Page 31 of Closer Than You Know (Vera Boyett #2)

Riverbend Maximum Security Institution

Cockrill Bend Boulevard, Nashville, 10:30 a.m.

Eric made the turn onto Cockrill Bend Boulevard.

Before they could begin this journey, Vera had insisted on stopping by her house and changing. She couldn’t have cared less about what the reporters thought of her sweatshirt and jeans, but this was different. She needed Solomon to see the professional person he’d been drawn to all those years ago. With that in mind, she’d chosen a black suit. The skirt was tight, and the heels she wore were high. She’d even gone the extra mile with the makeup. Today she needed a full arsenal. Solomon might be an old man with terminal cancer, but he wasn’t dead.

And Eve was counting on her.

The drive from Fayetteville had been filled with equal stretches of silence and spurts of small talk. They hadn’t discussed the case or Solomon. Eric had asked about Eve, and Vera had told him about some of their adventures as children. She had laughed and barely held back the tears, but all in all, those moments had kept her from obsessing on the worst-case scenario.

She would get her sister back alive. Any other option was unacceptable.

“Bent is exactly what I expected,” Eric said as he parked in the visitor’s lot.

Vera turned to him. “That tells me I spent far too much time talking about him when you and I first started a personal relationship.”

He leaned against the headrest and pointed his face toward hers. “Sometimes, but only because I asked. I knew the impact he’d had on you, and somehow I couldn’t stop digging. Glutton for punishment, I suppose.”

“The whole situation was entirely your fault,” she warned. “I had sworn off relationships until you came along, so you opened that old can of worms.”

He smiled then. “I guess I did.” He searched her eyes for a moment. “Do you ever miss us ?” He frowned. “I mean, I’m completely in love with Anna. I’ve asked her to marry me.”

Vera smiled, despite the shitstorm of emotions sucking her into it. “Congratulations. That’s great. Really great.” Her smile faded a little. “I do miss us ... sometimes.” Why lie? “I miss the way we laughed together and how I knew without a doubt that I could always depend on you and that you would always be there.”

“Something Bent hadn’t done,” he suggested.

She nodded.

“But he’s older now,” Eric said. “He knows how to do it right this time.”

Vera laughed softly. “Who can say? Maybe it was me. Maybe I’m the problem.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, Vera,” he rebutted softly. “I saw how he looks at you, and I didn’t miss the way you look at him.”

“On that note,” she said, reaching for her door handle, “I think we should move on.”

He gave a single, firm nod. “Good idea.”

Warden Wyman Halston was waiting for them after they’d made their way through the security protocols.

Once the pleasantries were behind them, Halston moved on to the reason they were here. “Solomon refuses to see anyone but you, and as you’re aware, we can only record personal visits under certain circumstances, and this is not one of them. Therefore, we will be relying completely on you to handle whatever comes up in conversation. Make no promises that you are not authorized to make.”

“Understood.” This wasn’t her first rodeo.

“You will have a private interview room, but there will be guards right outside. Solomon will be secured, and there is a panic button if the need arises.”

She nodded and repeated, “Understood.”

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Eric assured her, “with the guards.”

“Very well,” Halston concluded. “Don’t make me regret the extra effort.”

From the warden’s office, two guards escorted Vera and Eric to the interview room. The wide gray corridors in a prison were always the same. Too brightly lit and full of echoes and whispers of anger and hate and agony. And the smell. Sweat, fear, with a hint of urine. Never a pleasant place.

The row of interview rooms for private meetings was short and no less gray. Their progression stopped at the door marked with a number two. There was a very small window in the door for peering inside, but she opted not to look. She did not want the man waiting there to catch her taking a peek at him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“The panic button is under your side of the table on the right, ma’am,” the taller of the two guards explained. “He’s in full shackles, which are secured to the floor. He won’t be able to reach all the way across the table, but he can raise his hands and reach a few inches. You should not lean across the table or approach him in any manner.”

