Authors: Dianne Emley
He was not T. B. Mann but he was his messenger.
“You know who he is, don’t you? You know who killed those women and who attacked me.”
He squirmed until he was sitting up, crumpling the sheets in his fist.
“Am I bothering you? Why don’t you yell for help?”
She imagined how she looked to him, looming malevolently. She delighted in the fear she detected in his eyes. T. B. Mann had watched her suffering the same way. Is that what they had come to now? Did they only fully exist when held by the other’s gaze?
Nitro was panting. They both were. He scooted away from her until he’d backed against the head of the bed. He drew his knees to his chest and tried to hide behind them.
She followed the tortured movements of his head as he struggled to avoid her, remaining inches from his face.
“Did he send you? Tell me. I know this is a game, this not talking.
Tell me
. He put you up to this, didn’t he? You’re a victim of his just like I am. He’s controlling you. You must be afraid of him to follow his orders even
when he’s not around. There is a way out. Tell me the truth, and I’ll make sure you’re protected.”
When all he did was blink, her anger overwhelmed her concerns about safety. She knew she was treading in dangerous waters and should back away, but a different angel had grabbed her by the throat.
She spoke through clenched teeth. “I told you to tell me. Who are you?”
From her pocket, she took out the necklace and dangled it in front of him.
His eyes widened.
“This is mine now. I’ve seized it as evidence. You have a problem with that? I’ll call over one of the staff and you can tell them about it. You can file a complaint.”
Nitro blinked rapidly as if trying to awaken from this nightmare.
“No? No report? No official complaint. Let me tell you something. I know about the necklaces. I know
all
about them. This is a sapphire. The stone for September. Is that when the owner of this necklace was killed? Or is that when someone else is going to be killed?”
She took a quick glance around. The ward was quiet. She shook the necklace at Nitro, rattling the pearls like bones.
“You’re a fake and I’m going to prove it. Are you here to hurt me? You want to hurt me? Come on, asshole. I’m right here.”
They were both startled when the buzzer sounded and the door opened. With the tech that Vining had bribed leading the way, the two officers escorted the woman with Trenton connections. The tech gave Vining a stern look.
Vining shoved the necklace into her pocket and looked at Nitro a final time.
He understood her. There was no uncertainty.
“Everything okay?” the tech asked, annoyed.
“Yeah. He’s still not talking.”
It was late when Vining arrived home.
In the TV room, she found Emily curled up in the La-Z-Boy reading a book.
“Hi, sweet pea.”
“Hi, Mom. You making progress on the case?”
Vining paused from her nightly routine of stashing her Glock in the empty box of Count Chocula to orient herself. Emily was talking about the Mercer/Richards homicides.
“Yes, we are. We’ve got a couple of good leads.”
“That’s great, Mom. You must be happy.”
Vining thought about that. “I am.”
Em knew nothing about the Tucson trip, Nitro, or the drawings. Vining had made the mistake of opening up to Emily about the T. B. Mann necklace and the link to Johnna Alwin. She knew she had been weak to do so. These were the times when she most missed having a significant other in her life. It wasn’t fair to heap that burden on her daughter. Out of necessity, because she had no one else, Vining had reached out to Emily. And Emily, because she was closer to her mother than anyone else, had stood up.
But Vining was stronger now. She had put Em on a need-to-know basis.
Vining wouldn’t say she was cured. She didn’t believe in closure. Hated the feel-good concept. Hated the extra burden it put on victims and families to “get over it” and “move on.” Some things in life were so horrible, there was no getting over them. There was only getting used to them. Living with them, like strange bedfellows one would toss out in a second if given the chance. They
never got that chance. The twisted turn of events was handed to them. Here, live with it.
Vining spent her days living with it and not liking it. T. B. Mann was with her always, as integral a part of her life as a heart murmur. She knew he wasn’t about to let her forget him, even for a moment. Still, she had to continue the fight. She couldn’t undo what he’d done, but she could make him a memory rather than a day-to-day reality. He took his nourishment from her well-being. He was a leech on her soul. She had to burn him off. He had to die.
