Chapter Thirty-Seven DAWSON

Chapter Thirty-Seven

D AWSON

Friday, July 19, 2024

2:00 a.m.

Dawson sat with his back to the headboard, staring at the flowered wallpaper. Beside him, Margo lay naked, swirling a manicured finger up and down his belly. His gaze skimmed over her body up to her eyes. She was watching him closely. He’d been up late working when she’d texted to tell him she was outside his door.

“What’s that look?” he said.

“I told you I got an apartment.”

They’d met each time here in his hotel room because she was waiting on furniture. “You told me.”

“I installed a camera in my apartment.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Basically, I’m paranoid.”

That sparked a smile. “Welcome to the club.”

“Someone paid a visit to my apartment after we left Scarlett’s warehouse.” She rolled toward the nightstand and grabbed her phone. When she sat up, pressing her back to the headboard, her breasts jiggled. She pushed a button on her phone and turned it toward him. Black-and-white footage of her bare apartment appeared. He leaned closer, discovering he was curious about where she lived. There’d been no talk about what happened beyond this room. She was out of his league, and he should be grateful for what she’d given him. But he was curious about her.

“That an air mattress?”

“Furniture arrives soon.”

“I can fuck on an air mattress.”

She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, but that’s not the point. Watch.” The tape advanced and the front door opened. The first to appear on the screen was an older man wearing what looked like a uniform. A maintenance visit wasn’t out of the ordinary.

The front desk clerk moved to the side, and Scarlett Crosby stepped into the apartment. She was holding one of her paintings. She slowly walked into the unit, allowing her gaze to roam the room before she rested the painting against the counter. Next, she moved to the picture window and stared out over the street.

“What’s she looking at?” he asked.

“Her warehouse.”

He shifted his gaze to the painting. He’d seen versions of it in police files. It was Scarlett’s latest interpretation of Della. “She left you a painting of Della.”

“Seems we struck a nerve today,” Margo said.

“She called you Della before.”

“She did. I must remind Scarlett of her,” Margo said.

Dawson sat up and reached for his phone. He scrolled until he found the picture he wanted. “This is the police artist sketch of Della.”

She leaned in again, studying the image. “Looks like a kid. Not like me.”

Margo’s nose was slimmer. Her cheeks had a sharper cut. But any good plastic surgeon could’ve done that for her. Still, he rejected the thought. Oddly, he needed to believe her. “Did Scarlett take anything?”

“No. I talked to the clerk. She was in and out in under a minute. But she’s clearly fixated on me.”

Spicy perfume swirled around him. That scent would cling to him hours after she’d left his hotel room. “She was also obsessed with helping Tiffany Patterson.”

“When are they doing Tiffany Patterson’s autopsy?”

“In the morning.”

She leaned up and met his gaze even as her hand slid up and down his shaft. “Good. We’ll know more after that.”

As the sun bobbed above the horizon, Dawson arrived at Scarlett’s warehouse and glanced up at Margo’s apartment, hoping, maybe fearing she was watching. However, the windows were dark.

When Margo had left his hotel room about 4:00 a.m., she’d said she was going home to shower and dress for work. His gaze lingered on Margo’s windows, and he guessed she’d already come and gone.

He imagined Scarlett entering Margo’s place and leaning the portrait against the counter. It pissed him off that Scarlett had invaded Margo’s space. Her Della fixation had a new target.

With Tiffany Patterson’s autopsy scheduled for this morning, he was loaded for bear when he pounded on Scarlett’s door and waited impatiently until the steady clip of footsteps approached. They slid open, and Scarlett stood staring at him as she wiped yellow ink from her hands. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“This early? Good for you. I’ll talk to you while you work.”

“I don’t like talking.”

“We can chat here or at the station, Scarlett. I don’t care where we do it.”

“Come inside.” She stood back as he crossed the threshold, and then she closed the doors behind him.

The strong scents of paint and alcohol permeated the space. She didn’t bother a second glance in his direction as she moved toward a table where a large engraved plate rested. She picked up a bundle of what looked like cheesecloth and dabbed it in a dollop of yellow paint. Carefully, she blotted the fabric on a clean piece of paper until she’d removed most of the color.

“What do you want?” She very gently dabbed the yellow paint on the block etched with boats on curling waves.

“What’s the deal with you and Margo Larsen?”

“I ran into her on the street, and we had drinks.”

“Why did you leave that painting in her apartment?”

Her gaze lifted, tinted with suspicion. “You two are cozy.”

Dawson’s chest squeezed like it had when his ex-wife’s life had started to spiral. “We work together.”

“She doesn’t look like the type to go running for help.”

“She’s concerned about your mental state.”

Her gaze, filling with questions, lingered on him. “I’m just fine, Detective.”

He cleared his throat. “What did you say to Lynn Yeats? She filed a stalking complaint yesterday against you.”

Scarlett didn’t hesitate as she patted away more paint. “I asked her about Tanner. I wanted to know more about him.”

“Why?”

“Finding Sandra Taylor stirred up a lot. I have too many unanswered questions, so I’m trying to make sense of the past.”

“Are you a junior detective now?”

Overhead lights buzzed. “I’m looking out for my best interests. The more I know about Tanner, the better.”

