Revenge of Innocents (4 page)

“Do you know where Jude is, Michael?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Are you gonna be our new babysitter?”

“Not exactly,” Carolyn said. Their house was smaller than the one she’d just sold, not more than twelve hundred square feet. She felt a chill and looked over her shoulder, expecting to hear Veronica’s boisterous laugh and learn that it was another of her practical jokes. Her death didn’t seem real, and yet at the same time, it seemed so immediate it was terrifying.

Carolyn stared at the framed photos lining the wall in the hallway. She’d lived so much of Veronica’s life she felt fractured, as if a part of her had disappeared. The boy broke away and went sprinting back to the room he shared with his brother. She heard something crash into the wall and rushed to see what had happened. Michael was sitting in the middle of the room bawling.

“He threw a car at me,” Peter shouted. Seeing Carolyn, he looked confused. A look of recognition appeared, and he went back to playing as if she weren’t there.

When Carolyn turned around, Drew was standing in the doorway. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t…I mean, do we have to call a funeral home now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I have to find Jude. She doesn’t have a cell phone. Veronica took it away from her. Sometimes she doesn’t come home for days. I can drive by some of the places where she hangs out.”

“Don’t worry about a funeral home,” Carolyn said, realizing there would be an autopsy. “The most pressing thing at the moment is for you to identify the body. The police want you to go to the morgue. You can call your regular babysitter if you’d like, or we can wait until Brad Preston gets here. He’s bringing Linda Cartwright. She’s one of our investigators. She can watch the children for you. She’s got two kids about the same age as Michael and Peter.”

Peter turned and stared at her, a somber expression on his face. She wondered if he’d figured out what they were talking about. She hadn’t wanted to do it this way, in front of the children, but it was too late now.

“When is Mommy coming home?” Peter asked in a strained voice.

“I don’t know,” Drew said without thinking. “I can’t do what you said, Carolyn. I don’t want that to be my last memory. Besides, I need to track down Jude. Why can’t you identify her?”

Carolyn sat down on one of the twin beds, pulling Michael into her lap. “I guess I could,” she said, stroking the child’s arm. A mother’s touch, she thought. Veronica’s children would never feel that again. Maybe Hank had been justified in asking her to break the news to Drew, but she was too emotionally involved. A stranger might have been better. “They say it’s important. It helps you begin the grieving process.”

“I want my wife back,” Drew said. “I don’t want to start the grieving process.”

“Star Wars,”
Michael said, clapping. He hopped out of her lap and dug in a box, returning and handing her an action figure.

“That’s Grievous,” Peter told her.

“Please, can’t we talk in the other room?” Carolyn handed the boy back his toy. Her stomach was churning with acid. Veronica was in the morgue and she was here, surrounding by everything she knew and loved.

“The kids want to be wherever we are,” Drew said. “One room is as good as the other.”

The doorbell rang and he left to answer it. Carolyn stayed in the children’s room, hoping she could keep them entertained. She stretched out on the floor, removing a handful of action figures from the box and offering them to Michael. While his brother’s head was turned, he snatched a truck off the mat. Peter exploded and kicked him. “You messed up everything again.”

A pretty brunette in her late thirties stuck her head in the room. Linda Cartwright nodded at Carolyn, and then squatted down beside the children. “You guys wouldn’t want to go to Dave and Busters with me, would you?”

“I wanna go,” Michael said, throwing his arms in the air.

“Who are you?” Peter asked.

“My name is Linda,” she told him. “I’m a friend of Carolyn’s. And what’s your name, big guy?”

“Peter,” he said, sizing her up. “Can you cook?”

The kids must think they’re interviewing nannies,
Carolyn thought, tugging on Linda’s sleeve. Veronica hadn’t said anything about hiring a live-in. Since she worked at home three days a week, it made more sense to take the children somewhere else. Stacy and Peter were in elementary school and Michael was in preschool. Why would they pay a live-in when they were strapped financially?

“Peter,” Linda said, “why don’t you and Michael put your toys away before we leave? If you’re good, I’ll buy you lots of game tokens.”

“Mickey needs a car seat,” Peter told her, sounding wiser than his seven years. “Mom makes me ride in a booster seat. It’s okay if you don’t have one.”