“Got it.” Vera’s heart pounded. Her entire body had gone numb and on high alert with the flood of adrenaline roaring through her.

Eric reached out and squeezed her upper arm. “Don’t let him get to you.”

She gave her friend a nod, then turned to the guard who’d spoken. “I’m ready.”

He unlocked the door and opened it. Vera walked in, her heels clicking on the polished tile. The room was more beige than gray. An equally beige table sat in the center, a generic chair on either side.

Dr. Palmer Solomon sat on the side farthest from the door. He smiled at her as the door closed with a solid thud, then the lock slid into place.

“Hello, Vera.”

She gave him time to look her up and down before she crossed to the table and pulled out her chair. “Hello, Dr. Solomon.” She sat down and stared at him. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you again, but it’s not, so I won’t pretend.”

“The pleasure is all mine then.” He inhaled a deep breath, as if attempting to draw in her scent.

She’d spritzed on just a little of the perfume she’d always worn whenever she bothered. Soft, subtle, just a hint of citrus. “Let’s get straight to it. After all this time, why now?”

It was a simple question. He’d had a dozen years to reach out for revenge. Why wait so long? Had the news that he was dying prompted the need? Or was it because he knew she was closer, geographically speaking? She felt sure he’d kept up with her. Relished the tragedy that ended her career in Memphis, no doubt. Anger bled into the adrenaline pulsing inside her. Bastard.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” he said, “that I have only a very short time to live.”

He really didn’t look like a dying man—just thinner, wearier maybe. As much as it chafed her to say, he remained quite handsome—as killers went. His hair was that white color so envied by those who didn’t have it as they reached later life. Gray eyes still clear and attentive. Fewer wrinkles than your average seventy-two-year-old. Obviously, until his illness stopped him, he had stayed physically fit. But those details were fading. The cancer was stealing all the strength and vitality from his body, and there was not a damned thing he could do.

The thought made her inordinately happy.

“Yes,” she said, “I heard. If you expect sympathy, you’re looking in the wrong place.” The images of all those women he had killed flashed one after the other before her eyes.

“I saw you on the news this morning. They allow me to have a television. Did you know that? It’s one of the benefits of cooperating with the FBI from time to time.” He chuckled as if the idea were quite funny. “Advice from a serial killer is a very marketable commodity.”

“Then you know why I’m here.” She repositioned in her chair so she could cross one leg over the other.

He watched the move with interest. “I knew you would come.” His gaze shifted to hers. “As soon as I heard what was happening, I was worried about you.”

Vera laughed out loud. “Of course you were.”

He leaned forward. Chains rattled. “I’m quite serious, Vera. I am very worried about your safety, as well as your sister’s.”

A new burn of fury blazed inside her. “If you hurt my sister ...” She dared him by leaning forward the tiniest bit, as if to meet him in the middle, and lowering her voice to a whisper. “I will find a way to make your last days a living hell.”

That he watched the movement of her lips so intensely was unnerving and yet satisfying. He was still intrigued by her, which meant, she hoped, that he would play along. Perhaps make a mistake.

“I would never hurt your sister,” he said, drawing back, his respiration a little faster than before.

She drew back as well. “I don’t have time for games, Palmer.” He liked when she called him Palmer. In fact, while he held her captive, he’d insisted she use his given name. “Tell me who’s doing this, or just call them off. I can live with either choice.”

“He has been watching you, Vera. For months. He knows where you live. Where your sisters live. What you do and who you do it with.”

Outrage mounting, she gritted her teeth for a moment to prevent the wrong words from erupting. “Tell me,” she said as calmly as the emotional whirlwind inside her would allow, “who did you send to do this?”

He leaned forward again. “He knows all your secrets. He’s studied you so closely. Even I was impressed. He knows how to hurt you, and he won’t stop until he has done the most damage possible.”

She barely restrained herself from lunging across the table and shaking the truth out of him. If she had a gun, she would shove it hard into that soft place beneath his chin and blow his fucking head off.

