The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  “You called a woman whose husband you were purported to be having an affair with?” she asks.

  “I wasn’t having an affair! Hugo is a friend, nothing more. Rachel knew that. She was my friend first. For God’s sake, I was the one who introduced them.”

  Branson raises her eyebrows but points her gaze back in the direction of her notepad as she continues to take notes.

  “So you called Mrs. Caron in the middle of the night?” Detective Foster gently prods, ignoring his partner’s clearly dubious opinion of Laura’s answers.

  “She came right away. She stayed with me. I have several witnesses who can verify where I was at the time David was killed.”

  “And how would you know what time Mr. West was killed?” Branson asks.

  Laura’s nerves are at a breaking point.

  “Well, obviously, I don’t know the exact time, but if he was alive when I left him and dead by the time police swarmed my house the next morning, then it’s not much of a leap to say I have an alibi for the hours in between.”

  The young detective simply stares at her.

  “You were at Dr. Lawson’s home until late this morning?” Detective Foster asks.

  Laura nods. “We heard the commotion,” she says, in a calmer tone of voice. It doesn’t take a genius to realize the two detectives are playing off each other. The age-old good cop/bad cop routine, but Laura can see why. It’s surprisingly effective, even when you can see the manipulation for what it is.

  “Dr. Lawson walked outside to see what the fuss was about. When she told me, I rushed over to the house, but there were people in white coverall suits going in and out of my home.”

  “Crime scene technicians?” he asks.

  “I suppose. I’m afraid I became a little hysterical. That’s when I realized David had been . . . that David was . . . dead.”

  “And you never left Dr. Lawson’s house, from the time you arrived until that moment?” Detective Branson asks.

  “That’s what I’ve said.”

  Branson sets down her pen and leans back in her chair. “Then can you explain to me, Mrs. West, why a blonde woman matching your description was seen walking on the beach between Dr. Lawson’s house and your own near dawn this morning?”

  Laura’s breath stops, but only for a moment. A miniscule moment that the detective couldn’t possibly notice.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  The moment of silence stretches long and tight between them.

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Port Mary may be a small place, Detective, but somehow I doubt I’m the only blonde on the island.”

  Detective Foster gives her a warm smile. For the life of her, Laura has no idea if it’s sincere or if he’s simply embodying his good cop role.

  “I think that’s all for now, Mrs. West,” he says and she finds she doesn’t care which it is. “You’re free to go, but we have to ask you not to leave the area.”

  Laura nods, her relief immense.

  She stands, too quickly, and the dizziness that’s remained waiting on the sidelines seizes the opportunity and overtakes her.

  Laura falls to the ground.

  “Goddammit,” she hears Foster say. “Branson, get an ambulance,” he shouts, before everything goes blessedly dark.

  43

  BRANSON

  “It’s leaked, boss,” Graham says, and Branson marvels at his ability to state the obvious. “They’ve figured out who the girl is.”

  The phone is ringing practically nonstop, and the crowd of reporters they’ve banished to the parking lot is growing by the minute.

  Apparently, a dead author coupled with the resurrection of “America’s sad little sweetheart,” as Branson has come to think of their guest, is an entirely new level of newsworthy.

  The ambulance has come and gone, whisking Laura West away to Cresswell Memorial Hospital, once it navigated the news crews parked outside.

  Branson prays they haven’t left themselves open for a lawsuit. Even with Mrs. West on record denying she needed to stop the interview, it had been plain to see that the woman wasn’t well.

  But that didn’t mean she was telling the truth.

  “What did you think of her story?” Branson asks her partner.

  Foster balances on the edge of his desk. His eyelids are droopy, and anyone else might think he were about to nod off.

  “Something’s off there,” he says slowly.

  Branson can’t hold back the tiny rush of satisfaction at those words. She’d been afraid she was the only one to see it.

  “She’s lying about something,” Branson says.

  “The question is what. And does it make her a killer?”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Foster picks up a pencil and taps it on the desk. She’s worked with him long enough to patiently wait him out.

  “The crime lab in Cresswell says they need more time. Graham, stay on them. Make sure this is their number-one priority. And call Dr. Lawson. Confirm Laura West’s story. And while you’re at it, get me a list of attendees present at this mystery retreat too. They’re probably scattered all over the country by now.”

  He glances over and meets his partner’s eyes, then sets the pencil down and stands up from the desk. “You and I need to find Nick DiMarco.”

  “I can maybe help with that,” Graham says.

  “Yeah? You find an address for him yet?”

  “Not exactly. He’s waiting in the lobby.”

  Branson rolls her eyes. “Think you could have mentioned that a little sooner, Graham?”

  He shrugs.

  “Looks like it’s our lucky day, Branson,” Foster says. “Let’s go have a chat with a murderer.”

  Branson peers at the man sitting calmly in the seat across from them.

  Of all the interviews they’ve done today, Nick DiMarco, a convicted killer, is the subject most at ease. At least, that’s the impression he gives off.

  In his early thirties, he’s casually dressed in linen pants and a light-blue button-down shirt, but his shoes are expensive, and no doubt his haircut as well.