“Guess what?” Linda said, smiling. “I have two car seats, and one’s a booster. My boy, Ryan, is six and Timmy just turned four. Maybe you can come over and play with them one day. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Linda’s cheerful demeanor disappeared once they stepped outside the room. She was strong, Carolyn thought, the type of person you’d want beside you in a crisis. Brad had made a good decision in recruiting her to help out. “They don’t know their mother’s dead yet.”

“I gathered,” Linda answered. “You know Drew better than the rest of us. I’ll get the kids out of here so you two can talk. Has he notified Veronica’s family yet?”

Carolyn shook her head. “There’s another kid in the kitchen. Her name is Stacy.” She stopped and chewed on a cuticle. “Drew asked me to go to the morgue and identify the body. He says he can’t handle it.”

“Can your fiancé go with you?” Linda asked, tilting her head. “You’re awfully pale, Carolyn. I’m not sure you should be driving. Brad told me you’ve known Veronica since grade school. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said. “We went to St. Andrews together. We were cradle Catholics.”

“Shouldn’t you call a priest, then?”

“No,” Carolyn told her. “Drew’s an atheist, and Veronica was furious over the way the church handled the sex scandals. The last person she’d want in this house with her kids is a priest.”

“That’s too bad,” Linda answered. “Faith can plug a lot of holes at a time like this, particularly when there’re young children involved.”

“Nothing can plug this hole,” Carolyn told her, heading to the living room.

She exchanged a few words with Brad, embraced Drew, and left to go the morgue.

Tuesday, October 12—8:15
P
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M
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O
ne side of Veronica’s head was gone. Her blond hair was caked in blood, and her face was unreconizable. Carolyn bent over and stared at the gold wedding band on her left hand. “It’s her,” she told the morgue attendant, a portly Irish man with red hair and freckles. When he started to zip the bag up, she added, “I’d like a few minutes if you don’t mind.”

“Take all the time you want,” Sean O’Malley said. “Just give a holler if you need anything.”

Poor Veronica, Carolyn thought. Before Marcus had come into her life, she’d envied her. She might not have had much in the way of material possessions, but she’d had everything that mattered—a decent husband, four beautiful children, a great personality. No matter how depressed Carolyn got, Veronica always found a way to pull her out of it. She’d never let her work get to her. Last year had changed that, though. But she couldn’t think of that now. She had to pay her respects, let go, find a way to reconcile herself to what had happened.

Picking up her friend’s lifeless hand, she said, “I love you, honey. I promise the bastard who did this to you will pay. Don’t worry about Drew and the kids. It’ll be hard at first, but they’ll make it.” She placed the dead woman’s hand on her chest, the same chest the county pathologist, Charley Young, would soon slice open during the autopsy.

Why was she talking to a corpse?

Was Veronica with God now? She’d never done anything seriously wrong, at least not as far as Carolyn was concerned. Her friend didn’t see it that way. Now she wondered if Veronica had been right, and her death was some sort of divine retaliation. Veronica should have taken her suspicions to the police last year. Carolyn had talked her out of it. Was she now just as responsible?

Even with the most experienced officers, there was always that one case that tore their heart out. Veronica’s had been a child mutilation. She would have eventually put it behind her if the murderer hadn’t been set free. The worst part was that he’d been released because of the incompetence of the county’s chief forensic officer at the time. Robert Abernathy had been charged with multiple counts of falsifying and mishandling evidence, as well as perjury. Lester McAllen, the monster who’d butchered Billy Bell, was only one of scores of defendants whose convictions were overturned because of Abernathy. When Abernathy and Lester McAllen were both murdered, Veronica suspected the boy’s father had killed them. She also blamed herself for contacting Tyler Bell and telling him that the man responsible for his son’s death was scheduled to be released.

Carolyn wrapped her arms around her chest. If Veronica’s spirit was lingering somewhere, it certainly wouldn’t be inside this dreadful place. Carolyn made the sign of the cross, zipped the bag up, and quickly left the room.

O’Malley stood, handing Carolyn a white envelope.

“Is this her death certificate?” she asked. “I’m not a relative. She was my friend, but anything official should be handled by her husband.”

“Turn it over,” he said. “It’s got your name on it. You’re Carolyn Sullivan, aren’t you?”

She used her fingernail to tear open the envelope. As soon as she read it, she jerked her head up. “Where did you get this?”

“It was on my desk,” O’Malley told her, taking a sip of his coffee.

