Leave Yesterday Behind (25 page)

Chapter 37

Callie sat opposite Eric inside the Aurora Police Department. Nick sat next to her, his fingers linked through hers. She stole a glance at his bruised and swollen features, worrying anew at the pain he must have gone through while lying frozen as the killer viciously attacked him. Nick insisted on leaving the hospital first thing this morning, though, after an overnight stay.

She also thought of poor Petey, whom also suffered from the taser, and had been found cowering in the locked bedroom closet of the cottage, babbling how his “friend” hurt him. The police got little out of him, other than the fact that Lipstick Larry befriended Petey in town and bought him ice cream. Later, he offered to help Petey do his work, saying it would be fun for the two of them to work on the flowers together.

Petey kept talking about them playing hide and seek. The police surmised from his ramblings that the killer had hidden in the back floorboard of Mrs. Borgan’s car when she brought Petey back from lunch, as they’d found hair and other fibers present in the car that matched his. He must have slipped out and remained hidden from her and the assigned agents’ view while she and Petey carried in some groceries for him that were in the car’s trunk.

Agent Phillips entered the room, nodding curtly at them before taking a seat at the table next to Eric.

“Good morning. Thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it, Special Agent Phillips,” Nick told him. “I think Callie and I are ready for you to fill in the blanks for us.”

He gave her fingers a light squeeze. The gesture provided her the bit of courage she needed to hear what would be revealed. They’d already learned from Eric that the two FBI agents inside Noble Oaks had been found dead, having died before she and Nick had arrived back from their session with their doubles.

“Perp’s name is Raymond Morris. Birth certificate lists the mom as Genevieve Morris. Dad unknown. He was a bright kid. Off the charts in elementary school. Removed twice from his home due to suspected child abuse and the mother’s alcoholism and arrests for prostitution.”

Phillips shuffled the papers in front of him, pulling out one and studying it a moment.

“Mrs. Morris was found beaten to death when Ray was sixteen. Said he didn’t kill her, but no one else looked good for it, despite the long line of johns who regularly patronized her services. Spent six years in detention for the crime. Got out about eighteen months ago. Held a steady job, but failed to see his P.O. last week. Turns out he’d gone AWOL from his job about a month earlier.”

The agent turned a few more pages and cleared his throat. “Checked his last known address. Suspicious neighbor next door to the brownstone where he’d been renting a room told the cops that Morris told her that he was moving to Queens. Said his landlady decided to join her relatives down in Florida. No one saw her leave. Just took Morris’s word.”

“That was enough to get a warrant,” Eric continued as Phillips took a sip of coffee. “They found a plethora of proof in the basement that will no doubt link Morris to the rapes and murders of the New York blonds. Plus the landlady’s remains.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“But what about Nick?” she asked. “I thought I’d endangered his life by becoming involved with him, but Morris told me he had already targeted Nick. He thought it was fate that we were both in Aurora, and he could deal with us at the same time.”

Phillips shrugged. “I haven’t gotten that out of him yet. Nothing connects them. We can get him on assault and battery on Mr. La Chappelle, but I don’t think the attempted murder charges would stick.”

“But he told me he was going to kill Nick!” she exclaimed, wanting justice.

The SAC raised a hand. “He’s waived all rights to an attorney—if we’ll let him see Mr. La Chappelle. Alone.”

Nick’s eyebrows raised a notch. “Is that allowed?”

“Declining an attorney is his right. Stating he’d do so only unless he met with you?” Phillips shook his head. “I couldn’t promise him you’d see him. He won’t guarantee me anything unless I do.”

“Then I’ll see him,” Nick stated, a grim determination on his face. “I think we have to have some answers. If that’s the way to get them, I’ll be happy to cooperate.”

Eric left the room and returned minutes later. “Everything’s arranged. He’s being brought to interrogation.” He studied his cousin. “Sure you want to do this, buddy?”

“Positive. And you’ll all be watching, won’t you? Don’t you have one of those two-way glass set-ups?”

Eric nodded. “You bet. Let’s head that way.”

They all stood and filed down the hallway. Eric indicated a door, and Callie entered a small room that overlooked Aurora’s lone interrogation room. Eric and Agent Phillips followed her in. She watched as a deputy led Morris into the empty room and seated him at the table. She breathed a sigh of relief. His hands were cuffed. He wore leg shackles.

Nick entered the room, his battered face void of emotion. The deputy motioned for him to be seated across from Morris.

