Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

and returned to his shower and washed off the potent smell of his cocktail. He scrubbed for ten minutes before toweling and changing in the locker room, donning Caldwell’s clothing, snug. Head down into the same scarf Caldwell had worn, Lynch exited the Wellness Center through the service entrance to the old car waiting for him.

As it goes in gyms, men came and went. Seeing a shower occupied, they moved onto the next one, none of them aware the hot water they heard within was soaking a corpse. The body of Craig Lewis wasn’t discovered until closing, ten hours later. Rigor mortis made him nearly impossible to move.

38

Jennings was trying and failing to read All This Marvelous Potential, a book about Robert F. Kennedy. Jennings didn’t care a thing for politics but the youngest, quietest, most pious of the Kennedy family fascinated him. RFK didn’t fit with the Kennedy kin and he’d died too young. This was the third book he’d purchased about the man but now the words kept blurring. It was late and he was in bed.

The phone rang. His optimism grabbed onto the hope that it was Daisy.

But, no, it was someone else—Kelly Carson, the attractive, depressed, dog-walking step-daughter of Peter Lynch. Jennings rebuked himself for his accelerated pulse; he was no high school boy pining for a phone call. Without getting up from his bed, Jennings glanced at the time and answered.

“Hello Kelly.”

“You remember me, Dan.”

“Of course.”

“Is this too late? Ahh man, I didn’t know it was that late.”

“No, I’m not sleeping much,” he said.

“Because of Peter? Shit. I shouldn’t have told you that stuff.”

“Somebody should be worried about him. May as well be me.”

Carson made a snickering noise. “That’s wild. That’s a wild way to see life. You’re a do-gooder, huh.”

“Maybe. How’re you?”

“I’m high.”

“On?”

“Usual shit. Plus OxyContin.”

“Not wise, Kelly.”

“I know.”

“I was on opioids for a while.” Jennings was lonely; anxiety was on the prowl and the intimate voice in his ear wasn’t unwelcome and he had no desire to quickly disconnect. Besides maybe he’d learn something useful about Lynch.

If only it’d been Daisy.

“Why?” she said.

“Traumatic injury.”

“But you quit it?”

“Fast as I could.”

“Probably a good idea. Probably a gooooood idea.”

“Life’s hard enough without addictions.”

“You’re a frickin’ Boy Scout, is what you are.”

Jennings adjusted his head on the pillow so the phone could lay beside him unsupported. He laced his hands over his stomach. “I read a lot too. How lame am I.”

“Deep down all I want,” said Carson, “is for a tall handsome guy who reads to love me the rest of my life. So maybe not so lame. But he’s gotta have tattoos and a record, so you’re out. You’re out.”

Jennings had tattoos. But he kept quiet about it.

“I’m calling…” she said. “I bet you’re wondering why. This isn’t a drunk dial.”

“Sounds like it is.”

“I mean…kinda, but not really. I didn’t know who else to call. And when we talked you seemed, you know, trust wordy.”

“Trustworthy.”

“Shut up,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“So if this isn’t a drunk dial, what is it?”

“I stress about Peter. I think he’s outside my window. He’s not, but I think he is. Like he’s everywhere. So I just wondered…wondered if you were still chasing him.”

“I am. And getting nowhere.”

“Has he hurt anyone?”

Yes, my friend Daisy. Scared the hell out of her in the backseat of a car.

“No,” said Jennings.

“That’s good. That’s good. And Benji? He’s okay?”

“As far as I know. Maybe you can help. I talked to Kabir Patel, the journalist. He mentioned some girls went missing in California. Do you know anything about that?”

“Normally I’d hang up,” she said, “but, Dan, I’m high. Drunk and high, caution to the wind. So here goes. I suspect Peter kills prostitutes who anger him.”

Carson had trouble with the word suspect. Sounded like suptect.

“Why do you suspect that?”

“Cause he’s a psycho.”

Sociopath, more likely.

“He had whores, Daniel. Maybe not whores but stupid girls. Maybe both. He didn’t hide them after my mom moved into a different bedroom. He couldn’t kill my mom but he could kill the whores.”

“You think he’s a serial killer?”

“No. No because I looked it up once. A series… a serial killer does a bunch because he has to, does it the same way over and over, and maybe for no reason, I think? Peter does it cause he gets angry. He likes to discs…discipline. But he’s no idiot, he knew my mom would be missed, knew I would be missed, but the whores? Some of them, illegal aliens or trafficked girls, no one would miss them. Or, I mean, no one could do anything about it if they were. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

“Do you have proof?” said Jennings.

“Nope. I got nothing except OxyContin and Xanax and Cymbalta.”

“Do you know anything about a field?”

“Nnnnnope. What about a field?”

“I don’t know. I’m lost.”

“Oh man, listen, I gotta go,” she said.

“That was quick.”

"My Sonata is kicking in.”

“What’s that?”

“A pill. For sleeping.”

“You’re on too many meds, Kelly.”

“And you have a sexy voice, Daniel. Want to talk dirty while I go to sleep?”

“Maybe next time.”

“Right but call me again. Tell me how…” Pause for a throaty yawn. “…how it’s going. Because I’d feel better… if I didn’t think he was out my window.”

“You bet.”

She said, “I really hope…you’re okay…” Based on her noises, Carson fell into sleep then. She said something else but it was gibberish and her breaths deepened. Daniel didn’t hang up. Her breathing was a comfort. Like he wasn’t alone. He didn’t disconnect because the sound made him feel better.

“I’m losing my mind,” he whispered to himself.

39

Francis Lynch strode through the Roanoke County Police station like a wraith, pale and other, not checking his pace at the front desk. The cops knew who he was, the judge of 23rd Judicial Court; they watched him pass silently and they shared glances freighted with meaning.

Francis knocked on an office in the back and Chief Gibbs looked up over his reading glasses. He’d been peering at something on his computer