He had sent Nitro to goad her. It was a mistake. Potentially fatal. She would turn his device back on him. Before she’d left the Big G, she’d waited for L. Chapel, the psych tech, to return to the front. She’d pulled him aside and said there was another hundred in it for him if he let her know before Nitro was going to be released. She wrote down her cell number on a plain piece of paper. She’d be waiting for Nitro, and she’d follow him straight to T. B. Mann.
Emily looked up from her book. “I made goat cheese and fig quesadillas. It sounds awful, but it’s good. The chef on the Food Network made it on the grill, but I cooked it on the griddle.”
Vining snagged a quesadilla triangle from beneath the plastic wrap covering the plate in the refrigerator. “This is great, Em. Thanks.”
“There’s a bag of arugula in there too. Drizzle on vinaigrette from the bottle in the fridge. The chef on the show made it from scratch, but whatever.”
“Bottled dressing … I don’t know, Em.” Vining walked behind Emily’s chair, slid her arms around her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Whatcha reading?”
Emily turned the book to show the cover. “
Razored Soul
. It’s fantastic. I can’t put it down.”
“That thing. Please don’t tell me you bought that with your hard-earned babysitting money.”
“Aubrey’s mother lent it to me. She read it in one night and loved it. It’s really good.”
“That jerk murdered a twenty-two-year-old man in cold blood. Now he’s a celebrity.”
“You haven’t even read the book. He did his time. He’s reformed.”
“Reformed.”
“Mom, don’t you believe in redemption? You’ve gotten cynical.”
Vining let the dig slide. “He’s good-looking.”
“He’s a total fox.”
Closing her bedroom door, Vining thought about her daughter’s question. Did she believe in redemption? Could she paint her dogged pursuit of the Nitro mystery and T. B. Mann in that rosy hue? Or was her true motive baser? Vengeance. Pure and simple.
From her purse, she took Johnna Alwin’s blood-speckled necklace and carefully arranged it on the bed. Pearls and garnet. She followed with the necklace she’d confiscated from Nitro. Pearls and sapphire. Then she retrieved her own. Pearls and pearl.
All the same. All connected.
Who were the other women in Nitro’s drawings?
The phone rang. Vining frowned when she glanced at the clock. It was close to midnight. She let Em answer it, as it was probably one of her friends. Teenagers occupied a different universe when it came to the appropriate time for phone calls.
Emily knocked on her door.
Vining quickly tossed a pillow over the necklaces. She felt ridiculous, like she was hiding contraband.
“It’s Jim,” her daughter said through the door.
Vining picked up the extension in her room. “Hey.”
“Sorry to call so late.”
They both heard a click as Emily hung up the other phone.
“It’s all right. I’m up. What’s going on?”
“I had an interesting trip down to Niland.” He quickly filled her in. “The real reason I called is we found Dillon Somerset. He wasn’t backpacking in the Sierras. He was living in Oliver Mercer’s house.”
“What a nut case.”
“It gets better. He confessed to the Mercer and Richards murders.”
TWENTY-SIX
T
he PPD
Cadets who had been watching Oliver Mercer’s house had noticed a dim light coming from inside. The patrol officers who burst in found lit candles surrounding the bloody area where Mercer’s and Richards’s bodies had been found. Somerset’s sleeping bag was nearby. He had been keeping vigil.
He had gained entry to the house through an unlocked sliding glass door off the living room terrace, throwing a rope over the railing and climbing up. The cadets were positioned at the front of the house to keep sightseers and family and friends away until it was released by the PPD. The home’s backyard was a terraced hillside that ran into the backyard of the house facing the street below it. It would have been easy for Somerset to hop the fence into Mercer’s yard.
Vining and Kissick would have dismissed his confession as the ravings of a crackpot, but Somerset had revealed details about the crime that had not been released to the public. When the PPD officers arrested Somerset at Mercer’s house, he was raving about having murdered Mercer and Richards. The officers reported that Somerset seemed delusional.
Even though the confession stemmed more from a twist of fate than from a searing interview by Ruiz, he was acting as if he’d broken the case. Kissick and Vining could not dispute the importance of a confession from a key suspect, but they were far from convinced that they should take their eyes off of Mark Scoville and Jack Jenkins, even for a second.