“I’ll be right outside the door, Mr. La Chappelle. You just holler, and I’ll come a-running if you need me.”

“Thanks, officer.”

The lawman left, closing the door behind him. Nick and Morris studied each other for a long moment. Callie explored one profile, then the other. A prickling crept through her. She suddenly knew what this was about.

“So I suppose I should ask you for your autograph?”

“No. Not that I’d give it to you anyway.”

Morris stared at Nick. “You still don’t get it, do you? Mr. Smooth. The poster boy for broadcasters. And here I’d always thought you were fairly smart.”

“Smart enough not to butcher women.”

“Way to go, bro. Nice comeback.”

Callie watched as realization dawned on Nick’s face.

“You mean . . .”

Morris slammed his cuffed hands down on the table. “Exactly. Aren’t you ready to welcome me to the family? Maybe I could be best man when you marry that slut.”

Nick’s eyes flashed anger, but he remained seated and silent.

“I grew up smart—and very, very poor, Nicky Boy. Mom caved and took the welfare. Moved every few months to beat the rent. Beating me up in her spare time was her only hobby, and she was really good at it. Yeah, lots of love in the old Morris household.”

Morris leaned back in his chair. “I was smart and small for my age. Basically, a geek without the glasses. And not an athletic bone in my body. Always got picked last in gym class. Wedgies in the locker room. They shook me down for my lunch money over and over till they figured out I never had any. Then they’d be pissed and drag me to the toilet to swish my head around in for taking up their time. And those are the good memories, Nicky. Yeah, I had an awesome childhood.”

He shifted in the chair. “But I’d lose myself in TV. Just like Mom would. She wanted to be a soap opera queen like Erica Kane or Viki Buchanan or Nikki Newman. She came to New York with big dreams in her heart. She never made it because she got knocked up with me. She never mentioned my old man. I never dared ask.

“Then one day I was watching a Dodgers’ game. Everyone from my neck of the woods pulled for the Yankees. But I loved the Dodgers. Those clean, crisp uniforms. The beautiful ballpark in sunny California. And I wished every night I could be on that team. Yeah, right—punky little Ray Morris who couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time, much less hit a ball. I dreamed about escaping and being a star athlete. Handsome. Rich. No one bullying me ever again.”

He leaned back and rested his arms on the table. “And one spring night when the apartment was already baking in the heat, a new pitcher went out to the mound to pitch against the Mets. And the announcers bragged on this rookie Texan with a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball and a wicked change-up to match. They flashed your face on the screen.

“And my mom had just seen a john out the door and turned around and got a glimpse of you. And she fainted dead away.” He laughed. “I freaked, man. Splashed cold water in her face. Thought the heat had done a number on her. But when she came to? She started cursing a blue streak. And then she told me my dad looked exactly like you.”

Nick remembered that night as if it were yesterday. He’d gone straight from high school into Triple A and only spent a season there before getting called to the big show the next spring. That night he’d pitched against the Mets had been his debut in front of the L.A. home crowd. He’d struck out fifteen batters despite all the butterflies in his stomach.

And his parents had been there. He’d flown them out especially for that night.

“Did she see my . . . our dad in the crowd?”

Morris nodded. “You catch on real fast. She recognized him right away when the cameras cut to him, despite the fact that a few years had gone by. They even interviewed him between innings. He bragged on what a great kid you were. How talented and smart you were. How proud he was of his only son.”

Morris stood up abruptly, his chair falling back against the wall. “You had everything. You got the looks and the talent and a great home. I lived in hell every day of my life. The old man fucked my mom once and never looked back.”

Nick eyed his own flesh and blood, recognizing the killer now as a paler version of himself without all the advantages he’d been raised with. He couldn’t imagine the horror of being brought up in such a hostile environment. And it sickened him how his father had been in part responsible for the way this man turned out.

It had always been unspoken between him and his mom. They’d grown so close over the years as his dad traveled from coast to coast for his job over extended periods. Yet he’d heard the times she’d cried, either from loneliness or when she found evidence of her husband’s infidelity as she unpacked his bags. Nick tried his best to make it up to her. They both expressed silent relief when Dick La Chappelle passed away from a sudden heart attack after his first season in the majors. He’d provided for his mom ever since.

He studied his half-brother, wishing he could change so many things and knowing he never could.

The deputy opened the door. “Agent Phillips would like to see you, sir.”

Nick rose, a hurt in his heart pounding heavily. Pity—mixed with revulsion—warred within him as he thought of the atrocities committed at the hands of this man. Before he could speak, Raymond Morris did.