“Why better? He’s been dead a decade.”

“You found the body of a missing girl. She vanished, died, and no one missed a beat.”

“Do you believe Tanner killed her?”

“Della kept reminding me to be nice to Tanner so I didn’t end up like the Other Girl.”

“Della.”

Scarlett held up her hand. “I’m not debating Della.”

“Okay. Okay.” Lynn Yeats’s description of Tanner’s cousin sounded a little like Della. “Did Della have any theories about the Other Girl?”

“Tanner took Della upstairs often, but the woman who had more access to the first floor was Lynn Yeats. Have you asked Lynn?”

He drew in a breath. “She never saw anyone fitting Sandra’s description.”

“But she did see a girl, didn’t she?”

He didn’t answer.

“I think Lynn saw what she wanted to see.”

“Why wrap the body and hide it around the corner from your mother’s house?”

“Tanner was renovating the property. We all gravitate toward the familiar, don’t we?” she asked. “He knew the neighborhood. And he knew I lived close.”

“Maybe you helped him put the body in the wall?”

“I didn’t, but maybe Lynn did. They were dating then, and she said she’d do anything for him.”

“When did she say that?”

“Something I overheard while we happened to be in the same coffee shop.”

He shook his head, knowing none of this would be admissible. “Tanner didn’t kill Tiffany, though, did he?”

Silent tension rippled through her body.

“You were the last person to spend any time with Tiffany.”

“But not the last to see her,” she said. “Tiffany was a drug addict. Addicts always need money. Maybe she threatened to stir up the past and make life miserable for Lynn. Lynn said it took her years to live down her relationship with Tanner.”

“Maybe Tiffany knew more about your history with Tanner. Maybe she was blackmailing you and you got tired of paying.”

“It’s all guesswork, Detective.”

“I have you on video trespassing into Margo’s apartment. Leaving her a Della portrait.”

Scarlett was silent long enough for him to think she’d shut down. And then: “Did Margo tell you I called her Della?”

“She did.”

“Margo reminds me of Della. It’s unsettling.”

“You’ve made this mistake before.”

“Not like this.”

A note in her tone struck a deep chord. His ex-wife had kept secrets, and his denials, and ultimate cover-up, had enabled her addiction and nearly ruined him. Was he on the same path and again ignoring warnings? “How does she remind you of Della?”

“Under the blond hair, I see the dark roots. She’s had her nose done, but the eyes,” she said softly. “It’s always the eyes that give us away.”

The comparison soured his gut. Not for the first time, he wondered why Margo had picked him. “Della was never found. She doesn’t exist.”

“She did and does.”

“There’s no proof. There’s no missing persons report on anyone matching Della’s description.”

“She said she was initially with him out of choice. And then he kept her locked in the house. And then he locked her in the basement.”

“Why didn’t she try to escape the night Tanner snatched you?”

“She believed the Other Girl was still alive. She thought if she ran, the Other Girl would die.”

“Why would she care about Sandra?”

“Hell has a way of bonding scared, desperate people.”

“Is that why you didn’t run right away? Were you worried about Della?”

She glanced at her trembling hands. “He beat her up bad the day before. I was scared for her.”

“Why did he beat her up?”

“I don’t know. She could handle him so well, but she said or did something that set him off.”

“Maybe he just lost it.”

“Maybe.”

“You and Tanner leave, and what happens next? Della sets fire to the house and just takes off?”

“She’d found a set of keys and knew if Tanner left her alone in the house she could get out. After the beating I guess he thought she’d been too injured to run, so he left her upstairs. And the arson investigator stated the house had been rigged to explode. I think she knew where the bombs were and set them off. I think she’d been planning her escape since Sandra vanished from the house.”

“Arson report? You read that?”

“I wanted to understand what happened.”

Given her friendship with the Judge, he didn’t have to ask how she’d gotten the report. “She provoked Tanner so he’d beat her?”

“It explains a lot.”

“And then Della reinvented herself into a decorated cop?” He needed her to vanquish his growing doubts of Margo. Because the actions Della had allegedly taken sounded like something Margo might do.

“She was smart. A survivor. Like Margo.”

“They look nothing alike.”

“The eyes are the same.”

Margo had approached him. She’d suggested her hotel room, which happened to be a few floors below his. Had he looked as lost as he’d felt? Nothing like wearing your fuckups on your sleeve. And then Margo had turned the tables for him and put him in complete control in that bedroom.

Scarlett looked up at Dawson. “Why are you so worried about protecting Margo?”

“This kind of baseless rumor could damage her career. Margo isn’t your Della,” he said.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” She laid a clean sheet of linen paper on the block and another piece of cardboard and then pushed the entire setup under the press. “The woman I knew got under Tanner’s and my skin.”

He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Margo isn’t Della.”

She pressed a button and the roller dropped and crushed the paper against the block. When it released, she carefully removed the cardboard and paper and then carried the print to a large table where three others like it were drying. Slowly, she faced him. “Sounds like she’s gotten under your skin.”

“Don’t play head games with me.”

Her gaze hardened with amusement. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“She’s a coworker.”

Scarlett’s eyes narrowed as if she could see inside him. “Two things can be true at once.”