Part 18 (1/2)
”What do you want, Owen?”
The doorbell rang again and Sadie screamed ”Go away!” at the top of her lungs.
”I'll take care of this.” He got up and went to the front door and Sadie could hear male voices. Soon he was back in her kitchen. ”He'll leave.”
”How'd you do that?”
Owen stuffed his wallet into his back pocket. ”Journalists don't make nearly enough money.”
”You paid him off?” Sadie didn't know whether to be annoyed or flattered. She decided on grateful. ”Thank you. Now, answer my question. Why are you here?”
He looked momentarily uncertain and rubbed the back of his neck while he looked down at the table. ”Gayla sent me a link to that video. Guess I just wanted to hear it from you.”
”Hear what? That your house is haunted, or that it was all an elaborate publicity stunt?”
”The truth.”
”You can't handle the truth.”
At that moment Sadie felt totally ent.i.tled to channel her inner Jack Nicholson. She got up and went to her fridge and found it lacking in beer. She opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of red wine, then unscrewed the top and poured herself a very full gla.s.s. She took a large gulp before asking Owen if he'd like some, but he politely declined.
”So the house is haunted by some ghost who wanted to pull you in a closet?” He drilled his fingers through his sun-bleached hair. ”Is that what you're trying to tell me?”
”There are more things in heaven and earth-”
”Don't quote Shakespeare to me. Just answer the question.”
”I'm just a trauma-clean worker who sometimes and occasionally has a run-in with the supernatural.” She looked him in the eye. ”Rosemary has an idea of what's happening and will do her best, but truthfully, there's no guarantee here. I wish I could tell you how to make it stop so you can sell your investment and make the truckload of cash you and Gayla seem so desperate for.”
He held up his hand. ”Gayla might be desperate, but I can afford to take a loss.” He sighed. ”I feel bad for her. I think she's in over her head here. So what would you do, if it was your house? Would you just leave it alone? Let sleeping dogs lie and sell it quickly? Or try and de-ghostify it?”
”I'd try and stop it,” Sadie said honestly. She thought about what Rosemary had said-that it was all about her and she needed to be the one to stop it-and she shuddered. ”Honestly, that place scares the pants off me.”
”Guess that's all I needed to know.” He got to his feet.
Sadie stood up, thinking she'd follow him and lock up after he left. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly before he reached over and pulled Sadie against him.
Sadie knew the minute his lips were on hers that she should tell him to hit the road. She was still dressed in business attire from leaving the Pacifica. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. But Owen's hands were expertly unzipping the back of her skirt and unb.u.t.toning her blouse while his hot lips never left hers. Sadie didn't know if she wanted Owen, or if she just wanted to feel needed and attractive to someone. In that moment it didn't matter. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. As her skirt fell to the floor around her ankles and her panties followed, she panicked and thought again of asking him to leave. Then suddenly he lifted her bare a.s.s onto the kitchen counter. His mouth devoured her throat as his fingers deftly finished unb.u.t.toning her blouse and unhooked the front snap of her bra. As she lay fully naked in her kitchen, the only thought that formed in her mind was too X-rated to say out loud.
It was hours later and just after five in the morning when Owen slipped out of her bed. At first Sadie kept her eyes closed and her breath even. She didn't want an awkward good-bye, but when he came around her side of the bed and kissed her forehead she couldn't help but smile.
”You don't have to go.”
”Yes, unfortunately I do.” He tugged jeans up over his hips. ”I've got a meeting with my lawyer this morning about a property I'm selling in another state.”
”So you own places all over? Just like Gayla?”
”A few,” he said, slipping a T-s.h.i.+rt over his head. ”I've taken advantage of the downturn in the market to try to get places cheaply and rent them out until they go up in value. This one's in New Mexico.”
Sadie sat up quickly. She was no longer sleepy. ”You own property in New Mexico?”
”A few places. This one should be gone after today.” He bent over and tapped the end of her nose playfully. ”I've had this particular house a few years. Tenants are moving out, so it's the perfect time to let it go.”