  Not handsome, exactly. Not in any way that would stand out in a crowd, but not unattractive either.

  Nick DiMarco blends in. A man you’d expect to see working in the tech industry, or maybe an engineering field.

  Not a man you’d expect to see behind bars.

  “I appreciate you coming to us, Mr. DiMarco,” Foster says. “Saves us the trouble of tracking you down.”

  “When I saw the news this morning, I had a feeling you’d want to speak to me. I’ve learned it’s easier to face these complications head-on.”

  “Complications?” Branson’s brows lift. “Mr. DiMarco, a man is dead. I’d call that more than a complication.”

  He shrugs. Branson decides she doesn’t like him.

  “You must have been nearby if you were able to travel here in a matter of hours.”

  “I was in Houston,” he says. “A work conference.”

  “And what work would that be?”

  “I’m a web-based graphic designer.”

  She’d called that one.

  “Fancy,” she says, unable to keep the snideness out of her voice. He probably made three times her salary. Or more, judging from those shoes.

  “I was always interested in computers and art, and I was lucky enough to be housed in a facility that had training programs. I’ve worked very hard since my release to become a contributing member of society. No easy feat for a felon.”

  “My heart bleeds for you,” Branson sneers.

  Foster doesn’t blink at her confrontational tone. They play their roles well, and he either doesn’t realize her distaste is real or, more likely, doesn’t care.

  DiMarco doesn’t blink either. “I was a young man who committed a terrible crime. I’ve paid the debt society demanded in return for that.”

  “Nice words. Do you suppose they’re much comfort to Grace Thacker?”

  “I d
on’t suppose so, no. Perhaps you could tell me what exactly I can do to make that up to her?”

  Branson definitely doesn’t like him.

  “Is that what you were attempting to do by tracking her down on Port Mary? Make things up to her?” Foster asks mildly.

  DiMarco tilts his head and studies Foster, and Branson has the impression she’s been dismissed.

  “In a way,” he says.

  “So you admit you were present on the island?” she pushes.

  “Yes. Why else would I be here?”

  “And did you speak to her directly?”

  “I did. She was frightened to see me. Which is to be expected, I suppose.”

  “Did you interact with David West as well?” Foster asks.

  DiMarco shakes his head. “Never met the man.”

  “It’s a small island. You never passed him on the beach or ran into him at the hotel bar?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Mr. DiMarco,” Branson says, “I can’t help feeling you’re yanking our chain. I’m going to need you to explain exactly what you were doing on that island, and how you discovered Miss Templeton was residing there. Unless you’re going to try and sell me on the highly unlikely probability that it was a coincidence—and I should warn you, that’s one line I’m not going to swallow.”

  DiMarco frowns and sits back in his chair. “I wouldn’t dare insult your intelligence, Detective.”

  And that is just about enough.

  “Why did you follow Graye Templeton to Port Mary, Mr. DiMarco?”

  “I wanted to check on her,” he says. “Make amends, if I could.”

  “You wanted to mend fences? After what you did?” Does he seriously expect them to buy this steaming pile he’s shoveling?

  “I’m trying to rebuild my life. Am rebuilding my life. I’m a different person now.”

  “Why did you think she’d have any interest in seeing you again?” Foster asks.

  “I knew she wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t.”

  “Then why come?”

  DiMarco sighs and pulls his chair closer to the table, leaning his elbows on it.

  “I was worried about her,” he says, glancing up and meeting their eyes in turn. He really is trying to convince them.

  “Worried?” Branson says. “She was responsible for putting you in jail. She took your freedom from you, and you were worried about her?”

  DiMarco leans back again and sighs. They’re beginning to rattle him.

  “Grace was a child,” he says. “A child who didn’t have an easy life.”

  “You’re trying to tell me that, given your conviction, given the years you spent locked up, given the part Graye played in that, you tracked her down, traveled all the way to Port Mary, and sought her out because you were concerned about her?”

  He glares at her. “Look, I’ve served my time. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  Branson leans in and waits for him to meet her eyes. “Maybe you don’t understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. DiMarco. We’ve got a dead man. We’ve got a convicted killer. It doesn’t take much to draw a big black line from one of those to the other.”

  Nick DiMarco runs his hand through his expensive haircut and appears to be struggling to decide what to say.

  “Look, I came to you. I came to you because there are things you need to know.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “I’m not the one with reason to hate Grace.”

  Branson knows what time it is. They all do it, everyone suspected of a crime. A time comes when they each, to a man, try to deflect suspicion onto someone else.

  “And is this the part where you tell us who really did it?” Branson asks.

  Disgust passes briefly over DiMarco’s face, and she’s almost amused that the man guilty of murder has a problem with her manners.

  “Look,” he says, after he’s schooled his features back into an expression of apathy. “If you’ve decided to arrest me, go ahead. I’m not concerned. I told you already, I’ve never met David West. There will be no evidence that even remotely ties me to his death, because I’ve never set foot in his home.

  “I was in Houston last night, trying to decide if I should fly home and wash my hands of this mess or come back and try one more time.