“Who is it?” she repeated.

“I told them,” he said, as if she hadn’t demanded a name. “I told them you were in danger as soon as I learned of the plot, but apparently no one listened. Otherwise, you could have been watching all this time and stopped him.”

His words penetrated the haze of anger. “You told who what?”

“Why, Agent Alcott, of course. Shortly after my diagnosis, I told him I feared you were in danger.”

What the ...? Vera pushed away the uncertainty that attempted to intrude. This could be a trick. His way of throwing her off balance.

“When was this?” She uncrossed her legs and sat up straighter.

“February third. They told me in December there was nothing to be done for my condition. By February I realized what was happening, and I told Alcott he should warn you.”

Vera clasped her hands together in her lap to prevent herself from reaching over and ripping his throat out. “I’ll take that up with Alcott. This is between you and me. Tell me who it is.”

He shook his head, as if what he had to say next made him sad. “You should have followed your instincts, Vera. You knew there was someone else. You felt it in your bones, but you were afraid to bring it up. You were so new at the business of being a detective.” He looked away, as if needing a moment to collect himself. “I was wrong to do what I did. But I thought it was the right thing at the time.” He searched her eyes once more. “Can you understand that?”

She understood nothing except that this man was a monster. Still, she played along. She couldn’t take any risks when Eve’s life hung in the balance. He was suggesting that she recognized he might have had someone working with him back then. And she had. But there had been no evidence, and she hadn’t pushed the issue. She’d let it go. They had their killer. End of story.

“You’re only human,” she offered. She wanted—needed—to understand what he was talking about. Every nerve ending in her body tingled. He was about to tell her something important—maybe something that would save her sister.

He nodded. “I knew you would appreciate my dilemma. You’ve done things you needed to do as well. You’ve covered for the people you love—no matter the bad deeds they’ve done.”

The realization of what he was saying bored into her brain, shook her as if an earthquake had begun deep inside her. “No.” She drew away. This could not be right. “I was there. You kidnapped me, and you kidnapped Eric Jones. I saw what you did ... you confessed. Why would you change your story now?”

He stared at her, saying nothing, a look of ... not triumph ... a look of defeat in his eyes. No. No. This couldn’t be.

“I wanted to protect my family,” he said quietly. “I had no choice, really. It was my fault after all. Genetics.” He shrugged. “One was bound to inherit those more unpleasant genes.”

“No.” She could not get right with the words he was saying. “You had every detail down to a science ... every single detail. Gloria identified you.”

“Well, I was there, after all ... guiding my prodigy.” He closed his eyes a moment, his face in a tight grimace.

Pain, she surmised. With cancer came pain. She felt no sympathy ... she felt only horror and dismay at what he was insinuating to her. The need to rush out of the room was a barely suppressed throbbing impulse inside.

Prodigy? What the hell? Was he suggesting his son, Christopher, had been a fledgling serial killer?

When his eyes opened once more, he went on. “You came so close. I realized then that I had been deluding myself. Evading exposure for an entire life’s work is rare. It requires a certain level of skill. I recognized this one, sadly, was not like me. I had to make a way out—you understand. We do what we must for those we love. So, I promised to reveal myself if—”

“Jesus Christ,” she snapped, cutting him off. “You are a fucking psychiatrist. You are well aware that he cannot just cut it off. Any more than you could.” This meant only one thing—the Messenger had worked with a partner. How the hell had that partner been finding a way to assuage his needs all this time?

“I had to offer the opportunity,” he argued. “It was the least I could do.”

Dear God, how many more had been tortured and murdered without their killer being caught?

“Is it Christopher?” Serial killers were far more likely to be male than female. The reality of what he was saying made the bottom drop from her stomach. And the bastard had Eve.