”Whereabouts in New Mexico is it?”
”Rio Rancho. Have you been there?”
Sadie shook her head. She wanted to ask if that was near Albuquerque. A knot of tension formed in her stomach.
”Go back to sleep,” he told her. ”I can let myself out.”
Then he bent over and kissed her thoroughly, and Sadie had to stop herself from dragging him back into her bed, but once he was gone, she started to think and those thoughts weren't pleasant.
She took a couple of deep breaths and told herself to calm down. But something in her gut told her the house on Halladay Street was connected to the prost.i.tute killings, and Marlene's showing up on that video had cinched it in her mind. The web search had led her to that blog that talked about hookers killed in Albuquerque missing fingers. Somehow it was connected and, so far, the thing that seemed to connect at least a small part of it was Owen Sorkin. He owned Halladay Street as well as a place in New Mexico.
She ran to her den and Googled Rio Rancho.
”s.h.i.+t!”
It wasn't just close to Albuquerque, it was practically in Albuquerque. She rubbed the crease forming between her eyebrows. She was getting ahead of herself. Just because Owen Sorkin did business in Albuquerque to buy a house a few years ago didn't mean he killed prost.i.tutes there or in Seattle. Owen bought Halladay Street to renovate it for profit. Iris Prior was poisoned by her lunatic mother there, but that had no connection to Owen.
While at her computer, Sadie checked her e-mail to see if there was any response from Hugh Pacheo yet, but her inbox held nothing but a colorful array of spam. She dialed the client's number again too but, again, it came back with a recording saying the number was disconnected. The garage suicide cleanup was turning into just another odd thing in her bizarre week. Her fingers played with the necklace around her throat. She'd never been one to wear a lot of jewelry, but she had to admit she'd grown attached to this particular piece. If she never heard from Hugh Pacheo again, she hoped she wouldn't have to sell or p.a.w.n it to pay her bills.
She was about to exit her e-mail account when a new message popped up. It was a reply from the woman who wrote the blog a couple years ago about fingers being taken by a prost.i.tute killer in Albuquerque. The e-mail said simply, If you have questions about that blog posting, call me. The e-mail was signed, leaving a phone number with a 505 area code.
Sadie picked up her phone and punched in the number, and the call was answered on the first ring.
”h.e.l.lo?”
”My name is Sadie Novak. I e-mailed you about the blog you wrote a couple years ago.”
”Yeah.” She paused and made a sound like she was dragging on a cigarette. ”Has it happened again?”
”Has what happened again?” Sadie asked.
”My sister was one of three prost.i.tutes killed in Albuquerque in 2010. The police never told anybody about the fingers of the girls being taken. They said it was key, but they didn't want it released to the world. Guess they figured that tidbit would help them find the killer. So far they haven't found diddly-squat. Where are you calling from?”
”I'm sorry about your sister,” Sadie said. ”I'm calling from Seattle. There've been a few girls killed here. I'm trying to see if there's a connection. If you don't mind me asking, did your sister die from knife wounds?”
”Yeah. They said she was stabbed over twenty times.” She dragged again on her cigarette and then coughed violently. ”b.a.s.t.a.r.d was never caught. I've been following the newspapers all over. Every major city has prost.i.tutes getting killed. I know they're not all connected, but it feels like n.o.body is ever caught.”
”It's a dangerous business.” Sadie knew it was impossible that all murders in the s.e.x trade were related. It was a hazardous occupation. ”When I searched your local papers it said the bodies were found dumped in a park just outside town, but it didn't say if they were killed there.”
”I imagine they kept it out of the papers so they didn't scare off tourists, but they figure the girls were all killed in the same sw.a.n.ky hotel downtown.”
Sadie's blood ran cold. She took down the woman's name and promised to call her back if she learned anything. Then she politely thanked her and ended the call.
She dialed Detective Petrovich. When he answered the call, Sadie blurted, ”Owen Sorkin owns a rental house in Albuquerque. He bought it around the time those three prost.i.tutes were killed there.”