The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  “Great parenting skills,” Stacy told Wayne.

  “What the hell would you know? You been stuck away in prison, sitting on your ass all day twiddling your thumbs while someone else looks after your kid.”

  “So how are Tyler and me costing you?” She knew he didn’t pay a penny toward his son’s care.

  He looked away. She knew that look. It was the one that said he’d been caught in a big, fat lie.

  “Oh, I see.” Stacy stuck her hands in her jacket pockets, nodding theatrically.

  “She’s got the wrong end of the stick is all,” he said in a petulant tone, still avoiding her gaze.

  What did Stacy care? Cher wanted to live with a lying ass who couldn’t even visit his own son, that was her problem. “So how do I find Tyler?”

  He spread his hands. “I don’t know. How would I know?”

  Stacy bit back her fury and turned to let her gaze drift. When she turned back to him, she said, “Okay, so here’s the deal: you call up the Child Services lady, ask if you can see Tyler, then you call me, tell me where you’re told to meet. Okay?”

  He scowled and snorted. “And what do I get out of this deal?”

  “Cher never finds out that we’re not the ones getting your money. How does that sound?”

  Wayne sniffed and dashed a knuckle under his nose, obviously giving it some thought while he regarded the area over her shoulder. From inside the house, Cher yelled, “Wayne! Are you coming in here, or am I locking you out there?”

  “I’m coming,” he yelled over his shoulder. To Stacy, he said, “You got a phone?”

  “No. I’ll call you. Give me your number.”

  He disappeared for a moment, came back yelling over his shoulder, “I said I’m coming.” Then muttering, “Goddamn woman, drives me insane. Here’s my cell. Call me later and I’ll get a day set up.”

  “Not day—time. I need to see him tonight.”

  “Tonight? How’m I supposed to make an appointment for tonight?”

  “It’s tonight or we don’t have a deal.”

  He considered it, and sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t just see. Do it,” she said, and he slammed the door without another word.

  Stacy skipped back down the steps and crossed the street to the car again.

  So far, so good. But now she had other things to organize. A phone she wouldn’t have to buy, for one thing. If she could find Caitlin O’Hare, that would be half the problem solved. Caitlin had been in prison with Stacy for six months after a drug raid found her in possession of twenty-five tabs of ecstasy, and a decent-sized bag of crystal meth. She’d also amassed seven cell phones so she could contact any of the seven dealers she used. Last Stacy heard, Caitlin was living in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of East Cleveland. If she could find her, Stacy might have half a hope of evading the police long enough for Wayne to set up the meeting. Or at least that’s what the plan had to be. Because right now, she didn’t have anything better.

  She twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out, heading east.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DAY ONE: 6:51 PM—ELIZABETH

  Despite the promised “jiffy,” it was almost fifteen minutes by the time the heavy steel door slid aside and Officer Kathy Reynolds reappeared, escorting a plump woman wearing a prison jumpsuit. Elizabeth would have put Eileen Caston somewhere in her early to mid-forties. She wore no makeup and her hair styled into a square-cut bob reminiscent of all powerhouse women of the early 2000s, nails short with no polish but obviously cared for. Despite the attire and their surroundings, she carried herself with assurance, an almost imperceptible smile lending her an air of authority.

  Elizabeth stood as they entered.

  Officer Reynolds closed the door behind them, saying, “Mrs. McClaine, this is Eileen Caston.”

  Eileen Caston gave Officer Reynolds a tight nod, as if dismissing staff. “Thank you, Officer Reynolds.”

  Kathy Reynolds replied, saying, “Please, take a seat, Mrs. McClaine. Eileen, you sit on the other side, hands to your side of the table.”

  “Very well,” Eileen said, pulling out a chair opposite Elizabeth. She lowered herself into it, and sat with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, head slightly tilted.

  Elizabeth positioned her notebook open in front of her, laying the pen on top. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I don’t know how much you know about me or the trust I’m custodian of.”

