Soulless
Chapter Seven: We'll Meet Again
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Word Count: 1,488
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.
Summary: A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan
Author's Note: While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.
I may be the author, but I saw this one coming a mile away. :P Eek, my plot is soo predictable.
We'll Meet Again
"All right, love," Nigel began as he walked back into autopsy two as Jordan was finishing up the autopsy on her John Doe. She'd expected more of a lecture about this body and keeping everyone from knowing about it, but apparently Nigel and Bug were with her on this one. It felt good. "Our mysterious man is, in fact, one Harold Quince."
"Quince?" Jordan asked, frowning. "How do I know that name?"
"Because Harold Quince caused quite a stir when he left his beautiful wife for an underage mistress," Nigel went on, always up-to-date on social scandals, though this one was a bit old, if she remembered correctly. "His wife was a model. Should still be a model. She may be fifty years old, but—"
"She looks thirty," Jordan finished, remembering more now. "Apparently, that was still too old for Mr. Quince here. But if Quince left his wife for his mistress, he wasn't a bleeding heart. Most of them were considered irreproachable saints. Not him. How did he end up a victim of our killer?"
"I'm guessing no one dug deep enough," Bug muttered under his breath. "Look at the widow Quince."
"Damn," Jordan muttered, staring at the picture of a blond socialite wearing dark glasses and expensive jewelry. "That's her. It's her. She's famous, and no one even bothered to suggest her?"
"Remember, love, our description was of a woman about thirty. People who knew her, even if they know she looks younger, aren't going to think 'thirty' about her. And not everyone believes our small woman is the killer, after all," Nigel patted Jordan's shoulder gently. "Plus, Mrs. Quince is chauffeured, not a driver herself. Supposedly, she never got a license."
"Or she has one in another name," Bug said. "I think that Mr. Quince's young mistress is probably back at that crime scene."
"That's it," Jordan agreed, a feeling of triumph washing over her. "It makes perfect sense. She makes up a story about her husband leaving her. Obviously, he'd take some of their money if he was going to keep his mistress in style, but he didn't, not really. She used it. It's how she bought the knives, the chocolates, everything we couldn't trace back to anyone. The car is probably in the girl's name."
"Bingo," Nigel said, his fingers stopping their rapid dance across the keyboard. "One Miata, licensed to Tara Winters. It even has the magic numbers on its plate."
"We got her," Jordan smiled grimly. "We finally got her."
When she heard that a body had been found where she had left her idiot of a husband, she knew that it was only a matter of time before they identified him as Harold Quince. The pacemaker. If she had only thought to remove it... But that was a regret she could not afford. And she was not a butcher. She might kill, but she did not dissect. She left that for people like Detective Hoyt's Dr. Cavanaugh. They were the butchers, not her.
If only Harry had not been so greedy. She hadn't cared about his girls, though each one seemed younger than the last, ending with Tara, who was just sixteen, but no, he had to stick his nose into her business. He was looking to her financial records, interfering in her companies. He suspected her of something, had pushed too much. Maybe he wanted a divorce, though he'd never tried before. She had thought she scared him too much for him to go against her, but she had been wrong. And she hated being wrong.
It was simple, then. He'd had to die. But not so that anyone would notice. Tara provided the opportunity. What she had wanted was money and fame. She'd been the one to tell everyone about her affair with Harry. And all it took was a few more rumors for everyone to believe that Harry had finally run off with one of his bimbos.
Still he caused her problems. Now they would come for her. She had only had this particular gentleman for a day, not her standard two, but it couldn't be helped. She had no time for finesse, for real enjoyment. It was time to clean up the loose ends.
She stabbed him quickly, watching his last breath gurgle in his throat. She kissed her fingers and touched them to her good luck charm one last time before she took the corpse with her. She drove north, towards a lake property owned by one of Harry's friends.
She rigged the Miata to drive itself into the lake and watched as it went under, the body and all the evidence in the trunk going under with it. She smiled a little as it finally disappeared.
She walked up to the road. She would wait for her driver here. As she stepped out on to the gravel, she heard a voice. "Mrs. Quince? Boston P.D. We'd like you to come with us."
"She's definitely a cool one," Renee Walcott murmured as she watched Delinda Quince from behind the two way mirror. The other woman was sitting prim and proper, every strand of hair in place, every wrinkle smoothed out, every nail perfectly polished and clean. She had no twitches, no nervous habits. Hell, her lipstick didn't even come off when she sipped her coffee like she was at a damn tea party.
"She thinks she can get away with it," Jordan agreed. "She doesn't think anyone will believe us."
"You have something to say, Dr. Cavanaugh?" Renee asked, turning towards her. The M.E.'s lips curved a little, but she shook her head. "Perhaps that the jury will have a hard time buying what the D.A.'s office didn't accept when they first heard it, either?"
"Maybe something like that," Cavanaugh finally agreed.
"We got the car. The body. The tire iron," Renee said, looking back at the glass. "This woman is going down for murder. She's not coming out, whatever doubts anyone has about her size or age won't be enough. Garret already told me he matched the fingerprints on the tire iron to her."
"What are we waiting for, then?" Jordan asked. "A signed confession?"
Renee snorted. "We won't get that from her. She might try for the insanity plea, but she's not insane. She's a sociopath. She knew what she was doing all along, and she enjoyed it."
"Yep," Jordan agreed. "She is one sick puppy. So you won't deal?"
Renee laughed. "With her? No. She killed over twenty men, including one of Boston's best officers. We may have had our differences, Cavanaugh, but Hoyt was a good officer who deserved better than this."
"That's why I'm here, isn't it?" Jordan looked back at the woman's taunting smile. "She won't confess, and she won't even tell us where his body is."
"You're here," Renee corrected, "because she asked for you. I'm not interested in catering to her whims, but you have a point. She won't tell us anything. But she might give something away to you."
That was all the permission Cavanaugh needed. She left the observation room and went into the interrogation room. "Where is he?"
"No preamble, I see," Quince's smile was twisted. Evil. "I told you before, Dr. Cavanaugh. You're not getting him back. How has it been? Waiting and wondering? Do you still believe you'll find him alive?"
"I stopped playing your game," Cavanaugh stared the woman down. "I accepted that you killed him. That you would never surrender his body, not while you were free. But now we have all the cards. You got sloppy. All that evidence in that trunk, just waiting for us to pin it on you. So if you want any sort of deal, maybe you should consider telling us where you left his body?"
Quince laughed. "And give up my good luck charm? I don't think so."
"I don't buy that. You didn't know Woody when you started your killing spree," Cavanaugh insisted. "Why keep hiding him? Maybe you'll get a nice padded room and doctors you can con into thinking you're rehabilitated."
"Why? Dr. Cavanaugh, the look on your face is answer enough," Quince said. She laughed again. "I should have thought you were above this. Above caring. You certainly gave him that impression."
Renee watched with sympathy as Cavanaugh floundered under that attack. She was pale, and she shook a little. "What would you know about it?"
"Oh, much more than you think," Quince continued to smile mercilessly. "We had lots of time to become acquainted in the last three weeks, after all. I know everything there is to know about Woodrow Wilson Hoyt. And a good deal about you, Dr. Cavanaugh."
"Wwwhat?" Jordan stammered. "What do you mean by that?"
Quince's smile grew wider, and, if possible, more evil. "Your precious detective is alive, Dr. Cavanaugh. Such a pity you will never find him in time."