The air in the room was charged. All of them reminded her of Tommy—of all cops, she supposed, though the only ones she knew well were Tommy and Jake. Tommy loved his work and he positively pulsated when confronted with a job. Bob exhibited the most Tommylike behavior: he was almost twitching, and Jocelyn was running a close second. Though her natural demeanor was relaxed—laid back was putting it quite mildly—her eyes were roaming and flashing and she was opening and closing her hands, as if she literally wanted to get them around the task confronting them. Paolo was tapping his foot and playing with his hair. She’d worked closely enough with him in recent weeks to know the signs: he was deep in thought, shifting and evaluating information. Marshall mirrored Jake’s behavior, perhaps because they were approximately the same age. His expression was so serious that it was just shy of grim. He looked as if he wanted to ask why he still was sitting in that room when he should be out and busy.
And he would be soon enough. His work began before that of the others, for it was his job to arrange surveillance and security for Jake’s soon-to-be-empty house; for the also-about-to-be-empty home of Beth Childress; for the building that was home to Carole Ann and, temporarily, Jake; for Patty Baker’s home; and to install a monitoring surveillance of GGI headquarters. They wanted to be aware of every approach by every possible means, from every possible direction, in the event that GGI itself was the target. From now until resolution of the problem, paranoia would govern their lives.
Beth Childress arrived precisely on time for their lunch meeting. Carole Ann had arrived ten minutes earlier and was seated comfortably in the window booth when the white Cadillac slid to a stop directly in front of the VALET PARKING sign. The young man who ran out to take the car was still zipping up his jacket, not watching his feet, and slipped on a patch of ice and almost fell, but he steadied himself and offered both a parking ticket and a warm smile as he held the car door open. Beth Childress returned the smile. It was genuine, Carole Ann noticed, if still full of pain. It would, as she very well knew, be that way for some time to come.
She was well if not elegantly dressed—and there was no call for elegance; their restaurant of choice, while possessor of a Georgetown address, didn’t require elegance until dinner. And besides, they were just past the seen-and-be-seen lunch hour and would have a peaceful and quiet meal. Beth Childress had readily agreed to meet Carole Ann; indeed, had not seemed even the slightest bit unnerved or annoyed by the clandestine manner in which the invitation had come, nor frightened by the need for secrecy. Hidden within a basket of fruit delivered by messenger was Carole Ann’s letter requesting that they meet on this day and time. She could accept or refuse—her presence denoting the former, her absence the latter.
She took Carole Ann’s extended hand when she reached the table and expressed gratitude for the invitation. It was a welcome treat, she said, to have a reason to dress and get out of the house. They both ordered a glass of burgundy and, while they waited for it, talked about Washington’s ever-changing weather: it was a sunny day in the mid-fifties, but yesterday had been blustery and snowy, and the forecast for tomorrow promised rain. When it was time to talk, Beth Childress looked expectantly at Carole Ann.
“I contacted you the way I did because we think it’s possible that your activities are being monitored and we think it has something to do with your husband’s death. We’d like you on record as hiring GGI to find out who killed your husband and why.”
“I think J. D. Sanderson killed him,” she replied in as quiet and matter-of-fact tone as Carole Ann’s.
“So you don’t believe that Sanderson is the John Doe, the other man killed in the fire?”
She shook her head. “I never believed that and I told the police that and you better believe I’ll hire you to find out who killed Harry because I think the police are barking up the wrong tree.”
Carole Ann sat pensively, primarily because she needed to think about the other woman’s reaction. She hadn’t expected her to be hysterical—her initial meeting of the woman confirmed that she wasn’t prone to hysteria. But such clear-eyed, decisive responses in the face of horrible tragedy was unexpected.
“Why do you still call him J.D. when you know that’s not his name?” It was a tactic of Carole Ann’s, especially when she needed time to think, to shift the focus of a discussion, and to shift the balance of power. It also was rude, and she silently apologized to her companion; the last thing she wanted was to be rude to Beth Childress.