  Eileen returned a self-assured smile. “I’m acutely aware of who you and your family are, Mrs. McClaine. I’m a financial economist by trade turned journalist later in my career. Top honors student straight out of Harvard. Probably only a few years after you.”

  “I see,” Elizabeth said, trying to hide her surprise.

  Eileen lifted her chin, clearly relishing her moment in the spotlight, but continued in the same mild manner. “I worked for three of the biggest banks in America until the Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac debacle, at which time I began writing a financial column, analyzing the business and future funds markets, discussing trends in the commodities markets, you name it. My column appeared in five of the top financial magazines in the country over a period of twelve years under my pseudonym, Eileen Grant.”

  Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath at the recognition of the name. “I read your columns. I enjoyed them immensely. I know my father-in-law made several very astute investments based on your predictions.”

  Eileen dipped her head in self-congratulatory acknowledgment. “Thank you. I like to maintain a healthy interest in the business comings and goings outside these walls, although I hardly think the four financial magazines the authorities allow me each month would give me a detailed view,” she said, aiming the comment directly at Kathy Reynolds, who reacted with a lopsided grin. Eileen continued, saying, “History, however, has a habit of repeating itself, so I guess formulating predictions is only a matter of extrapolation and guesswork. That said, I’m usually right. So yes, Mrs. McClaine, I’m very well aware of who you are, where you’ve been, and what you’re doing now.”

  “I’m impressed. But how on earth…” Elizabeth began, then stopped herself. How Eileen Grant ended up here was not up for discussion.

  Seemingly picking up on it, Eileen said, “I understand, Mrs. McClaine. No doubt you’ve been instructed by the warden not to make enquiries into the personal lives of inmates, or into the circumstances behind their incarceration.”

  “Those were the conditions of my speaking to you, yes. My apologies.”

  A tight smile crept onto Eileen’s lips. “I can appreciate your curiosity. My last employer did an admirable job of hushing up the circumstances of my sudden departure. As a result, while all the information is in the public domain under my own name, it certainly never made the evening news.” She cocked her head but didn’t elaborate further.

  Elizabeth lifted her pen, still feeling a little star-struck. “I assume you know why I’m here, then. I believe you worked alongside Stacy May in her work detail.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you … sew?”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Eileen replied, the smile widening. “You’d think they’d put me to work analyzing the financial reports of the prison’s myriad moneymaking schemes and work ventures. But I don’t suppose they’re too eager to find another Shawshank Redemption playing out within its walls.”

  Elizabeth’s own smile widened. She found herself warming to the woman and wondering if a little digging when she got home might unearth how someone like Eileen Grant had gotten herself into this situation. “I guess you’re right. So what can you tell me about Stacy? Do you have any idea what might have been going on? Why she fled?”

  “I can’t tell you much, but I’m happy to help any way I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eileen lifted an expectant gaze to Kathy Reynolds who was standing in the same position Trish had been earlier, back to the door, eyes straight ahead, pretending to be invisibl
e. “Kathy, I wonder if you could give us a moment.”

  Kathy smiled. “Against regulations, Eileen. You know that.”

  “Pity,” she told Elizabeth, but said nothing more.

  “Do you know what was going on?”

  “You could say it’s … extrapolation, on my part. Without more solid evidence, there’s nothing I could swear to on a Bible.”

  Getting information out of Eileen Caston AKA Grant was like pulling teeth. She seemed more than happy to talk, provided she herself was the subject. Elizabeth made a point of closing the notebook in front of her and leaned on her elbows on the table. “I see. Then do you know anything about the drugs that were smuggled in? One of the inmates, Amy Dixon, died as a result of an overdose shortly after.”

  “I believe that was the story. And, of course, I assume you knew the warden’s sister was found guilty and sentenced to ten years in the Women’s Reformatory.”

