Nothing except the memory of that face staring down at her from the broken skylight.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Richard Malone had been shot three times in the chest, point-blank. Overkill, Troy thought, gazing down at the body. The first bullet to the chest had undoubtedly taken him out. The second shot had been insurance. The third, rage. Or revenge.
By the time Troy arrived at the airport parking lot following Lucas’s call, the trunk of Richard Malone’s Mercedes had been popped and his body, which had been found encased in a plastic bag, had been removed and was lying on the pavement. The CSU team was all over the car, and the medical examiner was busy with the body. A few feet away, a rookie noisily lost his breakfast. Richard Malone had been dead for several days. He wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Parking stub on the dash is dated a week ago last Sunday, 8:26 p.m.,” Lucas said. “Looks like someone plugged him, bagged him and then drove him here to the airport, where they knew it might take a few days for his car to be found. How does that square with the time Andrea Malone was found that same night?”
“She was brought to the hospital just before midnight,” Troy said.
“Plenty of time,” Lucas said. “Even if she had to get a cab back from the airport, she’d still have had time to get dropped off, maybe even change back into the bloodstained dress and then wander around for a few minutes until someone picked her up and took her to the hospital. If she had an accomplice, it would have been even easier.”
An accomplice? An image of the way Paul Bellamy had been looking at Andrea earlier this morning rose in Troy’s mind. “You’re assuming she’s been faking her amnesia,” he said. “You’re assuming this was all a carefully calculated plan on Andrea’s part.”
“Someone sure as hell calculated it,” Lucas said grimly. “You know as well as I do that the spouse is always the number-one suspect.”
Troy stared down at Richard Malone’s body. Was it possible Andrea had killed him? Was she capable?
Or, as Lucas had suggested, did she have an accomplice? Someone willing to do anything for her—even commit murder?
Troy didn’t want to believe it, and yet he couldn’t help remembering the way he’d been taken in by Cassandra Markham.
“I’m sending a team over to the house this morning,” Lucas said. “We’ve got to move fast on this thing. We’ve already lost over a week. Whatever evidence might have been recovered has probably disappeared by now.”
“Give me a chance to break it to the family first,” Troy said. “Malone had a kid.”
Lucas nodded. “Go ahead. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get the warrant.”
* * *
TROY WISHED he had been able to be alone with Andrea before he broke the news to the rest of the family, but there wasn’t a chance. Dorian and Robert were in the living room when he arrived, and the maid was sent to fetch Andrea. Troy was glad that Mayela was still at school.
Andrea looked a little pale when she appeared in the doorway, and when Troy suggested she take a seat, her face became even more drawn. Dorian and Robert were seated on the sofa, and Andrea chose a chair away from them. She seemed to have a hard time meeting Troy’s gaze, as if she somehow knew why he was there.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” he began. “Richard’s body was discovered in the trunk of his car this morning at the airport. He’d been shot. The coroner thinks he’s been dead since a week ago Sunday night.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Troy witnessed Dorian’s and Robert’s reactions. Robert grew very still. His eyes closed against the terrible news, while Dorian gasped in shock. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
But it was Andrea who captured Troy’s attention. She, too, grew very still, but her blue eyes were wide open and they contained not even a shadow of surprise. When she saw that Troy was staring at her, she cast her gaze downward. But it was too late. He’d already seen too much.
Andrea had known, before Troy ever arrived, that Richard Malone was dead.
* * *
IT WAS DECIDED that while the forensics team went over every square inch of the Malone house, Connie Perelli, the mother of Mayela’s best friend, would pick both girls up at school and take them to her house so that Mayela wouldn’t have to witness the police search.
Andrea, looking even paler than she had earlier, told Robert and Dorian that she wanted to be the one to tell Mayela about Richard, and though Troy saw the contempt glittering in Dorian’s dark eyes, she reluctantly agreed. Meanwhile, Robert, looking visibly shaken, accompanied an officer to the morgue to positively identify the body.
By the time Troy and Andrea left the house, Forensics had gathered several dozen packets of evidence, but nothing that looked very promising. Still, Troy thought, you never knew what the lab might be able to come up with.
At the Perelli home, Andrea went upstairs to talk to Mayela alone, and Troy was left downstairs with Mrs. Perelli.
“Call me Connie,” she said nervously as she sat on the edge of the sofa, wringing her hands. “That poor child. I can’t imagine what this will do to her. First her mother, and now Richard—” She broke off, biting her lip as tears sprang to her eyes.
“How well did you know Richard Malone?” Troy asked.
Connie Perelli dabbed at her eyes. “Not well. He traveled a lot. He was hardly ever home. I’m afraid he was little more than a stranger to Mayela. He never came to any of her school functions. Andrea was always the one who attended the parties and sat through the plays. Even before Christina died, Andrea and Mayela were inseparable.”
“You knew Christina Malone?”
“We were good friends at one time. I can’t tell you how shocked I was when she committed suicide.”
“I understand she’d been suffering from depression for quite a while before her death.”
