Three Days to Forever (A Mac Faraday Mystery Book 9) Page 5

  “Implied,” Mac said. “But not enough for a restraining order. I already checked with Willingham. It’s not enough. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

  “Is there any chance that his wife was innocent?” David asked.

  “No way,” Mac said. “Leigh Ann was a number-one manipulative little witch. Russell Dooley is one of those pitiful men who you look at and wonder how he could ever get a date. He considered himself lucky to get this attractive woman. She was thrilled to have a man so blind with love that he couldn’t see what a sociopath she was.”

  “Sounds like they were made for each other.”

  “How these people find each other, I don’t know,” Mac said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Dooley believed every single lie. They were married for fifteen years and had a daughter. Well, one day, Leigh Ann decided to stop watching daytime television and hit the gym, where she hired a private trainer.”

  David held up his hand. “Don’t tell me.”

  Mac nodded his head. “His name was Harris Tyler. He was as bad a liar as Leigh Ann.”

  David took his police uniform out of the closet and draped it across a chair. “I guess things didn’t end well.”

  “Compared to Russell, Harris Tyler was Brad Pitt.” Mac shrugged his shoulders. “Leigh Ann became very possessive of her lover.”

  David took a pair of boxer shorts from a dresser drawer and put them on. “She didn’t want to share?”

  “Exactly,” Mac said. “Tyler was a player. From what I found out, he seduced practically every woman he trained. For him, it was all a game. Leigh Ann found out about his long line of other women, and she stabbed him twenty-nine times while he was taking a shower. We got her blood on the floor, in the shower, and in the sink where she cleaned up. She had left the murder weapon with her blood on the handle at the scene. She had a cut from the knife on her hand. We got her DNA—everything. No question about it.”

  Seeing where Mac was going, David nodded his head. He had seen it so many times. “But since Russell was blindly devoted to her, he couldn’t blame her for what she did. He had to blame you for catching her.” He took his black uniform pants from the hanger and stepped into them.

  “She told Russell that I framed her,” Mac said, “and he believed her. Three weeks ago, when it became clear that she was going to spend the rest of her life in jail, she killed herself and Russell blames me for her death.”

  After zipping up his pants, David sat on the bed next to him. “Now he wants to give you payback by taking Archie from you.”

  “I can’t lose Archie,” Mac said in a low voice brimming with determination.

  Mac’s tone made David fear what would happen if he failed to stop Russell Dooley in whatever he may have planned. “I promise I won’t let that happen.” He patted Mac on the shoulder. “Why am I finding out about this now? You should have come to me three weeks ago.”

  “I was hoping the card was an idle threat made in the heat of his grief.”

  “Obviously, it’s not.”

  Mac showed him the picture as a reminder. “He got this close to Archie.”

  David stood up. “Does she know?”

  Mac stood up. “No, and I don’t want her to know.”

  “She has a right—”

  “This is the huge fairy tale wedding that her family has always dreamed about,” Mac said. “She is the baby of the family and the only girl. I’m not going to have it ruined by everyone being afraid that some psychopath is going to wreak his revenge by destroying it.” He grasped David’s shoulders. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. Do you think some of your officers who have taken off for the holiday would be willing to earn some extra money by working security up through the wedding?”

  “I’ll ask them.” David took a white long-sleeved shirt off the hanger, shouldered into it, and buttoned it up while forming his plan of attack. “I’ll let Bogie know what’s going on. Since he’s walking Archie down the aisle, he’ll consider it his duty to act as her bodyguard. She won’t even be suspicious about him hanging around.”

  David took the picture from Mac. “In the meantime, I’ll find Russell Dooley and have a man-to-man talk with him.”

  Mac was pleased with the police chief’s plan of action. “I think he’s staying at the Beaver Dam Motel in Accident.”

  Startled, David turned to him.

  “Do you know the place?” Mac asked. “I never heard of it.”

  “It’s an old run-down motel in the woods along the creek, located way back off the main road,” David said. “It’s usually used by hunters. It makes the Bates Motel in Psycho look like the Spencer Inn. Why would he stay there? Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “The picture he left had that return address,” Mac said. “I’m thinking he wants me to know where he is so that I’ll go see him … at which point he will jack me up to throw a punch at him so he can charge me with assault.”

  “Good for you, Mac.” David smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re not so emotional about all this that you can’t see what he’s doing. Most men in your position would think with their fists and end up on the wrong end of an assault charge and a civil suit.”

  “I was a police officer and detective for over twenty-five years,” Mac said. “I’ve seen most of the tricks.”

  David took the picture and slapped it into his own hand. “Well, this is one trick that won’t work. I’ll go see Dooley and suggest in a nice calm manner that it would be wise for him to shake off his grief and walk away from all this before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for,” Mac said with a sigh of relief. “I’ll be so glad when this week is over.”

  “All I care about is everyone getting through this wedding alive and safe.” David buckled his utility belt with his service weapon around his hips.

  Chapter Three

  Accident, Maryland

  David wasn’t certain, but he suspected that the hollow along the creek where the Beaver Dam Motel rested wasn’t part of McHenry because the town didn’t want it.