“Habit,” she said with a wry grin and no hint of being offended. “After we found out he’d lied about who he was, it didn’t feel right calling him by some other name that I wasn’t sure was the truth, either; for all I know, his name isn’t James or Jimmy any more than it’s J.D. So I just kept calling him J.D. Harry called him Sandy, like he wanted.”
“You don’t think his name really is Jimmy Sanderson?”
She looked exasperated. “I think everything about that man was a lie and that’s why it doesn’t surprise me that he killed Harry. I think I kind of expected that something awful . . .” Her resolve faltered and her voice wavered. She gulped from her wineglass and the slow burn of the liquid helped her regain control. “We both knew that we were in trouble, but we didn’t know exactly what to do about it. So I started backing up the files . . .” and her words trailed off as she bent over, her head disappearing beneath the table. When she reappeared, she was holding a sheaf of papers, which she passed across the table to Carole Ann.
“You kept a backup copy of OnShore’s books?” She could not mask the admiring incredulity she felt.
“I’ve got a business degree from Maryland, Miss Gibson. That’s where Harry and I met—in the business school. My family owned several hardware stores on the Eastern Shore and I’d kept the books since I was in high school. When I graduated, I continued working for the family and when Harry started OnShore, I kept his books, too, for years. Then the chain hardware and home improvement stores put my family out of business, and I worked full-time with Harry for a few years. I know everything there is to know about OnShore.”
“This is . . .” Carole Ann found herself speechless. “I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Childress.”
“It’s Beth, and you’ve already said it: you want to find out who killed my husband.” Then the left corner of her mouth lifted in a sly grin. “I think I can trust you, of all people, to do that.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jake said almost reverently. Then, as he paged through the information his face lit up. “The names, addresses, phone numbers, and job descriptions of every OnShore employee. Including Jimmy Sanderson!” He actually jumped up and raised his fist. “Gotcha, you son of a bitch!”
Carole Ann laughed. “Not quite yet we don’t, Jake.”
“We got more than we had . . .”
“Which didn’t take much,” she said dryly, “since we had absolutely nothing. And surely you don’t think he’s sitting inside wherever it is he told OnShore personnel he lived just waiting for somebody to come find him.”
He wagged his finger at her. “I’m not going to let you bust my bubble, C.A. And I don’t give a shit whether he’s there or not. If ever he was there, he left some prints for us to find. He and his low-life buddies.” He rubbed his hands together several times, then, with his right hand, created a sliver of space between his thumb and forefinger. “This much is all I need, C.A. Give me this much to go on and I’ll nail a perp’s ass so fast he’ll be doing time before God gets the news he got caught!”
Carole Ann laughed out loud, long and hard, and she was wiping the tears from her eyes as Jake reached for the phone. He punched some buttons and waited. “Tell Jocelyn Anderson I want to see her . . . Oh, hell! Well, tell her I want to see her as soon as she checks in. And tell Bob and Marshall to call me when they can.” He hung up the phone and rubbed his hands together again and Carole Ann saw clearly the Jacob Graham that missed being a cop. The steely satisfaction at the prospect of halting criminal activity
emanated from him, a palpable thing. The only part of his body that moved were his rubbing hands, but she knew his mind was as active as his body was still.
The phone rang and he snatched it up midring, put it to his ear, and listened. Then he punched a button. “Bob, are you and Marshall together? Good. Temporary change of plans: we’ve got Sanderson’s address . . . damn straight! I’m sending Anderson over to get prints as soon as I can find her. In the meantime, I want you all to secure the place. I don’t think Maryland knows about it. . . .” He looked at Carole Ann with raised eyebrows and she shrugged. “Anyway, make sure nobody goes in and make sure you know if anybody comes out.” He dropped the handset into the cradle and rubbed his chin.
“Are you thinking that this changes our plans?” she asked, knowing very well that’s what he was thinking.
He nodded. “You know we came up with nada on those three Seaboard mutts. Saints and angels, the lot of ’em. I’m betting that every set of prints we get from Sanderson’s place—and I’m betting we get more than one—will lead us somewhere definite, and that’s a hell of a lot better than the shots in the dark we were taking. Now we can rattle some specific cages, instead of waking up all the wild beasts in the jungle.”