  The news hit Elizabeth like a punch to the chest. “Lois Hankerman was Jennifer Glassy’s sister?”

  Obviously pleased she’d told Elizabeth something she hadn’t known, Eileen tilted her head, a smug smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Incredible how the finer details get lost when it’s so close to home, isn’t it, Mrs. McClaine?”

  “But surely the warden wouldn’t be allowed to employ her own sister.”

  “Lois wasn’t employed by the prison, per se. Or perhaps the authorities either overlooked it, or made some concession. Who knows?”

  “And do you believe she was guilty? If you, say…extrapolated?”

  “From what I heard, Lois Hankerman had the contacts, but frankly, if you’ll excuse the expression, she didn’t have the balls. So even based on that assumption, I’d say no, she was framed.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “People are usually framed to pass blame, or to get rid of them because they know more than they should. Perhaps, if you can convince the authorities, you should ask Ms. Hankerman herself. I’m certain that after the plea bargain she eventually accepted, she’s had more than enough time to reconsider her hasty decision, so she may agree to speak to you.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said, but her mind was scrambling, trying to find where this part of the puzzle fit. She made a mental note and moved on. “Who would Stacy go to on the outside? Any friends, acquaintances who might help her?”

  The smile dropped. Now that they were veering off the subject of Eileen Grant and her brilliant career, she was less interested in the conversation. She shifted in her chair, breaking eye contact for the first time.

  “I’d say Curta Brixton would be a good bet. Or perhaps Caitlin O’Hare. Caitlin was a drug addict. I can’t see her ever making anything of herself, but Stacy always got along with her. I think she’d feel safe enough calling in a favor from her.”

  Eileen inclined her head, watching as Elizabeth wrote down both names. “Mrs. McClaine, let me give you some advice. One of the things I learned in journalism is that you always start with the Who, What, How, and Where. But most importantly, you have to discover the Why. You’ll find it’s not always about the money. But it’s almost always at the root.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “I think we’re ready,” Eileen told Kathy Reynolds as though they were at a restaurant, and she was signaling for the bill.

  Officer Reynolds stepped forward and took Eileen by the elbow as she rose, then escorted her to the door. After signaling for the door to be unlocked, there was a click and the door slid aside. But just as Eileen stepped behind officer Reynolds, she paused to turn an unflinching gaze on Elizabeth.

  “Mrs. McClaine, just for your information, I’m serving two life sentences here with no opportunity of parole. I stabbed my two young children to death in their beds as they slept. I tell you this because you need to understand that, regardless of the circumstances, nothing, and no one, is ever what it seems on the outside. There is no magic wand, Mrs. McClaine. There never was.”

  And with that, they left Elizabeth sitting at the table, a wash of horror rolling through her like a heavy tide after a storm, and wondering where on earth to go from here.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DAY ONE: 7:02 PM—STACY

  The place Caitlin O’Hare had chosen to live in wasn’t exactly what Stacy would have called suburban Utopia. It was an old concrete building with broken windows and graffiti scrawled across every surface, even some that seemed out of reach. The ice cream manufacturer that once ran a business from here had closed up some years ago and the place had been used by drug addicts and runaways ever since.

  Stacy drove past the place, found a parking spot a block down, then trotted back, entering the building through a narrow gap where the chained and boarded-up front doors had been wrenched apart.

  Inside was a maze of steel open-frame walkways and stairways that probably led right up to the open-framed roofing two floors up. The place was filthy. Dirt had blown in over a number of years and piled up, collecting in the corners and against the housing where the manufacturing equipment had once stood, and at the foot of the dozen or so concrete columns holding the roof up.

  Initially, the building looked deserted. If Stacy didn’t know better, she’d have thought she’d got the wrong place. Treading softly, she made her way into the center of the open warehousing area and did a 360-degree turn, scanning the place for life. Lighting in here was poor. The upper windows had been boarded up, but to her left, she spotted a doorway leading to what must have originally been the offices.

