Life Sentences (24 page)

“He was always more important to you than,” Celeste shuddered, “Pilar.” A picture of a teenage boy flashed before her. Pain raged across her forehead like lightning bolts. She rubbed her brow and cried. Detective Patterson patted her shoulder. Marcus didn’t move.

C
ELESTE HOVERED IN THE
middle of Pilar’s apartment and inhaled the agonizingly familiar scent of Lauren perfume. It filled the stagnant air. A half-eaten English muffin sat on a plate next to an empty coffee cup. Celeste forced a meager smile when she spotted other dirty dishes filling the sink, a habit Pilar had never broken.

Seeing Pilar’s usual disarray reminded Celeste of her first visit to the Ann Arbor apartment. She could still taste the Brie they had bought together at Zingermans, feel how the creamy, ripe cheese had slid across her tongue. The store was no bigger than a large bedroom, but every narrow aisle was crammed with heavy-laden shelves beckoning with one scrumptious treat after another – English Lemon shortbread cookies, imported Chinese teas, orange-infused olive oil. In the cooler, they found half-baked sourdough bread flown in from San Francisco each morning, patés, fresh baked scones, and creme fraische. The cozy aromas from the Jewish deli squeezed into the rear of the buildingfloated them into a distant world. All together, it was a wonderful place to share. Celeste craved to be there with Pilar again.

The memory engulfed Celeste with such a heaviness she felt as though she was being buried in an avalanche. She crumpled onto a chair near the dining table.

“Mrs. Brookstone?”

Celeste looked toward the kind voice. For the first time she was aware of Detective Patterson’s intense blue eyes. Until he called her name she had forgotten he brought her to the apartment. What a relief to be there without Marcus, as she had requested.

“Yes?” Celeste finally acknowledged Patterson in dreamy hoarseness.

He sat in another chair at the table. He wore the same navy suit, white shirt, and striped tie. It seemed like a uniform for the detectives; unassuming, yet authoritative. Patterson placed a stack of items in front of Celeste. “We haven’t found Pilar’s car keys and her purse held nothing unusual. From the search of the apartment we found these.” He placed his hand on the pile of papers. “I thought you might find something in them to help us.”

On top was a picture of a young man. Celeste dropped the framed photo.

“Do you recognize him?” Patterson asked as he picked up the picture and handed it back.

“Yes, no.” Celeste shook her head. “What I mean is, he reminds me of Marcus when he was a young man. So handsome, so young and healthy.”

“Other than pictures of you and a dog, this is the only photograph we found so far. Could he be a boyfriend?”

Celeste took the picture from him and studied the smiling, rosy-cheeked face. “I guess. Pilar mentioned a young man she met in Marquette. Chad, I think she called him. She had promised I’d meet him soon.”

“She never talked about him to you?” he asked without accusing. Celeste admired his tactfulness, and was grateful.

“Not really.” She recalled her conversation with Pilar over Mother’s Day brunch. Celeste rested her head in her hands and sobbed. Would she ever forgive herself for thinking only about her unhappy life with Marcus? If she hadn’t been so self-absorbed she might have prevented Pilar’s death. She should have paid attention to her premonition.

Detective Patterson waited a few minutes. Then he handed Celeste a tissue. “Do you recognize this key?” He lifted it from an envelope. Sunlight streaked across his close-cropped platinum hair.

Celeste blew her nose. “No. But it looks like a safe deposit box key.”

“Do you know where Pilar did her banking?” He handed her the key.

As she stared at the small metal piece, Celeste realized how little she knew about Pilar’s day-to-day life. She turned the key over in her hand as though it might reveal aclue. “I’m not sure,” she whispered.

Celeste set the key on the table and perused the rest of the items Patterson gave her: dry-cleaning slips, address book, pictures of Pilar with her dog Bud, more bank statements. “What’s this?” she asked herself rather than Patterson.

He leaned over her shoulder to examine the paper she held. “Citizens Bank in Ypsilanti. Do you know if that’s Pilar’s only bank?”

Celeste shrugged and asked, “A $3,000 withdrawal?”

Patterson paused for a moment to let Celeste absorb the receipt’s meaning. “Is it unusual for Pilar to withdraw that much money?” he asked.