Carolyn’s eyes flashed with fear. “Who put it there?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Must have been someone on the day shift.”

“Call them,” she said, the paper fluttering in her hand. “This is a death threat. I have to know where it came from.”

O’Malley leaned back in his chair. “We’ve got three people working the day shift, Louise Reynolds, Sam Ornstein, and Cory Williams. Louise usually sits at this desk. She goes bowling on Tuesday nights. I guess I can try her cell phone. Tracking everyone down will take time.” He gestured toward a row of plastic chairs. “Have a seat. Want me to get you some coffee? I just put up a fresh pot.”

Carolyn ignored him, reading through the words again. The letter had obviously been typed on a computer. The font was enormous and all the words were in caps.

“I need rubber gloves and an evidence envelope,” Carolyn said, interrupting O’Malley while he was dialing.

“I can only do one thing at a time,” he complained, opening the top drawer and slapping a box of gloves on the corner of his desk.

Carolyn set the paper down and put on the gloves, then folded the note and placed it back inside the envelope. Removing the gloves, she shoved them in her purse in case she needed them later. She was too anxious to sit down. Punching the autodial on her cell, she called Hank Sawyer and read him the letter. O’Malley was talking to someone on the phone, but he looked over at her, and she could tell he was eavesdropping.

“This person knows me, Hank,” she said, opening the glass doors and stepping outside in the hallway. “It has to be someone from the agency. They even know I moved recently, and that I’m getting married.”

“Your house was up for sale for six months,” the detective told her. “There’s no telling how many people passed through that place. You probably had things lying around. You know, stuff about the wedding, maybe something from MIT. As far as Rebecca is concerned, they could figure out she goes to Ventura High because of where the house was located.”

“But we moved.”

“They could have assumed you didn’t transfer her because teenagers hate to change schools and leave their friends.”

“Fine, fine,” Carolyn said, beside herself. “This person still threatened to kill me and my family. Whoever wrote the note must have murdered Veronica. Am I right?”

“Maybe,” Hank said. “It could also be a nutcase. Some guy could have walked through your house when it was up for sale. Then when he heard about a probation officer being murdered, he reasoned that someone who knew you would go to the morgue, or someone at the morgue would know you and get the note to you.” He paused. “The local station broadcast the story live not long after I called you. The clerk at the front desk notified them before he called us. What a bastard, huh? Everyone wants to be on TV. I hate the damn media. All they do is cause problems for us. They’re still out here at the motel with their camera crews. We haven’t had a tsunami, an earthquake, or a hurricane lately, so I guess they’ve got to find some way to give the tragedy junkies their fix.”

“I don’t care about the media,” Carolyn shouted. “Get someone over here, damn it! My best friend got her head blown off, for Christ’s sake, and someone just threatened to kill my entire family. I demand that you take this seriously. One of the morgue attendants may have seen this person. We’re trying to get in touch with all of them now.”

“I’m about to clear here. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Where’s Veronica’s husband?”

“At the house,” Carolyn told him. “Haven’t you spoken to him yet?”

“No,” Hank told her. “Mary Stevens called about thirty minutes ago. A woman named Linda Cartwright answered. She said Drew went out looking for his oldest daughter. You think he had anything to do with Veronica’s death?”

“Absolutely not,” Carolyn said. “Drew’s a great guy.”

“No problems in the marriage?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she told him, remembering the dark circles under Veronica’s eyes. “I’ll talk to you when you get here.”

Once she concluded her call with Hank, Carolyn saw she had four messages from Marcus. They were both busy people, and made it a habit not to call and disturb each other at work unless it was absolutely necessary. Realizing how late it was, she dialed their home number. “I’m sorry,” she said after telling him what had transpired. “I just couldn’t tell anyone else. I’m at the morgue. The more I talk about it, the more upset I get.”

“I understand,” Marcus said. “Rebecca saw it on the news, though, and was terrified it was you.” The line fell silent. “Is there anything I can do? When are you coming home?”

“I’m not sure,” Carolyn said. “Don’t wait up for me. Once I leave here, I’m going back to Veronica’s house. We dumped the kids on a woman from work. She needs to go home to her family.”

“I’ll stop and pick up some food and meet you over there,” he said. “Rebecca is upstairs studying.”

“No,” she said, her voice elevating. “Don’t leave her alone!”