  Checking over her shoulder, she moved across to find a narrow hallway. Sure enough, leading off left and right was a series of offices. Moving slowly along, she peeked into each one, noting the wall-to-wall mattresses, coats, and assorted rugs used as blankets, shopping carts stacked with forty-two flavors of crap.

  Up ahead, she heard movement.

  “Hello? Anybody here?”

  A gaunt-looking guy with the pinched expression of a habitual user appeared at a doorway. Dressed in a dirty pea jacket over jeans and high-topped sneakers with holes in both toes, he looked like he hadn’t bathed in months.

  “I’m looking for Caitlin O’Hare,” she told him. “I was told this is where she hung.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, hands tucked under his arms, shifting from foot to foot while he scanned the hallway. “Who wants to know?”

  “A friend.”

  Angling his head, he said, “What kind of friend?”

  Stacy could see where this was going. She casually checked behind her, making sure there was a clear path to the exit. “Just a friend, that’s all.”

  He dashed his sleeve across his nose and flicked a look to the doorway. “You got any meth on you?”

  She let out a sigh and balled both fists, ready. “No, I don’t have any meth on me. I’m not that kind of friend.”

  He sniffed and considered his response. “What about money? You got money?”

  “Nope, no money either.”

  His eyes met hers. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Stacy May? Is that you?”

  She whipped around to find Caitlin standing in one of the open doorways she’d passed.

  Stacy let out a relieved breath. “Holy crap, Caitlin. You sure know how to dig up the best addresses.”

  “She’s okay,” Caitlin told the guy. “I was inside with her.”

  The guy gave Stacy an accusing look, then disappeared back to where he’d come from.

  “Over here,” Caitlin said, motioning Stacy over. “Ignore him. He’s paranoid. Anyone comes in, he thinks they’re trying to plant something in his brain or something. Freakin’ weirdo.”

  Stacy followed her into the office she’d appeared from, and Caitlin closed the door. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in for another couple years or something.”

  “I got out.”

  “Well, obviously. So did you finally make parole?” Caitlin flopped down on a filthy mattress and scooted back agai
nst the wall, knees up with her arms around them, like a kid waiting for a story at bedtime.

  Slipping her hands in her jacket pockets, Stacy went to the window and peeped. Beyond the dirty glass was an empty parking lot. “Nah, I got in a fight. I wouldn’t have been up for parole for another year. I got out on a new program for inmates with kids.”

  “Shit. If I’d known about that, I woulda not let my mom talk me into having the abortion that time. Maybe if I’d’a had a kid out there, I’d have gotten out sooner.”

  “Maybe if your mom didn’t talk you into that abortion you wouldn’t have been on drugs, which is what got you put inside in the first place.” The sharpness in her tone surprised even Stacy.

  “She did what she thought was best.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  What she thought was best for who? Stacy wanted to ask. Instead, she moved around the cluttered office with its filthy floor and graffiti-covered walls, then across to the few possessions Caitlin had, all jumbled up into three cardboard cartons. “So how’d you wind up here anyway?”

  She shrugged. “You gotta live somewhere. And this was easy. I don’t get any shit from anyone.”

  “What about your mom? Weren’t you supposed to go back and live with her?”

  The break in eye contact told Stacy everything.

  “We decided I’m better on my own.”

  “Yeah, sure you are.”

  Obviously eager to change the subject, Caitlin said, “So tell me about this program. What’d you have to do?”

  “It’s a little like parole, with curfews and such so you can go to work and earn enough money to keep your kids. And you have to pass a whole bunch of tests and do your school work and wear a leg bracelet so they can track your movements.” Caitlin’s eyes dropped to Stacy’s ankles. Stacy followed her line of sight, then said, “Oh, I cut mine off.”

  Caitlin’s jaw dropped, aghast. “Are you nuts? Do you know what they do if you cut those things off?”