“Yes. She charges — charged — everything to get credit for frequent flyer miles.” She studied the receipt. “Why would she need that much money? And where did it go?”

“There was only $49 in her wallet. But the $3,000 was withdrawn weeks ago. About the time she moved here.”

“Just before Mother’s Day,” Celeste acknowledged. The memory of their brunch together on that sun-filled morning punctured Celeste’s chest with stabbing pain.

Patterson picked up the bank receipt Celeste let fall from her hand. “Maybe she was buying things for this apartment.” His arm flowed in front of him as though showing the rooms to a potential renter.

“No. Like I said, she charged everything, even groceries.” Celeste paused. “For the miles.” Her nose smarted asthough she were peeling onions. “Even though she could afford a full price air fare, for Pilar,” her voice quivered, “it was the principle.” Celeste looked around the unadorned room. “Besides, there’s nothing new here that I can tell.”

Patterson was silent, as though allowing Celeste time to process the mounting facts. Then he said, “There could be some pertinent information in the safe deposit box, something that might help us.” He took the key from the table. “Are you up to going to the bank to see what’s in that box?”

“Yes.” Though exhaustion tried to overpower every muscle, Celeste had to go on. “Of course.” As she stood to leave, Celeste noticed the newspaper on the corner of the table. It was folded to reveal the pictures of the escapee and that woman Jane. “There is one thing.” Celeste retrieved the paper. “Pilar told me she had a friend from Hawk Haven. A nurse named Jane.” She handed the
Free Press
to Patterson. “Pilar never mentioned this man, though.”

Detective Patterson stashed the newspaper into his attache. “That could be helpful information.” Then he passed a piece of paper to her. “I found this by the telephone.”

The note in Pilar’s hand writing said,
10AM — Tommy, bank lot
. Celeste gave it back to him. “So, there is a connection.”

“Could be,” Patterson placed the note next to the newspaper. “But we need more evidence.”

When they reached the door, another item caught Celeste’s eye. It was an overdo library book on top of an unpacked box. The title stopped her:
Women Who Love Men Who Kill
. An odd choice of reading material for Pilar. Maybe she was doing some research on the women prisoners. “May I take this?” she asked.

Patterson nodded. Celeste tucked the book into her purse to look over later.

T
HE BANK MANAGER GAVE
Celeste copies of Pilar’s records. Listed on the statement was a withdrawal of $25,000 from her savings account on July 17, the day she was murdered. Hands shaking, Celeste showed the statement to Patterson.

“It certainly wasn’t found in her car or purse,” he said, as though making the comment out loud to himself rather than to Celeste. “But that clarifies the note a bank patron gave to us.”

“What note?” Celeste asked.

A man who had read about the police asking for any leads about Pilar’s murder had contacted the detective. He reported finding a note on his car parked in the bank lot. It was from Pilar telling him she dented his car. She left her telephone number. The accident happened on the day she was murdered. The day she also withdrew the $25,000.

Celeste gazed at the people forming a snakelike line waiting to complete transactions with the tellers. Pilar stood in a line just like that only two days earlier. Her image emerged almost life-like into Celeste’s mind. Pilar seemedanxious, perhaps scared. “Pilar must have sold everything to get that kind of cash.” She sighed. “But why?” She tilted her head back and squeezed her eyes closed.

When Celeste and Patterson entered the room filled with locked boxes, Celeste’s stomach plunged like an out-of-control elevator. She was about to discover a daughter she had never known.

The clerk told Detective Patterson, “Doctor Brookstone came here at least once a week. She kept a large box.” She patted number 311 and inserted her key. She turned to Celeste and waited for her to put the second key into its space.

Celeste’s hand moved as though attached to another person and brushed over box 311. She held it there for several seconds. How would she handle what was inside? Finally, she inserted her key. Once she opened the door, the clerk removed her key and left.

Celeste’s throat seemed to close as though preventing a large foreign object from going down. In slow, agonized motion she pulled the metal box from its chamber and placed it on a table.

Patterson sat down. He waited without speaking. Celeste took the chair near him and lifted the top. The box brimmed with papers, mostly love letters from Chad.