Connie’s eyes filled again. “That’s true. But she wasn’t always like that. I remember a time when Christina was truly happy, full of life. She was deeply in love with Richard, even though he was so much older than her. I think it really hurt her that he was always so wrapped up in his business. She hated the way he ignored Mayela. She told me once she thought the only reason he agreed to have a child with her in the first place was so she would have something to keep her occupied while he was gone.”
“Is that the reason she became depressed?” Troy probed gently.
“Not altogether. At least I don’t think so. I think part of it had to do with her mother.”
“Dorian Andropoulos?”
Connie nodded. “They never got along. Christina used to get so depressed after one of Dorian’s visits. She’d mope around in a blue funk for days. Then the depression started lasting longer and longer, until, toward the end, Christina hardly ever left her room, except to see Dr. Bennett.”
“You knew about Dr. Bennett?”
“Christina wasn’t ashamed of seeing a therapist. She wanted to get help. She wanted to get better.”
“Do you happen to know how she met Dr. Bennett?”
“I don’t remember if she ever said.”
Troy paused. “You say you and Christina Malone were once close. How did you feel about her husband remarrying so soon after her death?”
Connie gave him a stern look. “You’ve been listening to Dorian, haven’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Connie’s thin lips tightened in disapproval. “Look, I know she doesn’t like Andrea. Dorian’s accused her of some pretty rotten things, like marrying Richard for his money and all that, but…I don’t think it was that way.”
Troy tried to keep his tone professional when he said, “You think Andrea was in love with Richard Malone? Is that why she married him?”
Connie hesitated. “I don’t know Andrea very well. She keeps to herself, and she’s certainly never confided in me. I don’t know whether she was in love with Richard or not, but I can tell you this. She loves Mayela as if she were her own child. There’s a bond betwe
en them that, in some ways, is even stronger than the one between a natural mother and daughter. I don’t know what would have happened to that poor little thing after Christina died if it hadn’t been for Andrea. I don’t know what would happen to her now—” Connie broke off on another wave of emotion, and Troy gave her a moment to compose herself.
“Before today, when was the last time you saw Andrea?”
She didn’t have to give it much thought. “A week ago Sunday night. Mayela spent the night with Lauren, and Andrea drove over to bring Mayela a little teddy bear she always sleeps with. She said she knew Mayela would have a hard time falling asleep without it, but the real reason she came was because of the bad weather. Mayela’s scared of storms, I mean really terrified, and Andrea wanted to make sure she was all right.”
“How long did she stay here that night?”
“Not long. She left before seven. She said she had to see someone.”
“Did she say who it was?”
“No. But if it hadn’t been something pretty important, I know she would never have left Mayela.”
The picture Connie Perelli painted of Andrea was very different from the way Dorian Andropoulos had portrayed her. Troy wondered if he could trust either view.
* * *
“HOW DID SHE TAKE IT?”
“It was so strange,” Andrea said. They were sitting alone in the Perelli living room. “She didn’t cry, she didn’t even act that surprised. She just sat there looking so sad.”
Not unlike Andrea’s own reaction, Troy thought. He studied her as she sat with her head against the back of the sofa, her eyes closed, her fingertips massaging her temples. She looked indescribably weary, and the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth were more pronounced than he had ever seen them.
He stared at her and thought, I don’t know you. I may be falling in love with you, but I don’t really know you.
He wondered if he ever would.
* * *
TROY LEFT ANDREA at the Perelli home, then drove over to Dr. Bennett’s house a few blocks from River Oaks. A housekeeper answered the door and ushered Troy inside. She glanced at his badge and ID. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But I have some information I think Dr. Bennett would be interested in hearing. Is she in?”
“I’ll tell her you’re here.”
A few minutes later, the housekeeper returned and showed Troy to Dr. Bennett’s office. “She’ll be down in a moment. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. Please excuse the paint fumes,” she said. “We’re in the middle of redecorating.”
“So I see.” Troy glanced around at the sheet-draped furniture.
“We had a little accident a few nights ago,” she told him. “A water pipe broke in the wall. Dr. Bennett’s office was completely flooded. I’ve never seen such a mess.”
“Sergeant Stoner?” Dr. Bennett walked into the room, looking very much the way Troy remembered her. She was dressed in a conservative brown suit, a cream-colored blouse and low-heeled shoes. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, and her complexion was covered with heavy makeup. She took a seat behind her desk and dismissed the housekeeper with a curt nod.
“You’re here about Richard, no doubt.”
Troy looked at her in surprise. “You’ve heard?”
“It’s all over the news, Sergeant. Apparently someone from your office leaked the story to the press right after the body was found.”
Figures. “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”
She smiled slightly. “Not really. Both of Richard’s wives were patients of mine. One of them still is. I’m not surprised you’d want to talk to me, although I must remind you of the confidentiality agreement between doctor and patient.”
“Christina Malone is dead,” Troy said. “You’re no longer bound by that agreement.”
“Maybe not legally, but I still have a moral obligation to protect my patient.”
“And I have an obligation to find out who killed Richard Malone,” Troy said grimly. “I need to know why Christina Malone was seeing you.”