Lieutenant Beltran, who was all about closing cases, was already beating the drum.
Somerset refused to have an attorney present while he was being interviewed by the detectives. This did nothing to stop his father from hiring one. Before long, notorious criminal defense attorney Carmen Vidal showed up at the station. The detectives were surprised to learn that Vidal was much more petite than she appeared on television. The only part that seemed bigger was her black hair. Her abrasive demeanor, however, came through as effectively in person as it did over the tube as she argued with Sergeant Early.
Early kept her cool. “Ms. Vidal, Dillon Somerset has waived his right to an attorney. I can not allow you to speak with him until he asks for one.”
“I’m not convinced that you’ve adequately explained Dillon’s rights and the ramifications of waiving them to him.”
“Ms. Vidal, our detectives are seasoned investigators. They’ve made Dillon aware of his rights and he said that he understands.”
“Sergeant, you need to understand something. Dillon is a highly intelligent—a genius, actually—and sensitive young man. The only possible reason he would have confessed to these murders is because he was intimidated by your cops. One of your cops who apprehended Dillon has had several complaints filed against him for excessive use of force. The threats and intimidation started in the Mercer house and are continuing right now in your interview room. We’ll be forced to make an example of the Pasadena Police Department to demonstrate that you cannot impinge on citizens’ civil rights. Dillon has no criminal record. You can waste taxpayer money pursuing this charade, or you can let this clearly distraught young man go home and grieve for his murdered girlfriend in peace.”
Early quipped, “Stalking her makes her his girlfriend?”
Vidal didn’t respond.
“Ms. Vidal,” Early began, remaining patient. “Six officers and one of our most seasoned field sergeants were on-scene when Dillon was arrested inside Mercer’s home. We have statements from each of them, all reporting that Dillon did not resist and he repeatedly stated, without provocation, ‘I killed them. I killed them both.’ Further, the entire interview is being videotaped so there can be no question about what went on. You already know all of this, Ms. Vidal. You’re wasting my time, and I don’t enjoy people wasting my time. If Dillon requests an attorney, we’ll let you know. For now, I’ll have someone escort you downstairs. If you choose to wait, you can do so in the lobby.”
“How long am I supposed to sit there?”
“As long as Dillon’s parents are prepared to pay your hourly fee.”
While Sergeant Early happily watched Carmen Vidal leave the area, Kissick came up to her.
* * *
“Isn’t she that attorney who’s on television all the time?” he asked.
“Yep. The highly paid advocate for the notorious. Has Dillon asked for an attorney yet?”
“Nope. He says attorneys are idiots. We’re idiots. Everyone’s an idiot, except Dillon.”
“How’s it going?”
Kissick looked dubious. “Well, we took his statement.”
“You don’t think much of it.”
“He got some things right about the crime, but he spent a couple of days in that house. He’s a smart, analytical guy.”
“A genius,” Early offered sarcastically.
“Makes sense that he would have figured a few things out, but he got key things wrong. He said he stabbed Lauren to death when her neck was broken. That’s a big detail to muck up. Without any evidence, the best we can do is arrest him on a couple of rinky-dink charges.”
“Maybe Nan and the others will find what we need in his apartment,” Early said. “I just can’t figure it out. Dillon seems lucid. He’s intelligent. If he didn’t do it, why confess?”
“Sarge, I’m gonna get to the bottom of it if it takes all night.”
The PPD detectives searched for evidence at Somerset’s apartment and his parents’ house.
The main house was a burnt sienna–colored Mediterranean in San Marino, a city of 13,000 wealthy and merely affluent residents that bordered Pasadena to the
south. The apartment above the four-car garage where Somerset lived was a studio with a small kitchen.
Caspers and Vining were tagging and bagging in the apartment. Other teams were going through the main house.
“This is a sweet crib,” Caspers said. “I wonder how much Somerset’s parents would rent it to me for, seeing as it’s going to be empty when their son ends up on death row.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate having a new tenant already lined up. Though I doubt they need the money, judging from this spread.” Vining was shaking out books she was taking from the shelves that lined the available wall space. “This guy lives like a monk.”