Inside, the air was mechanically cooled, the building was quiet and, as Josie waited for the elevator she thought about P.J's generosity with the discovery documents. There were pictures of Michelle McCreary's face from ten different angles and more pictures taken after they rolled her over. Those weren't so pretty. Josie counted fifteen close-ups of her wrists and forearms; more of her fingers and her thighs. The prosecution would argue the bruises and contusions were made as Michelle McCreary fought for her life. Josie's expert would counter they were made as Grace tried to restrain her sister-in-law. All Josie needed to do now was pace off the balcony again, measure the height of the railing, reenact the scenario that Grace had laid out. If Josie was her own devil's advocate then she'd be ready for anything P.J. Vega threw at her.
Palming the key she rode up the elevator only to find herself wishing she was anywhere else when the doors opened. The place felt like a mortuary where the only thing that came to visit was grief. Skittish, pretending not to be, Josie tossed the key in the air, caught it just right and put it in the door. The tumblers tumbled. She turned the knob. She pushed the door open and exclaimed: ''Oh, my God.''
CHAPTER 21
Still gripping the door, Josie thought twice about taking the next step as her eyes darted left and right and forward again. Cautiously she went in, keeping the door open behind her. She would run but only if she had to. Until then, Josie stayed close to the wall and mentally catalogued what she saw.
The furniture hadn't been moved but the small things were trashed: two thirds of the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves had been thrown to the ground, papers from the desk were everywhere, computer discs tossed in for good measure. The laptop computer had been thrown into a corner and its screen still pulsated with flat blue light. Whatever happened, it happened in the last two hours or the battery would have been dead.
To Josie's left was the kitchen; to her right were the doorways and hallways that led to the private wing of the penthouse. The hallways appeared to be empty. The master bedroom door was closed. Josie eased herself into the kitchen. It was untouched, gleaming as if it had never been used. Josie slid a knife out of the block on the island. Small enough to maneuver, it was also big enough to do some damage. There was a phone on the wall. She dialed, got a dispatcher and told him to send a car – or ten.
Keeping her shoulder to the wall she retraced her steps, easing past the guest bath. No one was reflected in the oval mirror over the sink. She looked left through the glass to the expansive balcony. It was deserted and she could see people in the adjacent high rise. A woman doing aerobics. A couple eating dinner. A man standing in the middle of his living room as if he didn't know what to do. Another enjoying the evening on his balcony blissfully unaware of Josie and whatever had happened inside the darkened McCreary penthouse.
Licking her lips, Josie took another step and went past a closet. The door was ajar. She pushed it with her foot. It had been rifled but no one was in there. The bedrooms were next. Suddenly, Josie froze sure and her ears pricked. She had heard something. A scratching behind a wall? The sound of a footfall? The wail of a distant siren? But there was nothing except the sound of her own breath scraping against her lungs.
Inching forward she touched the front door knowing she should walk through. Run and not look back. Instead, curiosity and arrogance drove her on. The knife in her hand slipped, sweat loosening her grip. The curious systematic ransacking of this place and the sense that there was something to discover was compelling. There was no place to go but to the closed doors, through the hallway, into the places that were mired in dark. She scuttled across the living room and crouched near the hall, taking inventory of the rooms she could see: a guest room, an office, another bedroom. Only the office had been touched. There were papers on the floor, the desk drawers were opened.
Slowly, she backed out and into the living room. It was easier to breath now. The hand that held the knife was steady. Whoever had done this was specific in their intent. A political foe was the best bet. Or, perhaps, someone interested in Michelle, someone Matthew didn't know about. Whoever it was had a key because there was no sign of forced entry. Grace could not be ruled out and that was a damn scary thought.
Still vigilant, Josie had one last place to look. She put her hand on the knob of the master bedroom door, licked her dry lips then opened it. In the pale little moon of brightness Josie saw something that stopped her heart. Instantly, she was sorry for her small cry of dismay. It was unfair. It was intrusive. It was pitiful. She should have backed away and left before Matthew McCreary looked up from where he sat on the floor surrounded by - almost buried in – his dead wife's clothes.