“Works for me,” she said, with a sigh of relief.
He looked at her. “This was your plan.”
“I know that,” she snapped at him, feigning irritation and making him smile. “But just because it’s mine doesn’t mean I like it. The whole thing scares me silly, if you want to know the truth. And if it means not having to shoot a gun—”
“Oh, no, you don’t! You’re going to that firing range, day after tomorrow! And I’ll personally deliver you there if I can’t trust you to go on your own.”
Suddenly, she had no desire for confrontation, no desire to explain the huge resistance within her to perfecting yet another means to kill. She knew that he could never understand and that she could never hold that against him. She looked up at him and saw that he was waiting for her to say something, to do something, to somehow acknowledge that she would accept his dictum. And as she was reaching for a response, the office door swung open and Paolo Petrocelli rushed in, a chill wind.
“What?” Jake said, instantly aware that trouble had just walked in the door.
“Paolo, what is it?” Carole Ann stood up, alarmed at the tightness that contorted his face.
“Fire inspectors found a third body in the OnShore mess,” he said, his voice almost too controlled. “A Jane Doe,” and he allowed time for them to begin to process all the possibilities and arrive at the only logical one. And when he saw that they wouldn’t go where he wanted them to go without a nudge, he provided it. “A young Jane Doe.”
Carole Ann gasped. “Oh, God, Paolo! You don’t think—”
Jake pounded his desktop with his fist. “Dammit! Are you thinking that’s the Islington girl? Goddammit! What the hell kind of fucking mess is this! Why would the Islington girl be in that warehouse? What the hell kind of fucking sense does that make? What the hell kind of fucking sense does any of this shit make!”
9
BETH CHILDRESS’S HORROR DIDN’T PREVENT her from taking Carole Ann’s advice and fast-forwarding her packing schedule. She’d agreed to leave by week’s end for an extended visit with a college classmate in coastal North Carolina, via a detour to her parents’ home on the Eastern Shore, but the grim, new discovery in the OnShore ashes changed all that. She was ready to leave now.
“What would Richard Islington’s daughter be doing at OnShore?” asked the horrified woman over and over, and Carole Ann continued to provide the same answer: they didn’t know that it was Annabelle Islington; they did know, however, that Annabelle was missing, and they did know that somehow, Richard Islington and GGI itself were connected to all these strange events.
“We don’t want to believe you’re in danger, Beth, but we can’t risk being mistaken.”
“And you really think they might burn my house down?” Carole Ann had asked Beth to remove from the house her most cherished possessions and documents—birth, death, and marriage certificates, family photographs, diplomas, insurance policies, bank books, baby shoes—leaving only those items replaceable by insurance. Two GGI operatives-in-training were on hand to box and seal everything, and to transport the boxes to GGI for safekeeping. “I could kill Sanderson myself!” she exclaimed once in anger, her cheeks flushing.
“We don’t know for sure that he has anything—”
“Oh, stop patronizing me! I appreciate everything you all are doing and I’m just grateful to have you to rely on. But I’m not a fool or a shrinking violet. Sanderson’s a bastard and I knew that from the moment I saw him and since I can’t kill him myself, I want you to do it for me!”
The two operatives stopped packing boxes and looked in shock from Beth Childress to their employer. The first look confirmed that the woman was indeed serious; the second look presented a Carole Ann Gibson they’d never seen before: a hurt, vulnerable, shocked, deflated woman on the verge of a collapse of some kind who literally was saved by the ringing of a bell. The second ring of the phone in her pocket snapped her back and Carole Ann grabbed the instrument, punched a button, listened, and hurriedly shut it off.
“Beth, write a check to GGI, dated yesterday, any amount, and note that it’s a retainer for professional services. Maryland State Police are en route and we need to be able to claim client confidentiality if necessary. You two tape up these boxes and get them into the garage.”
“Out the patio door would be better,” Beth said quickly, writing the check. “There’s a toolshed at the end of the yard and no fence.” She ripped out the check and gave it to Carole Ann, and then crossed quickly into an adjoining room, followed by the two operatives and their boxes.
