorated in shades of plum, cream and dark green, it had the same relaxed opulence of the rest of the house. It had its own bathroom as well, complete with large, claw-foot soaker tub. Much better than staying in a cheap hotel.
“It’s lovely,” she told Mrs. Fletcher. “Do you suppose I could trouble you for some ice and directions to the nearest good restaurant?”
“I can bring you an ice bucket. And you needn’t worry about going out again after your long drive. If you like roast beef, I’ll bring you up a tray of our dinner. I always make too much.”
The inherent kindness of this part of the world always surprised her, even though she’d grown up with it. As a kid though, it always seemed intrusive, and was counter-balanced with the nosiness and gossip-mongering of small town life. “That’s very kind of you. If it’s no trouble, I’ll take you up on it.”
Mrs. Fletcher smiled. “No trouble at all! It’s so nice to have someone else in the house. Did I hear that you’re part of the prosecution against Ian Monroe?”
Audrey froze as she set her bags near the bed. And there was the flip-side of small-town hospitality. “Yes.” She met the woman’s pale blue gaze. “I am.”
All the mirth drained from Mrs. Fletcher’s round face. “Terrible business. Do you actually have to see him? Is that why you’re here?”
Was there any harm in being honest? Audrey couldn’t tell, but she also couldn’t think of how this nice woman could possibly make trouble for her since she would be leaving the next day. “Yes. I’ll be interviewing him tomorrow.”
Graying curls bobbed as she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I’m going to bring you a slice of pie as well. Do you like ice cream?”
Do bears shit in the woods? The voice of her father rang in Audrey’s head. “I do. Thank you.”
The older woman’s smile returned just before she closed the door, leaving Audrey alone. She took her toiletries from her overnight bag and set them in the bathroom. Then, she took her suit for the next day out of her garment bag and hung it up. It was simple and well-cut and had cost more than some people made in a week. It had been a worthy investment, though. With a crisp white shirt she looked professional, put-together and slightly intimidating, but not like she was trying too hard. She called it her ‘Grosse Pointe Blank’ suit, because when she wore it, she felt like John Cusack’s character from the film in it.
She had just kicked off her boots and taken off her coat when Mrs. Fletcher returned with a tray bearing dinner, a bucket of ice and a bouquet of flowers. Audrey quickly took the heavy tray from her and set it on the small table near the window.
“I forgot that those were delivered for you earlier today,” the older woman told her, her face a little flushed from carrying the tray up an entire flight of stairs.
Audrey checked the flowers. “Really?” No one but work and Jake knew where she was staying. “They’re very pretty.” Actually, white roses always made her think of funerals, but they still smelled nice.
Mrs. Fletcher looked disappointed that she hadn’t opened the card. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Just leave the tray outside the door and I’ll collect it later.”
After thanking the woman once again, Audrey put the bottle of wine she’d brought with her in the bucket of ice, and sat down to eat. It was as delicious as it smelled — and way too much food. Cooks in Maine seemed to operate under the thought that every meal was for a lumberjack — or a teenage boy.
When she finished the last bite of pie and melting vanilla ice cream, she set the tray on a table outside her room and went back to the flowers. There was a small card inside a white envelope. She opened it.
Looking forward to playing with you.
What the hell? That wasn’t cryptic or creepy at all.
The card wasn’t signed, but the phone number for the florist was embossed in silver on the bottom. They could be from Jake. Though, she couldn’t imagine him writing something so cheesy, or picking white roses as a gift. He had more color to him than that, and he’d probably go for something more exotic.
Like a carnivorous plant. A pretty one. And he’d tell her it reminded him of her.
Audrey smiled at the thought of him, even though her stomach fluttered like a hive of neurotic bees. It wasn’t a new sensation. Jake Tripp had fascinated her, scared her, and held a firm grip on her heart for almost twenty years. They’d been friends for even longer. His grandmother, Gracie, had appointed herself Audrey’s fairy godmother even before she and Maggie had been arrested for killing Clint Jones. Audrey wouldn’t be where she was if not for Gracie. God only knew how she might have turned out.
She ran a bath and called Jake while the tub filled.
“Are you in Rockland?” He asked when he picked up. The sound of his slightly scratchy voice loosened her muscles more than any bath ever could. He was like her grounding wire. Always had been.
“Yeah. Got here a little while ago. Hey, did you send me flowers?”
There was a pause. “No. Was I supposed to?”
“No. But the owner gave me a bouquet that had been delivered earlier with my name on them.”
“What did the card say?”
Now she was the one who hesitated.
“Aud?”
“It said ‘looking forward to playing with you’.”
“That combination of words would never find its way out of my mouth.” He sounded offended that she’d even asked.
“I didn’t think so, but I wanted to ask before I let paranoia set in.”
“You think someone related to the Monroe case is trying to unsettle you?”
“I don’t know. At least I know they didn’t come from Monroe. I can’t imagine they let you send flowers from prison.”
“He could have paid someone to do it. It’s a classic taunt.”
Oh, shit. “Not helping with that paranoia.”
“You want me to tell you it’s nothing? That you’re imagining things?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t do it. It’s weird, and you should look into it. You should also tell the prosecution. Take a photo of the flowers and the card.” He sounded concerned, but not freaked-out, which was exactly the right reaction to make her feel the same.
“I will.” She took a corkscrew from her bag and opened the bottle of wine. “You still want me to stay at your place this weekend?” Though she spent most of her time in Edgeport at his house, she did occasionally stay with her parents. She trusted him to tell her if he didn’t want her around, but after years of being hung up on him, the reality of being with him seemed… tenuous.
“You get a better offer?”
She smiled at his teasing tone. “No.”
“You just want to hear me say it, is that it?”
“Would it kill you?”
He laughed. “Yes, Aud, I want you to stay with me. It would fair render me distraught if your boots found their way under someone else’s bed.”
Audrey’s brow pulled as she poured wine into one of the glasses on the table.. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Gran used to say it to Gramps when he accused her of trying to get rid of him.”
Gracie and Mathius Tripp had one of those loves that they made movies about. The sort that ran down to their bones and even death couldn’t shake. “Good thing I wore boots, then.”
They talked for a little while longer and then hung up. He hadn’t said he loved her and neither had she. There was a small part of her that wanted to say it — wanted to hear it — but deep inside she already knew it. She and Jake had loved each other since they’d been kids, long before either of them knew what romantic love was.
After plugging her phone into the charger, Audrey took a photo of both flowers and note, sent each to Will Grant, the prosecuting attorney, and then headed for the bath with her glass of wine. She soaked for almost an hour before getting out, her skin gone pruney. After drying off, she slipped into a t-shirt and pajama pants, and slathered on her nightly skin care before climbing into bed with her tablet and another glass of wine. She read for a couple of hours before deciding to call it a night.
But before she went to sleep, she climbed out of bed, picked up the vase of roses and put the creepy arrangement on the table in the hall. They were not going to be the last thing she saw before going to sleep, and they sure as hell weren’t going to be the first thing she saw in the morning before heading to Maine State Prison to interview its most dangerous inmate.