  “There are witnesses that saw me there. Hotel employees, a woman I talked with for an hour or two at the bar. I had a pizza delivered. I assure you, I wasn’t on that island last night.

  “If you’re planning to try and take the easy way and put me in the frame for David West’s murder, you should know, science is not going to back you up.”

  There’s a moment of silence as his words settle.

  “Okay, then, Mr. DiMarco,” Foster says. “I’ll play along. Who do you believe has more reason to hate Grace than you?”

  DiMarco looks at Foster like the answer should be obvious.

  “The person who told me where to find her, Detective. That’s who you need to talk to.”

  “And that would be?” Branson asks.

  “Alexis Thacker, of course. Her sister.”

  44

  LAURA

  Laura bites her lip and watches Dr. Sukawala absorb her strange request.

  “Mrs. West, I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking. You want me to release to the Rockaway Police—”

  “If they call and ask you,” Laura interjects. “Although I’m guessing they will.”

  “Okay.” Dr. Sukawala’s eyes cut over the top of her glasses and meet Laura’s own. “If the police call and ask, you want to give your permission to release a partial account of your medical records? Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Laura says, keeping her voice low. Rachel has gone to the hospital cafeteria for coffee, but she’ll be returning at any moment. Laura doesn’t wish to deal with her friend’s reaction any more than she wants to deal with the reaction of the police.

  Rachel knows only that Laura lost her baby. She doesn’t know the role David played in that loss any more than the police do.

  “They’ll want to confirm that I was pregnant and that I suffered a miscarriage last night. My husband, he . . . he died last night, and there’s an investigation, and . . . it’s all very complicated, but my blood is going to be found in our house, which is now a crime scene, and I need them to know I’m not lying.”

  The doctor’s eyes narrow.

  “I had nothing to do with my husband’s death, Doctor, but the thing is . . . if they discover the miscarriage was brought on by trauma to my midsection—”

  “Rather severe trauma, I must say,” Dr. Sukawala says softly.

  A woman has no secrets from her obstetrician.

  “They’ll have questions. Personal questions I’m not comfortable answering unless I have to. Questions that have nothing to do with their investigation, though that won’t stop them from prying.”

  Dr. Sukawala removes her glasses slowly and folds them before placing them in her pocket.

  “Mrs. West, you do understand the police could get a warrant for your full medical records, in which case, I’d be compelled to release them?”

  “Yes, I do, but there’s no reason for them to do that.”

  The purse of the doctor’s lips and the creases in her forehead give away her opinion of the situation.

  “I am bound by the laws regarding medical confidentiality,” she says. “If the police come to me with a warrant, I will do nothing to circumvent those laws.”

  “Of course, Doctor. I would never ask you to do that.”

  There’s a pause, and Laura waits uncomfortably for whatever the doctor might say next.

  “But if I receive a call from the police in search of confirmation that you’ve suffered a miscarriage, and I have your signed, written permission to confirm that information, I will do so.”

  Laura draws in a huge breath of relief and closes her eyes, letting her head fall back into the pillow propped behind her.

  “I
know nothing about the death of husbands, Mrs. West. What I know is women’s bodies. Until I’m told otherwise by a court of law, your body is your business.”

  Laura gives her a small, grateful smile as tears warm the corners of her eyes.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she says.

  The door to her hospital room opens and Rachel is back with coffee. Her attention is trained on the phone in her hand.

  “Laura, you’re not going to believe this,” she says, glancing up, her eyes wide.

  Laura’s heart drops. She can’t take anything else. Please, nothing else.

  But Rachel doesn’t see the anxiety that settles on her, or the fear that freezes her limbs.

  “Graye Templeton isn’t really Graye Templeton,” Rachel says.

  Laura shakes her head, unable to unravel that cryptic statement.

  “What does that mean?” she asks.

  “That’s what it says.” Rachel holds up her phone, although she’s too far away for Laura to make out what she’s reading.

  “You’re not making any sense. Let me see that.”

  Rachel closes the distance between them and hands over her phone before she drops down into the chair by Laura’s hospital bed with an inappropriately satisfied smirk on her face.

  “I told you there was something strange about that girl, didn’t I?”

  45

  BRANSON

  Branson grimaces as the cold, stale coffee hits her tongue.

  She places the cup in the microwave. Bad coffee she can live with, but bad, cold coffee is one insult too many.

  Foster’s on the phone with the crime lab again, trying to cajole them into sending a preliminary report. He has better luck at those sorts of things than she does.

  Branson doesn’t ask as nicely.

  “Graham, did you call and check on Laura West?” she asks the sergeant.

  “Yeah. They say she’s stable but referred us to her doctor for any more questions.”

  “You have the doc’s number?”

  “Right here,” he says, pulling a scrap of paper from beneath a growing pile. Graham’s desk drives her crazy. How he can work in the middle of such a disorganized heap is beyond her comprehension.

  She moves to her own desk, more welcoming with its clear surface and black-and-white desk calendar. She picks up the receiver of the phone and begins to dial the number Graham has jotted down for Dr. Tara Sukawala.