Celeste started to speak, but the words stuck. She cleared her throat and announced in an almost inaudible tone, “He’s a prisoner.” The book Celeste took from Pilar’s apartment flashed into her mind. Pilar was reading aboutherself. Celeste knew she had to read it, too.

“We suspected Pilar was involved with an inmate at Hawk Haven,” the detective said, interrupting Celeste’s reverie. “At least from the information Warden Whitefeather gave me. And when you mentioned Chad today, I was sure.”

The hair on Celeste’s arms prickled as though a thousand ants marched on their surface. She rubbed the imaginary bugs away. As she went through the box, each letter uncovered in great detail Pilar’s deep involvement with Chad. “She was going to get him out of prison,” Celeste stated without looking away from the stack of letters. “Is that possible?” She rubbed her arms harder.

“I doubt it. Chad Wilbanks is a serial killer serving life without parole.”

A knife jabbed at Celeste’s heart and bile advanced into her throat as it had so many times over those past days. She swallowed hard and asked, “Why, Pilar, why?”

O
VER THAT PAST YEAR
, Pilar had become distant about her friends, even Julie who had called Celeste many times to ask why Pilar had been unresponsive. Pilar seemed hesitant to share any information with either her own mother or her best friend. But how could she hide a romantic involvement with a murderer?

Patterson squeezed Celeste’s shoulder. His hand was both powerful and comforting. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business,” he explained, “people do oddthings, often out of character.”

Celeste pulled a small journal from the box. “It’s her diary.”

“We’ll need to go through that. You can have it after, if you don’t mind.” The detective sounded more business-like than usual.

“Of course you can take it. I doubt her diary can be any more damning than those letters,” Celeste answered as she lifted the last paper from the container. “It’s her will,” she whispered. When she finished reading it, she handed the will to Patterson. “Pilar left him everything.”

How could she be so stupid, so näive? A brilliant doctor, no, a brilliant person. Since other documentation proved the will was filed with the county probate court, Celeste saw little recourse but to accept Pilar’s decision. What did it matter? No money would bring her back. And if Pilar wanted Chad to have it, who was she to disagree?

Clipped to the will was a picture of Chad in his cell. “How can that be?” She passed it to Patterson.

“What, Mrs. Brookstone? How can what be?”

Celeste saw Marcus playing tennis at an age approximately that of Chad’s in the photo. “Oh, I just can’t understand how Pilar could have been involved with a murderer.”

“It’s always a mystery.” He took the will from her. His hands were soft, clean.

“And that picture,” Celeste added. “Are prisoners allowed to take pictures?”

“Yes. But normally in a designated, less secure area than a cell. I’ll ask the warden to investigate how Wilbanks got the inmate photographer to do this.”

A second picture was tucked behind that of Chad. “Who is this woman?” Celeste asked.

Patterson turned the picture over. Printed on the back was the name Maryann Wilbanks. “I assume she’s Chad’s mother, or some other relative,” he answered.

Then they both examined the picture of Chad one more time as though it would bring forth an answer. Patterson finally packed it. “I’ll need to take the contents for evidence.” He lifted the safe deposit box. “Is that okay?”

“Certainly.” Celeste was only half paying attention while he filled out a receipt for all the items he took from both the apartment and the bank. Celeste signed it and they each took a copy.

“What I need you to do for me,” Celeste declared, “is to arrange a meeting with this Warden Whitefeather. I want to know more about what Pilar was doing up north.”

“That can be arranged.” Patterson shoved the contents of the safe deposit box into his overfilled attaché. He leaned one hand against the case to force it together and then snapped it closed. He lifted the attaché and looked at Celeste. “If you do find out anything at Hawk Haven that might help us, be sure to call me.”

“You can count on that, Detective Patterson.” She pushed away from the table and watched his precisemovements as he replaced the deposit box. Once again, she thought, here was the kind of man she had hoped Pilar would marry. Wholesome looking. Caring, not self-centered. If only … Celeste stopped herself from dwelling on the past. “If onlies” would get her nowhere. She set her sights on how to avenge Pilar’s senseless murder.

“I also need to meet face to face with Chad Wilbanks,” Celeste said, sounding almost like a detective herself. “There’s something about his part in all this that I need to figure out.”