“That’s a good idea.”
“Well, she’s pulling into the parking lot now. I’ll sit with her for a half hour and come home.”
“Good. I want you all to myself tonight. No Franklin, no Fairchild, no Pamela, no Serena, nobody but us.”
# # #
They sat talking in Serena’s luxury sedan. “You know, Charlie, they call me a killer in the courtroom but in reality, it can’t be easy.”
“It’s not. I’ve talked to my partners about it many times. Killing another human being takes a toll. No matter the circumstances.”
“The closest I’ve come to grappling with it is when I do the walk-a-mile-in-my-shoes thing with my regular clientele. It helps. Especially with closing arguments.”
“I’ve heard you’re quite good at closing, and also cross-exam.”
“That’s my reputation,” Serena said matter-of-factly. “But what about you? Are you okay?”
“Not so much. I’m going home, take a hot bath, and sleep.”
“You should do that. Uh, by the way, I got a call from Pamela.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “I thought she fired you.”
“She wants to meet. At her house. She says she has something to tell us about her father.”
“Us?”
“Yes. She wants you there.”
Charlie protested with a head shake. “What else could she possibly have to say to me? No way. The way I feel right now, if she gets nasty again, you’ll have to pull me off her.”
“And I would, too,” Serena said laughing. “After you’ve gotten in a couple of blows.”
Charlie couldn’t help laughing, too. The first laugh she’d allowed herself in about twelve hours. She considered how tense she was, and tired. Serena’s extremely comfortable Lincoln Town Car had plush heated seats and molded backs. Charlie felt her body wanting to succumb to the urge to sleep.
“I can’t meet anyone in the shape I’m in.”
“I’ll set it up for tomorrow or Monday,” Serena said.
Charlie grunted.
“I’ll take your sullenness as a ‘yes.’”
“Did Pamela know about the attack on Franklin?”
“She’d heard it on the news. That’s why she called. She apologized for her outburst yesterday.”
Charlie’s phone rang, and she looked at the display. Somehow she’d already missed several calls.
“What is it, Don?”
“Wallace has been trying to reach you.”
“I’ve been on the phone with Mandy. Now I’m talking to Serena. I know Wallace needs our reports, but it’ll have to wait. I have to get some rest.”
“Mack, listen!” Don shouted. “Karen Scanlon was found hanging in her home this morning. It’s an apparent suicide, and there’s a note.”
“Oh shit!”
# # #
Don approached Charlie’s car as she pulled up to the crazy scene in front of Karen Scanlon’s house. Crime scene tape was wrapped around trees and extended the length of the block. Six police vehicles—including the medical examiner’s van, a fire truck, and an ambulance—joined two tracking dogs, Channels 7 and 4 satellite trucks, and a crowd three people deep, videotaping with their phones. In the middle of the street, blue lights flashing, a car marked Chief of Police notified the neighborhood there was some serious shit going on.
“Wallace said to bring you right in.”
“Damn it all to hell, Don,” Charlie replied. “This is a circus. Why in the world do they have dogs here?”
“They found boot tracks in the rear of the house. Come on,” he said and grabbed her arm.
Charlie counted eighteen people in Scanlon’s living room. The counting was a way to keep alert. Several people looked their way as an ashen-faced Wallace shepherded them into the small dining room and closed the door.
“What the hell happened?” Charlie started.
Wallace gave Charlie a sharp look, then rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He slumped into a padded leather chair. Charlie and Don followed suit.
“I was on my way here. I called ahead to my patrolman and told him to notify Scanlon that I wanted a meeting. He rang the bell and knocked on the door. When there was no response, he jimmied the lock. He found her upstairs hanging from a ceiling fan. Broken neck.”
“Don said something about a note?”
“Typed. Confessing her involvement in Peter’s murder and implicating Franklin. Said Peter had cheated her and Rogers out of money for his investment in the Canadian liquor deal. According to the note, the plan was just to scare him, but Peter was drunk, and things went wrong.”
“That’s pure poppycock,” Don said. “The evidence doesn’t back it up. Where is she on the surveillance camera? How did the gun get left behind?”
