beginning. The Sandpoint Strangler was the biggest case he ever worked, too, and the most frustrating. He felt as though they’d come within inches of unraveling the whole mystery—only to have Ellis Purcell check out before they could hit pay dirt. When the killings stopped and the case went cold, the task force disbanded and the police naturally changed their focus to finding those rapists and murderers who were still living and breathing and capable of violence. Caleb had given up the search then, too. But he’d never stopped wondering how, exactly, the strange Mr. Purcell had managed to kill so many women and dump their bodies in such public places without leaving more of a trail. He’d since done several books about murderers: on Angel Maturino Resendiz, who was convicted of murdering a Houston woman but was linked by confessions and evidence to at least twelve other killings nationwide. On Robert L. Yates, Jr., who admitted to fifteen murders, and Aileen Wuornos, a female serial killer convicted of murdering six men while working as a prostitute along highways in central Florida. Or Jeffrey Dahmer, who’d been convicted of seventeen homicides, most in Milwaukee. Caleb had written several other books, as well, mostly isolated cases where a husband killed his wife for the insurance, or a wife killed the man who’d been cheating on her. Whoever did the killing always took a significant misstep somewhere.
But not Ellis Purcell.
“Holly told me something at the airport that’s bothered me ever since,” he said.
“What’s that?” his mother asked.
“Ellis Purcell’s grave was disturbed the night before I arrived.”
“I read that in the paper.”
“I’m wondering how whoever it was found out where he was buried.”
His mother twisted the clasp of the necklace she was wearing around to the back. “Maybe someone in the family let it slip.”
“Maybe,” he said, jingling the change in the pocket of his chinos. But when he remembered Madison Lieberman and her mother, and how staunchly they’d supported Ellis throughout the whole affair, he doubted they’d revealed anything at all.
T HAT AFTERNOON Caleb pulled his rental car, a silver-and-black convertible Mustang, in front of 433 Old Beachview Road, the small brick house that corresponded with the address Detective Gibbons had given him for Madison Lieberman. Then he bent his head to look at the place through the passenger-side window.
It was small but charming, not unlike Langley, the closest town, which boasted the highest density of bed-and-breakfasts, country inns and guest cottages in the state. An arched entry covered with primroses partially concealed the front windows. But he didn’t see activity anywhere, and there weren’t any cars in the drive. Chances were Madison wasn’t home.
The dull-gray mist that shrouded the island made it seem much later than midafternoon. Caleb glanced at the digital clock on his dash to see that it was just after three, close to the time school let out, and wondered if he should wait. When he’d still been researching her father’s case a couple of years ago, Madison had been working as a Realtor and living in a house not far from Bill Gates’s mansion on Mercer Island. But Detective Gibbons had told him this morning that she and her husband had split and Danny Lieberman had bought her out. Now she owned a small real estate company with office space only a few miles away, in Clinton.
Caleb parked next to a stand of pine trees and got out to have a look around. He’d never approached Madison Lieberman in person before. When he was an officer on the task force, he was new enough that he’d been relegated to the work least likely to bring him in contact with her. And since he’d quit the department and started writing full-time, he’d seen too many news clips of Madison turning her face resolutely away from the camera, read too many comments spoken in defense of her father, to harbor any illusions that she might be willing to cooperate with him. But, using his pseudonym, he had sent her, as well as Danny, several letters over the years. Danny had responded a time or two, but it quickly became apparent that he didn’t have the answers Caleb needed. Madison had finally replied by threatening him with a restraining order if he so much as tried to speak with her.
He hoped she didn’t feel quite so strongly about the issue now that her father was dead.
Shoving his keys in his pocket, he strode up the walk. The yard was generally well-kept but had once known a more diligent hand; he could tell that right away. A couple of hummingbird feeders and a birdbath sat in a meticulously tended herb garden off to the right, but the trees and shrubs everywhere else were overgrown and the grass was a little too long. What with being a single mom and trying to run a small business, Madison probably didn’t have the time or money to maintain what had been in place before she came here. No doubt money was the reason for the For Rent sign Caleb saw attached to the small cottage at the side of the main house.
For rent… He hesitated briefly at the arch before changing direction and heading toward what had once been a garage. It was renovated now. Through a mullioned window exactly like those in the main house, he could see a studio apartment, complete with kitchen-living room, a single bedroom and a bath. A brown wicker couch with giant yellow-and-blue cushions faced a television in the large main room, which had a wooden floor and lots of rugs. A chair that matched the couch and the drapes sat off to the side, next to a rack of magazines. White cupboards lined the kitchen in the corner, which contained a round wooden table with plaid place mats in the same blue and yellow as the couch and drapes.
He could see only a slice of the bedroom and bath through two open doorways, but he could tell the bedroom was furnished with a four-poster bed, a fluffy down comforter and more pillows—these in red, white and blue. The bathroom had an old-style sink with brass fixtures.
He liked the place, he realized. It had the sort of country charm his mother had taught him to appreciate.
Taking a narrow path that led through the herb garden, he crossed over to the main house, where he saw a similar decorating theme. Madison’s home wasn’t quite as light and airy as the garage, certainly not as new, but it had a warm, cozy atmosphere.
The sound of a car pulling up made Caleb jerk away from the window and start toward the drive.
A petite woman he recognized as Madison Lieberman jumped out of a Toyota Camry as soon as she cut the engine. “Oh, my gosh! I never dreamed you’d beat me here,” she exclaimed, obviously flushed from hurrying. A thin, strawberry-blond girl got out much more slowly, clinging to an old stuffed rabbit. “The ferry must be moving quickly today.”
Caleb hadn’t taken the ferry. He’d come south over Deception Pass from Fidalgo Island, which was due north. But he didn’t correct her. He was enjoying the warmth of this reception—especially when he compared it to the “Get off my property” he’d most likely receive the moment he identified himself as the crime writer who’d contacted her before.
“Did you peek in the windows?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Actually, I did.”
“I think you’d be very comfortable here.”
Madison was much more attractive in person. Maybe it was because this was the first time Caleb had ever seen her smile. Only five foot four or so, she had a gymnast’s body, which made him believe she stayed active, and almond-shaped brown eyes. Her hair was auburn—not his favorite color—but it looked soft and swayed gently around her chin in a stylish cut. And other than a few freckles sprinkled across her nose, her complexion was smooth and slightly golden.
“I know you’re worried about privacy,” she was saying, “but we’d never bother you. It’s quiet here.”