  The run-down establishment couldn’t be considered a roadside motel. The road along which it rested had practically been abandoned since traffic had taken to the interstate back in the 1950s and 60s.

  Settled next to a stream that fed into Deep Creek Lake five miles away, Beaver Dam Motel was made up of eight run-down cottages and a main cabin for guests to register in—when they had guests. As David pulled up to the registration office, he could see evidence that five of the cabins appeared to have become permanent residences for a host of seedy looking characters who resembled something out of a movie about the Hatfields and McCoys.

  Even in a foot and a half of snow, and with the temperature dipping into the single digits, four men who were dressed in snow camouflage and bearing hunting rifles were sitting on the porch of the main cabin. Two young boys who didn’t look old enough to be teenagers were target shooting with new crossbows. Both were slightly built. Exceedingly tall and lanky, one boy resembled a string puppet with his long bony arms and legs. Two women who resembled Russian refugees in their layers of heavy mismatched clothes and thick boots served their men hot egg sandwiches on paper plates.

  Kind of cold outside for a picnic, isn’t it?

  Seeing the police cruiser, the men rose to their feet. The women stopped in mid-motion to regard the man climbing out of the driver’s seat in a police chief uniform and coat.

  The boys stopped shooting and turned to face David, who kept his hand on the gun he had unclipped from its holster. Then, he saw them both lower the arrows that had been pointed in the police chief’s general direction.

  “Good morning,” David called out to them in a cheerful tone, which he did not feel. “How are you this chilly wintry morning?”

  As if they didn’t know the answer to his question, the women and children regarded the men, who sa
id nothing.

  David directed his attention to the youngsters. “Was Santa Claus good to you this year?”

  “There’s no such thing as Santa Claus,” one of the boys replied in a jeering tone.

  “A little out of your jurisdiction, ain’t you, Officer?” A tall, scrawny man with a weathered face called from the porch. With both hands, he held his hunting rifle across his chest while moving to the porch railing.

  “Chief,” David corrected him. “I’m David O’Callaghan, the chief of police for Spencer, Maryland.”

  “So you’re the sheriff of Nottingham for the five percent who look down their noses at the rest of us,” the scrawny man chuckled.

  “I’m not here to make any trouble.” David held up his hands in submission. “I’m here to look for someone who had sent a package with a return address of this motel. Russell Dooley. If you could please tell me where I could find him, I’ll just have a word with him, and then I’ll leave and you can all go about your business. That’s all.”

  Wordlessly, the women regarded the men. The three men who had said nothing seemed to relax, while the loud one continued to eye David with suspicion. His grip on the rifle seemed to tighten.

  Keeping a close eye on him, David laid his hand on his own service weapon.

  “Russell Dooley has been staying here for the last week,” one of the women blurted out. “He’s really weird, but he keeps to himself. He paid us in cash—up front for a month.” She pointed to the cabin located far to the rear of the row of cabins. “He’s in cabin number eight.” She then added, “I hope that money wasn’t stolen. You’re not going to want it back if it is, are you? We bought Christmas presents for the kids with it.”

  Clutching the crossbows tighter, the boys’ eyes widened in fright.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” David said with a nod of his head. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” He offered a reassuring smile to the youngsters.

  “Do you have a warrant?” The skinny guy raised his rifle up to his chest.

  “Don’t be a jackass, Gil,” one of the men answered before David could reply. “He don’t need no warrant just to talk to the guy. Now put that rifle down before you shoot yourself in the ass.”

  To add fuel to the suggestion, one of the other men grabbed the rifle out of Gil’s hands and shoved him into a chair.

  While making his way down the row of cabins, David heard one of the women ordering Gil to eat his sandwich and shut up. “Do you want to spend New Year’s Eve in jail again?”

  Noting that Russell Dooley was from Washington DC, where Mac had been a detective until he had retired, David found his current location odd. If he wanted to be out of the way, there were half a dozen other motels that were nicer and more easily accessible.

  How did Russell Dooley ever find this place?

  At the end of the road on which the Beaver Dam Motel rested, David found cabin number eight. The path leading up to the tiny porch and front door was covered with freshly fallen snow, as was the old faded sedan parked in front of the cabin.

  David waded through the several inches of snow to the cabin door and knocked. Over his shoulder, he could see the two boys, wielding their crossbows, watching him with wide-eyed curiosity. He shot them a smile and nodded his head. “Be careful with those crossbows, boys. Hate for there to be an accident.”

  Unsure if they wanted to challenge the armed police chief, they backed away.

  “Do you think he’s a serial killer?” David heard the shorter boy asked the other in what was supposed to be a whisper.

  “He does keep to himself,” the lanky one answered with the air of knowing about such things. “All serial killers are loners. Everyone knows that.” He lowered his voice to an eerie-sounding whisper. “Last night, I heard screaming—probably his latest victim.”

  “Who? There’s no one out here for him to kill.”

  “Some guy came to visit him last night,” the older boy said. “After dark. I saw him. I’ll bet they find his body buried under the cabin.”

  They went back to hide behind the cabin next door in order to watch the police chief who had come to question one of their guests.

