Dead Wrong. Janice Kay Johnson
instinctive alarm, Beth emerged from the home office at the back of the house, but Will, who had reached the front hall before her, said, “Let me find out who it is.”
Through the peephole he saw the dark green of sheriff’s department uniforms. His sense of disorientation returned. Gillian?
But when he opened the door, it was his mother he found on the porch, along with another officer. A young woman who appeared vaguely familiar.
“Mom?”
Her face looked drawn, her eyes tired. “Will, I need to talk to you.”
He backed up. Cold air rushed in with them. Or maybe the chill was inside him.
“Hi, Beth.” Mom tried to smile.
“Meg.” Beth pressed a hand to her breast. “Is everything all right? It’s not Jack?”
“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. No, everybody in the family is fine.”
But somebody, Will diagnosed, wasn’t fine. Somebody Will knew, or she wouldn’t be here.
The wife of a cop, Beth knew, too. She looked Will’s mother over with an experienced eye. “Can I get you coffee? Better yet, a bite to eat? I’ll bet you haven’t stopped, have you?”
“I’m fine…” Meg stopped. She gave a faint laugh. “Actually, I’m starved. A snack would be great, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Don’t be silly.” Beth shooed them towards the living room. “Coming right up.”
His mother pulled off her gloves, then began to shrug out of her coat. He took it and the other cop’s, too, and hung them on the tree near the front door.
He took a few steps into the living room, then stopped. “What’s up?”
“Detective Giallombardo, this is my son Will. Will, Trina Giallombardo. You may remember her from school.”
“You look familiar,” he admitted.
“I was a couple of years behind you.”
That would explain it. By his junior and senior years, he and his friends hadn’t been interested in lower classmen. Maybe a really hot girl. This Trina hadn’t been that. So he’d probably passed her in the hall without ever really focusing on her face.
“Detective Giallombardo,” he acknowledged, then faced his mother. “Tell me.”
“A girl you dated in high school was found murdered today.”
A sound escaped him. A profanity, maybe. He reached out and gripped the back of the leather chair.
“Who?”
“Amy Owen.”
He’d expected… He didn’t know who he’d expected. But not Amy.
“We only went out three or four times.”
“That’s what Detective Giallombardo thought.”
This woman he didn’t know, who had been two years behind him in school, was suddenly an expert on his life?
“You’re well-informed.”
Her returning gaze was expressionless. “You were the big guy in school. People talked.”
His irritation vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Amy. My God.”
“Sit,” his mother ordered.
“Here’s coffee,” Beth said behind him.
He sank into the chair, soul-sick. On the job, he dealt in murder often, but not the murder of people he knew. Only with Gillian had he experienced firsthand the horror and grief family and friends felt.
Amy Owen, pretty, not smart but sweet.
“I saw her last week,” he said.
“What?” Hand outstretched for a cup of coffee she hadn’t yet picked up from the tray, his mother turned.
“I saw her.” Jeez, he wished he hadn’t. He wished Amy Owen was no more than a hazy memory. “She was at J.R.’s when I went there with Gavin and Travis.” No surprise—the sports bar was a favorite hangout for locals. “She was with Jody Cox. Remember her? And a friend of hers, a newcomer.”
“Another woman?”
He saw what she was getting at. “Yeah, a woman. Karin. Don’t remember the last name. I have her phone number if you want it.”
Will saw a fleeting expression of…something cross Trina Giallombardo’s face. Another time he might have wondered at it. Right now, he was too wrapped up in the image of Amy jumping from the bar stool to wave at him.
“Will! Will! Over here. Wow! Hi!”
He guessed he’d flirted with her a little bit, because she’d been flirting with him, but it was her friend’s phone number he’d quietly asked for before the women announced they were calling it a night.
His mother sat on the couch facing him. “Did she tell you she’s divorced?”
“Yeah. Actually, her ex came in, too. Didn’t look real happy to see her with a bunch of guys.”
“Did he say anything?”
Will shook his head. “That’s just my impression. He came over and she introduced him. He was polite.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“Not that I saw.” His mother was interrogating him, he realized. She’d even flipped her notebook open. The coffee and toasted sandwiches Beth had made sat untouched on the table.
Her gaze was sharp on him. He could see her brain humming. “Did he stay around?”
“Uh…I don’t really know.” He frowned. “Wait. I did see him a little later. Maybe half an hour.” Appalled, he said, “You don’t think…”
“We don’t think anything yet. No, he’s unlikely. This didn’t look like a crime of passion. Someone who’d loved her, however angry he was, would have felt remorse, regret. Treated her body with more respect.”
“Was it a bad one?” Will asked quietly.
His mother looked older than she had since—damn, since he’d aged her with his accusations and wild rage.
“Yeah. Will…”
He wasn’t going to like what was coming. Aware of both women watching him, he braced himself and waited.
“We have a copycat. Will, this looked like Gillian’s murder.”
He lurched to his feet. “What do you mean?”
She rose, too. “I mean it could have been the same killer. The body was left in the same condition.”
An image of Gilly’s body flashed before his eyes. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “Was she raped?”
His mother’s expression was compassionate. “Yes.”
In some part of his mind, he noted that Trina Giallombardo’s dark eyes were only watchful. If she felt pity, suspicion, dislike, sympathy, she didn’t show it.
“Strangled with a jockstrap?”
“Yes.”
He wheeled away to stand with his back to the women. He was panting as if he’d sprinted the last half mile of his daily run. Sweating. Sick. Gilly, oh Gilly. The women’s faces overlay like a double exposure, both blond and fine-boned. Not Gilly, he thought. Not this time. Instead, some sick son of a bitch had raped and tortured pretty, sweet Amy Owen, then left her body as if she were a whore. Garbage.
“Who?” he asked, voice guttural.
His mother sounded grim. “We’ll find out.”
“Was