“Yeah, run away, golden boy. You wouldn’t want to be seen with the likes of me.” He snorted. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll invite you to the execution. Should be another ten years down the road by the time all the appeals are exhausted.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Morris’s face. “Have fun with Jessica now. But be watching over your shoulder. If I ever get out, you two will be the first to know.” His smile broadened. Nick knew pure evil danced across the killer’s face.

His insides clinched tightly. He locked his jaw and left the room without another word.

Outside, the deputy led him in the room where Callie, Eric, and Phillips had viewed the interview.

“We have out of him what we needed, and the motive,” Phillips said. “No reason for you to stay in there with him any longer.”

“Do you think they’ll find him insane?” Nick asked. “With the circumstances of his childhood? His delusions of revenge on a dad he never knew? And Callie symbolizing everything his poor mom wanted and never achieved?”

Phillips shrugged. “Not my call. My job was to find him, and I’ve done that. He’ll be tried in New York first on the serial murders before he would be returned to Louisiana to face the charges of Detective Waggoner’s murder. He’s proven canny enough that I don’t think an insanity plea would be feasible. Not that a sly attorney won’t try it.”

A knot of fear twisted inside as he watched his half-brother being led from the room. Would he and Callie be able to create a life together without always peering into the shadows, worried that Morris lurked there?

Epilogue

Nick opened the door to the living room and found Callie absently twisting the gold band on her finger as she chewed on her lip, her pen poised above the notebook in her lap. He grinned, knowing she must be hard at work on her new soap. He’d thought it a terrific idea when she shared she was thinking of stepping behind the scenes and creating her own show. They tossed out ideas for characters and plots the entire time they honeymooned in Cancun.

“You busy?” he asked.

When Callie caught sight of him, a smile lit her face. God, it gave him chills every time he looked at her and thought of how he’d almost lost her.

But that was behind them.

“Did you get the pictures?” She set aside her work.

He held up the bag. “Right here. Walgreen’s was delighted to print out a bazillion digital pictures for us. And I haven’t even cheated and gone through them yet.”

He went and sat beside her, his arms automatically going around her as he gave her a lingering kiss.

“Mmm,” she sighed. “With your looks and the way you kiss? You could be Jake.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your lead character? I’ll consider that high praise.” He kissed her again, inhaling the familiar honeysuckle scent on her skin. It went to his head every time. He needed to watch it, or they’d be in the bedroom within the next thirty seconds, and he really needed to share the news he’d just received with her.

She reached for the sack and pulled out the envelopes with their pictures from Mexico. Nick decided to let her enjoy those for a few minutes. Her delight at retracing their spontaneous trip after her wrist and his ribs healed gave him immense satisfaction.

She paused at one of them on the beach, the sun beginning to set behind them as they sealed their wedding vows with a kiss.

“I think we did the right thing. Getting married with no fuss. Just us. No
paparazzi
.”

“Works for me every time,” he said as he nuzzled her neck.

“And I’m glad Aunt C understood.”

“Well, she gave us one hell of a party after we returned, so I don’t think she’s holding a grudge against us.”

Nick took the pictures from her hands and placed them on the coffee table in front of them. He took her hands in his.

“I need to tell you something,” he said softly.

She tensed. “It’s about him, isn’t it? Raymond Morris.”

He nodded. “After I stopped in for the pictures, I ran into Eric. He was going to come over and talk to both of us, but once I saw the look on his face, I pretty much forced it out of him.”

“Eric did always give away what he was thinking.” She took a deep breath. “What is it, Nick?”

“He’s dead. He won’t ever bother us again.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? Dead? His trial isn’t even—”

“An inmate killed him, Callie. And in an ironic turn, he turns out to be a huge fan of Jessica’s.”

“What?”

Nick shook his head, still hardly believing the story. “You said you have your prison groupies who tune in every day. Well, Jimbo Fineman claims he’s your biggest fan. He’s even a member of your fan club, and has your pictures all over his cell walls.

“And when he found out that Morris is the one who tried to kill you? Let’s just say he took justice into his own hands. Eric said it happened early this morning. Supposedly, Mr. Fineman has been crowned a hero by his fellow prisoners.”

She shuddered. “I can’t believe someone . . . killed for me. That’s so weird.”

Nick squeezed her hands. “Weird or not, it’s over. It’s behind us, hon. We can sleep better tonight, knowing Morris will never trouble us again.”

A grin crossed Callie’s face. “Who said anything about sleeping tonight?”