“Rebecca isn’t a baby. She drives all over the place in her car. And we have security. Why won’t you let me help you get through this?”

“Please,” Carolyn pleaded, “if you want to help me, stay at the house with Rebecca.”

“You can’t take on the responsibilities of Veronica’s family,” Marcus said. “This is a terrible tragedy, honey, but you need to think of yourself. We’re getting married in two weeks.”

“We can’t get married now. Veronica’s my maid of honor. How can I have a wedding when my maid of honor is on a slab at the morgue?”

“But, darling,” he said, tension crackling in his voice, “we’ve been planning this for almost a year. Brooke and Ethan are flying in from the East Coast. We’ve already received a ton of gifts. Rebecca can be your maid of honor.”

“I can’t talk about this now,” Carolyn said, clicking off the phone. Brooke and Ethan were Marcus’s children by his first marriage. They both attended Princeton, and were only a year apart in age. He’d been estranged from them for years, so she knew how important this was to him. He didn’t understand how deeply she cared for Veronica. Since they’d been seeing each other, she hadn’t socialized with her outside of work. Veronica and Drew couldn’t afford to eat in expensive restaurants. When she’d explained this to Marcus, he suggested inviting them to his house. She was embarrassed by Marcus’s wealth. How could she flaunt her future lifestyle to people she knew were living from one paycheck to the other?

Carolyn hadn’t told Marcus about the letter. Everything had happened too fast. How could she protect John when he was so far away? She couldn’t ask him to drop out of school. Attending MIT had been his dream, and he’d worked hard to make it a reality. An event like a wedding would offer the killer the perfect opportunity to make good on his threats.

She went to check with O’Malley. The attendant told her he’d managed to contact everyone, and no one recalled seeing anything even remotely suspicious.

Seeing Hank and a striking black woman step off the elevator, Carolyn rushed toward them. “None of the day attendants recall anyone giving them the letter, nor did they see it on the desk. The man on duty now came to work at four. He found an envelope addressed to me underneath his clipboard. He had his clipboard with him when he took me to the back to identify Veronica’s body. That’s when the person must have placed the envelope on his desk.”

Detective Mary Stevens was tall and shapely, with luminous brown eyes and flawless skin. She wore a red shirt and jeans that hung low on her hips. Carolyn knew she must have been at the motel where Veronica was murdered, as she always changed into a red shirt when she responded to a homicide. She called it her murder shirt. “Forensics is on their way,” Mary told her, reaching into her pocket for a pair of gloves. “Can we take a look at the note?”

At fifty, Hank Sawyer stood just under six feet. At one time, he’d been heavy, but he’d gone on a fitness program a few years ago, and now took pride in his physique. He still had a thick head of hair, although the gray strands outnumbered the brown. His face had a rugged look to it. Lines shot out around his mouth and eyes. “You touched it, I presume,” he said, watching as Carolyn handed Mary a plastic evidence bag. After Mary removed the letter from the envelope, Hank looked over her shoulder to read it. “Since it was hand-delivered, we might find fingerprints or other evidence that could help us identify this creep.”

“What about the man who rented the motel room?” Carolyn asked. “He could have been lying about his credit card being stolen.”

“Not likely,” Mary said, placing the note back in the plastic bag. “He was at work. At least five people saw him. He came in at eight and worked until six this evening. He brings his lunch from home, so he never left the building. He’s an underwriter at National Insurance.”

“Drew used to work for National Insurance,” Carolyn said, her face flushed with tension. “That was years ago, though. He works at Boeing now. Where was this man’s credit card stolen from, and why didn’t he report it until after the murder?”

“He claims he didn’t realize it was gone until we called him,” Hank said, chomping on a toothpick. “He left his wallet in a locker at the Spectrum Health Club last night. The only thing missing was his MasterCard and about thirty bucks in cash.”

Mary spoke up. “The motel clerk claims he rented the room to a black male in his early twenties the night before. Jonathan Tate, the man whose card was stolen, is a Caucasian male in his forties. That rules Tate out even without the alibi. It’s interesting that Veronica’s husband may have worked for the same company. People in the insurance business jump around a lot, though, and since you say it was a long time ago, it’s doubtful if Tate and Campbell knew each other.” She shrugged. “We’ll check it out, though. I’d follow a snail right now if I thought it could lead me to the killer.”