Carole Ann retrieved the cell phone, punched a button, and quickly described the location of the toolshed. She punched off the phone as the doorbell chimed. She heard Beth Childress at the door and utilized the few seconds alone to compose herself. She still was badly shaken that someone thought she found killing not only acceptable but easy. The voices approached, one, raised in anger, that of Assistant Attorney General Sandra Cooper. She barreled into the room, two state police officers in her wake.
“Well, Miss Gibson. Still taking time out from your busy schedule to pay condolence calls?” Sandra Cooper’s voice was oozing sarcasm.
“Nice to see you, too, Miss Cooper,” Carole Ann replied in a light tone.
“I took you at your word, Miss Gibson. I see that was a mistake,” the state lawyer said coldly, “but don’t think I can’t and won’t stop you from interfering in this investigation.”
“You probably make dozens of mistakes a day, Miss Cooper, but don’t let one of them be interfering with my legal and legitimate right to conduct business with my client.” Carole Ann had spoken quietly and in a relaxed tone of voice, but it cut as effectively as a weapon and everyone in the room tensed, and one of the young troopers brought his hand to his weapon.
“Your client is dead,” Sandra Cooper snapped.
“Not only are you mistaken in calling Beth Childress dead, Miss Cooper, you are extraordinarily insensitive, and I think an apology is in order.”
“What are you talking . . .” She shifted her angry and hostile stare from Carole Ann to Beth Childress and her eyes narrowed as understanding took hold. “And you became Miss Gibson’s client when, Mrs. Childress?” she asked. “And for what reason?”
Beth Childress swallowed audibly. “In the first place, I’m not Miss Gibson’s client—”
“Then she’s a liar?”
Beth shook her head and made an exasperated sound. “Why don’t you stop attacking people and listen for a minute? I hired the company, GGI, just like Harry did, not a person. I did it at lunch yesterday because I want them to find out what happened to my husband and why. And I don’t appreciate your attitude. I didn’t invite you into my home—”
“I don’t need an inv
itation, Mrs. Childress.”
“As a matter of fact, you do, Miss Cooper. It’s called a warrant and unless you’ve got one with today’s date and this address on it, I suggest you get out of here. If you have anything further to say to me, you can reach me at my office. And it would not be advisable for you to appear there without an appointment because I won’t see you. Unless, of course, you have an invitation.”
Sandra Cooper’s exit was hostile, hasty, and welcomed. Carole Ann was anxious to get back to Jake and the office and any information that may have come in during her absence. She was unnerved by the assistant attorney general’s visit; not because of the woman’s hostility, but because the Childress home still was under surveillance and that suggested that they knew something that hinted at danger. Her concern for Beth Childress increased and she urged the woman to complete her packing quickly.
She was grateful that Beth could load her luggage into her car without being seen—as was the case at Jake’s house, the enclosed garage could be entered directly from the house. By the time she aimed the remote opener at the door, the luggage was safely—and secretly—in the trunk. In several days, a GGI operative would pick her up at her parents’ and drive her to the airport. The newly installed security system on her home was activated and would scream bloody murder if the wind blew too hard; a camera would record any movement near the house, aided by a motion detector that would pick up anything larger than a dog.
Carole Ann sat in the Explorer, heater blowing not yet warm air, watching Beth Childress’s white Cadillac disappear around the curve in the road and wished she’d remembered to tell Beth to call when she reached her parents’. She had too much to think about, she told herself. And too many feelings. She was still feeling the pain from realizing that people thought of her as a killer—or as someone who would kill. Carole Ann knew that her life was public knowledge; after all, there had been literally dozens of newspaper and television stories about her in recent years. But she hadn’t considered at all how people perceived her or her actions. Yes, she’d killed the man who was attacking her mother, but that was something she’d regret for the rest of her life, not something she cared to repeat upon request. “Since I can’t kill him myself, I want you to do it for me.” That’s what Beth Childress had said, as easily as if asking someone to feed the cat or take in the mail.
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