CHAPTER 22
''Are they gone?'' Matthew's eyes tracked Josie as she joined him on the balcony.
''Yes,'' She answered.
The police had come in force, responding to Josie's call of breaking and entering, whereabouts of the perpetrator unknown. They came with guns drawn to Matthew McCreary's house where something horrible had already happened and something worse might be happening. Babcock was the first to arrive, the last to leave and the only one not convinced that everything was, indeed, alright . Josie had poured a scotch for Matthew, delivering it while Babcock watched. When Josie returned to the living room she wasn't happy with Babcock's continued scrutiny of Matthew McCreary.
Nothing mysterious, Babcock. Grief. Pure and simple
That's what Josie told the detective but it wasn't enough to put a wedge between Mathew and Babcock's interest
A delayed reaction.
No time to mourn.
Needed to deal with his wife's things.
Anger. Can't you understand that?
That happens when people die. The way she died. Without knowing why she died.
For God sake, Babcock, get a clue. Take a hike.
Josie said all these things but Babcock suggested another word.
Guilt?
And, if it was guilt that drove Matthew then Babcock had to wonder what kind he could be harboring, how deep it ran and, most importantly, whether or not it was warranted. Josie showed Babcock to the door without asking him for a theory. When he was gone, she put her palm against the door and her forehead against the back of her hand. She was shrinking, wasting away in this well appointed home.. Exhaustion could make a person think they were less than they were and Josie was no exception. She pushed off the door and found enough energy at her core to go help Matthew. Shoulders back, she crossed the living room giving Michelle's portrait no more attention than it deserved – a look, a glance, a momentary thought of the flawed woman it represented. Matthew needed to understand that he had not failed his wife. Michelle McCreary was as much a coward as Josie's own mother had been. They both ran from their problems and broke hearts on their way.
Needing help with damage control, Josie detoured to the kitchen and called Tim Douglas before joining Matthew on the balcony. He sat there with his legs apart, one arm resting on his thigh, the other on the table. His hand was still wrapped around the drink Josie had given him. A breeze toyed with his hair and then lay it back in charming disarray. Still he looked older, worn out and when she appeared it was a struggle for Matthew to raise his eyes.
''Tim told me you'd gone to San Diego.'' Josie hunkered down in front of him; she touched his knee; affection for an old friend who was hurting. ''He gave me the key. I wouldn't have intruded if I'd known.''
''That's what I told him. I. . .'' Matthew's voice trailed off and she could see that he had to force himself to catch the thread of his thought again. He put a hand over his eyes. It was an effort for him to speak. ''I just needed some time alone. I had to take care of Michelle's things.''
''Does Grace know what you're doing?''
Matthew shook his head.
''No. I don't want you to tell her. Do you understand?''
''No, I don't understand. She might have been able to help.''
''I don't want her help,'' Matthew answered. ''Michelle was my wife and that trumps Grace as her good buddy. This is something I needed to do.''
He bent his legs at right angles. He pushed aside the glass and the ice in it rattled. Slowly Matthew collapsed: elbows on knees, hands cupping his face, shoulders bowing. Josie stood up. She turned away. In the neighboring buildings life went on. The man who had stood aimlessly in his living room was now watching television. Josie could see the stutter of light as he clicked the remote and changed the channels, finding nothing to interest him. The aerobics woman's lights were out. Dinner was over for the couple in one of the units. Finally, Matthew raised his head.
''I haven't had time for myself since Michelle died,'' Matthew said wearily. Josie turned back now that Matthew was ready to talk. ''Everyone kept saying ‘after the election' take some time for yourself. After the election. After what election? The primaries? The general election? Months and months from now? I don't know when after is, Josie? I just hate that word.'' Matthew chuckled sadly. His bottom lip disappeared beneath his teeth and Josie had the feeling his was biting to bring blood. He cut his eyes her way. ''Do you want to know why?''