One dark brow rose. “I don’t see how knowing that would help you.”
“She committed suicide six months ago, and now her husband has been murdered. There may not be a connection between those two deaths, but then again, there just might be. And if there is a link, you could be the one person who can help me find it. Now, if I have to get a court order to get into your files, I’ll do it. But wouldn’t it be easier if you just told me what I need to know?”
Dr. Bennett paused to consider what he’d said. Then she nodded briefly. “All right. Christina Malone came to me because she was experiencing severe depression. Her marriage was in deep trouble.”
“Why?”
Again Dr. Bennett paused. “She believed her husband was having an affair. With Andrea Evans.”
Troy felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. The wind left his lungs with a painful swoosh, and it was a struggle to keep his voice from giving away his shock. “That didn’t create a conflict of interest for you?”
“Not at all. Andrea didn’t come to me for help until after Christina was dead.”
“Did she…tell you anything that bore out Christina’s fears?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss Andrea with you, Sergeant. She’s still my patient.”
“How did you meet Christina Malone? Did someone refer her to you?”
“Actually we met quite by accident. We shared an affinity for primitive art, and we met at a gallery last summer. We got to talking, and she asked if she could come to see me professionally.”
“Is that the usual way your patients find you?”
Annoyance flickered in her blue eyes. “I don’t solicit, if that’s what you’re inferring. I knew something was troubling Christina. I wanted to help her.”
“Did you prescribe amphetamines for her depression?”
“I did not. The police asked me that question at the time of her suicide. I don’t believe in drug therapy, Sergeant.”
“You didn’t prescribe sleeping pills for Andrea?”
“Of course not. Why would you ask?”
“The night she was brought in to the hospital, the lab found trace amounts of a drug used in sleeping pills in her blood.”
Dr. Bennett shook her head. “I’m not surprised. Andrea has a great deal of trouble sleeping. She suffers from nightmares.”
“Is that why she came to see you?”
A look of alarm flared in her eyes, as if she’d said more than she intended. Then she said carefully, “The nightmares brought her to me, but she had…other concerns she wanted to talk about, things that were triggered by Christina’s death.”
“Such as?”
Dr. Bennett swiveled in her chair and stared out the window for a long moment, as if debating with her own conscience. Finally she sighed and turned back to Troy. “When Andrea first came to see me, she couldn’t recall much about her past before the age of ten. It was as if her childhood was a complete blank, with occasional flashes of memory that were as troubling to her as they were confusing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Andrea was convinced she’d done something wrong as a child. That’s why she was sent to live with an aunt who didn’t love her. That was her punishment.”
“For what?”
“We were just getting to that.”
“How?”
“By using regressive hypnosis. Little by little, we were putting together the pieces of Andrea’s past, and then this happened. Her current amnesia is a severe setback.”
“When’s the last time you spoke with her?”
“A few days ago. At your sister’s house.”
“I mean before that.”
“A week or two.”
“You didn’t see her a week ago last Sunday night?”
She looked surprised. “No.”
“She was going to see someone after seven o’clock in the evening. It was a matter of impo
rtance.”
“It wasn’t me, Sergeant. I rarely keep weekend hours, only in cases of extreme emergency. Andrea and I always met on weekday afternoons. She wanted to be finished with our sessions before school let out, so she could pick up Mayela.”
“Your sessions concerned only her past?”
Silence.
“She didn’t discuss her marriage?” Troy persisted. “She didn’t talk about her husband?”
Dr. Bennett leaned back in her chair and eyed him coolly. “I’ve already said much more than I should have, Sergeant.”
“I understand. And I appreciate your cooperation. Just tell me one more thing,” Troy said. “Do you really believe Andrea has amnesia?”
Dr. Bennett considered the question for a long, tense moment. Troy felt as if he were sitting on the edge of his seat, waiting for her answer. He forced himself to relax and observe Dr. Bennett as dispassionately as she studied him.
She smiled, as if reading his thoughts. Or more likely, his body language. “You’ve been with her more than I have in the past few days, Sergeant Stoner. What do you think?”
Just like a shrink to turn his own question back around to him. Troy got up and walked over to the window. “My sister showed me the book you two were talking about the other day.”
“Did she?”
Troy turned to face her. “She told me about your condition. The agoraphobia. At the time you wrote Dark Journey, you’d been confined to your house for more than ten years. Is that right?”
She gave him a wry look. “I don’t see what that has to do with your case.”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious. How did you get over something like that?”
“Are you familiar with the term ‘flooding,’ Sergeant Stoner?”
“You aren’t talking about what happened to your office, I take it.”
“In psychiatric terms, flooding is an extreme method of dealing with fear. A patient is forced to confront the thing he’s afraid of most.” She toyed with a pencil on her desk. “When I was confined to my home, my worst fear was that I would someday be forced to face my attackers again, that if I were to leave the protection of my home, they would be lying in wait for me and they would kill me. If not them, then someone else. The outside world became a very dark and dangerous place for me, a world in which I simply could not cope.”
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