“Anger is the guide now,” he said softly, as if Vera had said nothing. “I’m dying, and my family is feeling true, bone-deep loss for the first time in their lives. I suppose I protected them far too well. At any rate, the goal is revenge.” His gaze fixed on Vera. “The concept that we would never have been caught if not for you is in play. You were the first to make me see the possibility. I may have said as much.”

“How many others?” The urge to vomit had her throat tightening.

“You mean before the FBI became aware of my work?” Pride twinkled in his eyes. “One each year since I was twenty. My methods evolved, of course. As did those of the FBI, which eventually brought my work to their attention.”

Vera had known he hadn’t suddenly started at age fifty. Son of a bitch. But right now, his history wasn’t relevant. “How many others has your prodigy killed without you?”

He made a face. “I don’t believe there have been others,” he insisted. “He loves his work. He saves lives now. He doesn’t take them.”

He.

“Oh my God.” Her jaw fell slack. She snapped it shut and summoned a steady tone. He wasn’t talking about Christopher or Pamela ... he was talking about Patrick, his grandson—the doctor. “Wait.” She held up both hands. “Your grandson was only seventeen when you were arrested.”

Solomon laughed a sad sound. “His first adventure with me was when he was nine. His mother failed to look after him properly. His father was never in the picture. I was all he had, really. This was something special we shared. By the time he was a teenager, he was taking the lead.” A smile tipped up his lips. “He was a very good student.”

Vera’s insides expanded with the need to expel the horror he’d just dumped on her. She had to get out of here ... had to stop the bastard. If he was this profoundly affected by his grandfather’s looming death, he would be reckless ... and even more dangerous.

“In retrospect, while it’s true that his mother neglected him, it was me who ruined him,” Solomon went on. “I eventually understood that I had to try and save him. It was my obligation to him and to my daughter.”

“You wanted him to stop.” It wasn’t a question. She got it now. Her heart thundered ... throat felt dry ... palms were sweating. “You set up that whole finale with Gloria Anderson so you could give your grandson a second chance. You arranged it so I would find her. You did all of it—abducted me and Eric—to expose yourself ... to steer us away from him.”

“No.” The chains rattled again with the movement of his hands as he waved off her suggestion. “You found Gloria all on your own.” He lifted his shoulders, let them fall in a shrug. “Perhaps only because of his mistakes. You see, he left me out of the planning on that one. But that is irrelevant. Then you started digging, and as you grew closer, I knew you were going to find us because you were—are—better than all the rest.” He stared directly at her then. “It was then that I recognized his vulnerability. I had to do something.”

So many emotions that she could not begin to name even a portion of them were roiling inside her. “Where is he? Where did he take my sister?”

“I only know that he is in your hometown. He is angry that I’m dying. Angry that it was he—and you—who caused me to spend my final years here. He will not listen to reason.”

So he had spoken to him. No matter that she wanted to go ballistic on the man, she held back ... focused on speaking calmly. “Where is he exactly?”

“I swear to you,” he pressed. “I do not know.”

“If,” she warned, “you fail to tell me the whole truth and my sister pays the price”—she leaned closer—“I will gut him like a fucking pig and watch him die in pain. You have my word on that, Doc. It won’t be like last time.”

“If I knew, I would tell you. Once I realized what he was planning and confronted him on his last visit to me, he disappeared.”

Her gaze narrowed. “I was told you had no visitors except your son, Christopher.”

“There are things that even the warden doesn’t know.” He smiled that charming expression he was known for. “Trust me when I say I have seen and spoken to him on numerous occasions. Perhaps the visitor logs list him as someone else—as Christopher, I would guess.” His brow furrowed then. “Be advised, I’ve contacted all my sources, and no one can find him.”

“Your sources?” What the hell?

Another of those faint smiles slid across his lips. “You know how it is in prison: if you can pay the price, you can learn anything—get anything—from the outside.”

Oh yes, she was well aware. Disgusted, she stood. “Give me a moment.”

She walked to the door and banged on it. It opened instantly, and the guard waited for her to step out. Eric looked her up and down, as if ensuring she was unharmed.

