11th Hour (Women's Murder Club 11)

Nicole was twenty-six, but her room had gotten stuck in a teen-theme time warp. The walls were painted with vertical stripes in three shades of green. The spread and curtains were the same colors in a polka-dot print.

There were pictures of Harry Chandler all around the room, including a life-size cutout on the wall and a black-and-white headshot on the dresser mirror inscribed To Nicole, XOXO, Harry.

Nicole said in a deep voice, almost a growl, “Don’t come any closer, you bitches. I’m not afraid to use this. And I’m not afraid to jump.”

The room had two exits: the door behind me and the window behind Nicole. From what I could see, Nicole didn’t have a direct view of the house and garden. But the oblique view took in the back of the Ellsworth house, the brick patio, and a wedge of the garden where heads had been buried.

My eyes went back to Nicole, who was still facing us down from behind her mattress. She seemed irrational. And I didn’t like the options she had given us.

My partner stepped forward.

He wasn’t holding a weapon and his left arm was strapped across his chest. If there’d ever been a time for the Conklin charm factor, this was it.

“Nobody wants to hurt you, Nicole. We don’t want any trouble. None at all.”

“I’m in charge here,” Nicole said. “I make all the decisions.”

“You’re only in charge of what you do,” Conklin said. “So I want you to move very slowly. Put the knife down.”

She laughed, a hysterical yip.

“So you can do what? Shoot me. I’ll put the knife down when you back out of my room.”

With that, Nicole lunged.

Conklin sidestepped and stood between me and Nicole. I didn’t have a shot. I didn’t have a shot.

Conklin reached across the bed and grabbed Nicole by her thick dark hair; he pulled her across the bed and onto the floor. He stepped on her right hand and yelled, “Drop it!” until the knife was lying on the ground.

He kicked the knife away, and then, Nicole’s hair still wrapped around his hand, he forced the woman to her feet.

Janet was screaming, “Stop! Nicole didn’t do anything. It was me. I killed all those women. It was me. It was me.”

The shrieking was about to take off the top of my head. I cuffed Nicole as her mother pleaded, “You have got this wrong. I’m the one. It’s me.”

Nicole was regaining her equanimity. She said, “Mom, stop the hysterics. They’ve got nothing on you, and they’ve got nothing on me.”

I said, “Nicole Worley, you’re under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

I stepped behind Janet, told her to put her hands behind her back. I cuffed and arrested her too, read both of them their rights.

I said, “Mrs. Worley, we’ve got plenty of murder charges to go around. So no fighting for credit, okay?”

Nicole was laughing, but I didn’t find her amusing. She was one of the scariest people I’d met in my life.

Conklin took charge of Janet, and I gave Nicole a shove toward the door.

I was desperate to get her alone in the box.

Chapter 111

CLAIRE WAS IN the basement of number 2, standing with Clapper in front of the chest-type freezer. They’d been staring at it for at least a full minute. She said, “What are you waiting for, Charlie? Christmas?”

“It was Christmas for someone. See how nicely the presents are wrapped?”

When the condensation blew off, Claire could clearly see that the freezer was packed to the brim with body parts. There was no order, no organization. Parts had been loaded into the chest helter-skelter, all loosely wrapped in plastic.

Clapper said, “I’m going to be the first to state the obvious. This killer had no respect for the dead.”