  Visitor? Screaming? With a shake of his head, David recalled an older childhood friend who used to spin stories to scare him. Smiling at how it worked, too, he knocked once more and waited for an answer. “Mr. Dooley, this is Police Chief David O’Callaghan with the Spencer Police Department. I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if you please?”

  The only sound from inside the cabin was the television blaring one of the morning talk shows offering recipes for holiday leftovers.

  David knocked once more. “I know you’re in there, Mr. Dooley. Can you please answer the door?”

  No answer.

  Glancing around to see if anyone besides the boys was watching, David tried the doorknob. With one twist of his hand, the door swung open.

  “Mr. Dooley, are you in here?” David stepped into the darkened cabin. “Chief David O’Callaghan from the Spencer Police. Could I have a word with you, please? I’m coming in.”

  The blankets were twisted and ripped from the bed to expose a sheet that looked like it had not been changed in months, if ever. The television was on full blast, and two women on it were shrieking with laughter while offering advice on how to cover up a bulging tummy while dressing scantily for New Year’s Eve.

  The only light in the cabin was provided by a lamp resting on its side on the floor next to the overturned nightstand. Squatting down to examine the lamp, David saw that there was a bloody handprint on the base.

  Laying his hand on his gun, David rose to his feet. “Mr. Dooley?” He turned around to see that the light was on in the bathroom. A brown smear on the wall seemed to act as an arrow for the police chief to follow.

  “Is he a killer? Did you find a dead body?” The boy who had claimed to hear screaming the night before was peering inside through the open doorway. Scared but curious, his friend was hiding behind him.

  Throwing up his hand in a signal to stop, David whirled around. “Don’t come in here! Go out to the road and stay away from the cabin.”

  He didn’t have to ask a second time. Both boys ran like they were being chased by the killer himself.

  After taking his gun out of its holster and aiming it to the floor, David eased to the bathroom, careful not to step on any potential evidence. Dried spots of blood led the way.

  With his finger on the trigger, David slowly opened the door to reveal a tiny bathroom that was barely big enough for an obese motel guest. It was constructed to accommodate nothing more than a small shower/tub, a toilet, and a sink.

  The bathtub rested behind the open door.

  The floor was covered in blood that had overflowed from the tub. The white sink was pink with splotches of blood.

  Stepping carefully so as to not disturb the blood evidence, David tiptoed in to peer around the door into the tub, which contained the body of a man.

  David recognized his face from the picture of the man with his arm around Archie Monday’s waist.

  Russell Dooley.

  Naked, he rested in a tub filled with water stained with his blood. His body was riddled with stab wounds from his neck to his hips and on both arms and legs.

  A steak knife rested on his bare bloody chest.

  David recognized the weapon as one that he had used many times. Its distinctive insignia was stamped on the wooden handle: SI.

  Spencer Inn—the five-star resort owned by Mac Faraday, the man whose wedding Russell Dooley had sworn to ruin.

  Chapter Four

  How many years have I lived here, and I still don’t know where Archie puts the scissors?

  After closing the drawer in the nightstand on his side of the bed, Mac gave up and twisted around to grasp the designer tag hanging from under his armpit. Hopi
ng to not tear a hole in the new blue sweater that his daughter, Jessica, had given him for Christmas, he gave it a sharp tug.

  The tag gave way, but the plastic “do-hickey” that kept it attached to the sweater didn’t.

  Rats!

  From where he was sprawled out in the center of the bed, Gnarly cocked his head at him.

  “I don’t suppose you could bite it off without putting a hole in this sweater, huh, Gnarly?”

  Mac studied the label he had torn off. Dolce & Gabbana. Never heard of them. But if Jessica bought it, it has to be expensive, and she’ll have a fit if I put a hole in it. Mac went into the master bathroom in search of nail clippers.

  Gnarly’s bark, and then his jump between the bed and the door, prompted Mac to forget the do-hickey hanging under his armpit. After grabbing his gun from the drawer in the nightstand, he followed Gnarly down the stairs to the two-story foyer, out the cut-glass front door, and onto the front porch. Mac clutched his weapon behind his back. When Gnarly, sitting at his side, uttered a low growl, Mac tightened his grip and watched the sedan slowly make its way around the circular driveway before coming to a halt at the bottom of the porch steps.

  When the elderly driver stepped out of the car, Mac placed her and the car.

  Agnes Douglas. Archie’s mother.

  No wonder Gnarly had growled. He never had liked her very much … and the feeling was mutual.

  Shoving aside his fears about the safety of Archie, his family, and their friends, Mac forced a wide grin onto his face. After shoving the gun into the back waistband of his pants and covering it up with his sweater, he hurried down the steps to take the white-haired woman into his arms. Like her only daughter, she was petite. She fell two inches short of five feet tall, and Mac had to bend over to hug her. In her heavy dark blue winter coat and thick snow boots, she resembled a blue snow man.

  Shouldn’t she be with Archie and the bridesmaids getting their hair done at the salon? Oh well, Agnes goes and does what she wants when she wants. Best not to question.

  “Agnes, I’m so glad to see you.” Mac clasped her arm, slipped his other arm around her waist, and guided her across the slick ice, up the steps, and inside.