“I need a Sharpie.”

“A what?” The guard stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“A permanent marker,” she clarified. Who didn’t know what a Sharpie was?

“Ma’am—”

“Here.” Eric thrust a pen at her. “It’s the only thing I have on me.”

It was an ink pen, but she supposed that would work.

“Ma’am,” the guard repeated, “you cannot give him that pen or anything else.”

“Don’t worry.” She backed deeper into the room and away from the door. “It’s not for him. It’s for me.”

“Just close the door,” Eric said when the guard would have argued.

He muttered something about telling the warden and slammed the door.

Vera crossed back to the table and leaned over. “Hold out your hands.”

Solomon extended his hands, palms up, as far as his restraints would allow. Chains rattled. “Don’t move,” she ordered. On the underside of his left forearm, she wrote her number. Then she leaned away from him. “That’s my cell number. If you find out anything at all, you let me know.”

He stared at the number, then looked up at her. “You have my word.”

His word wasn’t worth shit, but she’d already given him her word about what she would do if he didn’t give her a heads-up. And she suspected he understood this was a promise.

When she would have turned away, his voice stopped her. “He taunted me about being inside your home.”

The fury she’d kept under control for the most part threatened to boil over again. “How nice of him to give his old grandpa a few jollies.”

“I warned him that I was going to tell you, but he only laughed. He said he’d left you a gift—a secret message that only you would understand—somewhere in your house, but it would likely be too late when you found it.”

Vera pointed a finger at him. “You better not be lying to me.”

“As I said, you have—”

“Yeah, yeah. Your word.”

She walked away from him. As she reached the door, he said, “It was good to see you again, Vera.”

Fucking piece of shit.

She banged on the door and got the hell out of there. She didn’t speak to anyone, just walked away. It took every fiber of self-control she possessed not to run.

Eric hurried to catch up with her. “The warden will be waiting to hear how the meeting went.”

“No time,” she said. “We have to get back to Fayetteville.” Eve needed her. This was Vera’s fault, damn it. She had to fix it.

“He told you who’s working for him?”

“I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

Vera didn’t say another word until they were in Eric’s car, headed south. The walls in places like that prison had ears.

“We screwed up,” she said. The weight of what she now knew had parked like a dump truck on her chest. Fear snaked around her throat ... squeezed to the point she could barely breathe. And Eve had gotten the short end of the stick.

“I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

“Palmer Solomon set us up to protect his grandson.”

“That’s impossible.” Eric glanced from the road to her and back, his head moving side to side in denial. “The grandson wasn’t much more than a kid.”

“Patrick was a serial killer in training who came into his own at a young age. Solomon was so proud, until he recognized the kid couldn’t protect himself. It was too late then; I’d already discovered his latest victim.” She scrubbed at her eyes. God, she needed sleep, but that was not possible.

“Gloria.” Eric’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Son of a bitch.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed at her forehead and the ache pounding there. “Because I got too close, dear old Palmer decided Patrick wouldn’t ever be able to avoid being caught the way he had, so he made a deal. The grandson would stop killing, and Palmer would take one for the team.”

Eric cut a horrified look at her. “Just the sort of grandfather every teenage boy needs.”

“But now the grandson is angry that his beloved mentor is dying.” She shrugged. “Maybe he had a breakdown after all the pressure of med school and his residency. Add to that his grandfather’s imminent death. Who knows? Whatever tipped Patrick over the edge, he’s out for revenge.” She closed her eyes for a moment to pull herself together. “Alcott should check on the mother—Pamela. Solomon mentioned that she hadn’t taken care of the kid. I don’t think he would have mentioned that fact if it wasn’t relevant.”

“Got it.” Eric glanced at her. “Anything else I should know?”

“He’s been watching me for weeks at least.” The words ripped at her soul. “He’s been in my house. He knows everything I do. Everything my sisters do.”

“And he has Eve.”

Vera stared at the highway ahead of them. “Yeah.”