Josie knew it wouldn't have mattered who was standing in her place so she remained silent, listened and watched. Matthew's right knee jumped like it was keeping time to a miserable tune, his hands were clasped, he shook his head as he revved up to spill his guts.
''Everything about my life has been after. My dad used to say ‘after college there will be plenty of time for you to decide if you want to go into the business'. But there was no after college. There was only after he and my mom died. After the funeral I was told I was legally responsible for the business so my life would start after the business settled. Then after Grace got out of school. But Grace ran away and then it was after you find Grace. After you get over Grace. After you're married. After the election. After, after ,after. . .''
Matthew barked a laugh as his fist pounded the table keeping cadence with the recitation of that hated word. He got up too fast and used the table as leverage. It was a harsh and thoughtless gesture and the crystal glass jumped, toppled then rolled off the table shattering into a million pieces.
The last drops of the liquor made a dark stain on the pale tile, the shards of glass sparkled in the light from the surrounding buildings. Matthew walked through the glass, crushing it, trailing the dust of it into the living room. Josie swung her head and watched after him. He paused in front of Michelle's portrait then disappeared into the bedroom.
When he didn't come back, Josie followed and stood in the doorway watching Matthew pluck things out of the mountain of clothes, his jaw set as he folded them haphazardly, awkwardly, angrily.
''Michelle couldn't wait until after the election. She wanted me to lose.''
He threw an ecru colored ball gown on the pile. The satin skirt billowed up like a cloud. He tried to tame it, putting it on the bed, slapping it down only to find another yard of the shimmery fabric puffing up as the air was displaced.
''Michelle just couldn't wait. . .for me. . .to. . .lose.''
Pounding. Pounding on the skirt of that ball gown whose color was so very close to that of flesh, so very close to the feel of pampered skin. He gave up and left it a mess on the bed only to grab up a pair of slacks. Those he folded once, twice, three times until they were no more than a ball of fabric. He slammed those on the pile atop the evening dress.
''Michelle just couldn't understand what it meant to me. . .'' Twirling on Josie he looked at her as if he was peering through the fog of a fever. ''At least you had the guts to understand what I wanted and leave the right way. You never judged. You would never judge me. I begged her to understand what it was like. What my life had been like. But, no. Her life was always worse. She was higher and mightier and more righteous. I only wanted her to understand that I had it rough and I needed someone to understand me. I needed someone to care about me. . .''
Matthew took a step forward and Josie tipped her head, her brow furrowing. Nothing in memory prepared her for this angry, wounded, vindictive man. This was a true passion. This was a true love. This was a man who railed at the one person – the one woman – who was supposed to share his dream or at least understand it and who, instead, shattered it with so exquisite a statement as death.
''Matthew,'' Josie whispered. ''I'm so, so sorry. I wish I had known. I would have. . .''
''What? What would you have done, Josie if I had come to you and told you all these things about my wife and my marriage and my sister? Come on. Tell me how you'd make it all better.''
His hands up went up, his face flushed and Matthew was wild-eyed in his misery. The shadow of his days old beard made his face look hollow. He kicked aside the fine clothes and, in three long strides, crossed the room, taking Josie by the shoulders. His hands were big and his fingers were long. They dug into her skin, pinching muscle and nerve as he yanked her close. Josie's head fell back. She put her hands against his chest and didn't think, she couldn't think. Those hands were familiar, the emotion wasn't.
Another jerk of her body.
Her hands were wedged between their bodies. She could smell his desperation and, a second too late, realized this was a situation. Matthew's mouth crashed down on hers sp hard he might as well slapped her to the ground. This wasn't affection or need; this was a mindless expression of anger and hatred, frustration and betrayal, terror and longing. All of it was directed at Josie because she was there but it was meant for Michelle, or Grace.
Tears burned in Josie's eyes. There was pain. She tasted blood and felt a fascinating thrill as Matthew let go of her shoulders only to clamp his hands on either side of her head. He spread his fingers over her skull and pressed into her temples. The heels of his hands were over her ears so that his voice was muffled. Words became nothing more than low, insistent pulses of sound. He could crush her should he choose; crush her if she resisted.