“Are you buying this as a suicide?” Charlie asked.
“Come see for yourself.”
# # #
Karen Scanlon’s modest two-bedroom townhome was relatively small and uninterestingly decorated. But her bedroom suite was magnificent. The massive four-poster bed was made of cherrywood with ornate wood carvings. A beautiful damask bed covering in burgundy, rust, and orange was interwoven with gold threads. A seating area near the front windows was framed in lined drapes and a round contemporary rug.
Wallace wouldn’t allow them entry into the bathroom, but through the pocket door they saw a large claw-foot tub. A gold-leaf framed mirror ran the length of the two-sink marble vanity. An upholstered bench was pushed under the counter, and hanging from the collar of a ceiling fan was an open noose. A footstool under the light fixture was toppled on its side.
“How did she tie the rope?” Charlie asked
“We think she climbed up on the vanity. We cut down the body, and we’re still processing the scene. I wanted you to see it before we dusted for prints or moved anything else.”
“What do you make of it, Don?” Charlie asked.
“She used the footstool to get onto the vanity. Tied the rope to the fixture and climbed down. She stepped on the footstool again, looped the rope around her neck, and then kicked it out from under her.”
There were a couple moments of silence while they all pictured it. A shiver streaked up Charlie’s spine.
“Where are the rope remnants?” Charlie asked.
“I’m not sure. Perez, I need to see you,” Wallace spoke into his radio. “I’m in the bathroom of the deceased.”
A few minutes later, Officer Jerry Perez stepped into the bedroom. He was tall, lean, and stern. He wore a short uniform jacket and a knit hat.
“You wanted to see me, Detective?”
“This is Ms. Mack and Mr. Rutkowski. They’re helping us on this case. Perez was the officer on duty who found Scanlon,” Wallace said in his introduction.
“Was the light on when you found the body?” Charlie asked.
Perez didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am. The light was on, and the door was open. I could see her hanging before I stepped into the room.”
“I’m sure you didn’t disturb anything,” Charlie said.
“No, ma’am. At least not much. I cut her down and checked for a pulse.”
“Where’s the rope you cut?”
“I didn’t remove any rope.”
Charlie looked up at the dangling noose.
“And you climbed onto the vanity to do that?”
“No. I didn’t have to. She wasn’t hanging that high. Just lifted her on my shoulder and cut the loop. She was only a couple of feet from the floor.”
“A couple of feet?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What was she wearing?”
Perez closed his eyes for a second. “Black pants, sweater.”
“Shoes?” Charlie asked.
“Uh, no. She was barefoot.”
“Did you move the stool?”
“Nope. I stepped around it.”
“Then there’s a problem,” Charlie said. “The footstool would be too short for Scanlon to use to hang herself. N
ot enough force for a broken neck.”
“I see what you mean, Mack,” Don said. “Maybe she stepped off the bench instead.”
“The bench is right where it was when I found her,” Perez said.
Wallace dismissed Perez, and Charlie, Wallace, and Don conferred around a Louis XIV desk. Charlie was sure it was a replica, but nonetheless expensive.
“The suicide note was here on the desk. I had it dusted and bagged. We also retrieved a laptop and printer. The desk has already been dusted for prints,” Wallace said.
“Can we see the note?” Charlie asked.
“Let’s go back downstairs.”
Charlie looked over her shoulder as they exited, staring at one large oil painting. She was sure she’d seen the certificate for that painting in the box in Peter’s bedroom closet.
# # #
A forensic tech knocked at the dining-room door and stepped inside to hand Wallace a plastic evidence bag and three sets of gloves. Wallace removed the eight-by-eleven sheet of white paper and passed it to Charlie who held it in gloved hands. Don leaned to join her in reading the note. It was long—in four paragraph blocks.
As Wallace reported, Scanlon’s note implicated Franklin in Peter’s accidental death and Caesar Sturdivant in the subsequent cover-up. The note claimed she was desperate, on the verge of bankruptcy as a result of her involvement in Peter’s bad business deal. Peter had been dismissive and unsympathetic to her attempts to recoup her investment, saying he had to keep a supply of cash on hand. She’d finally called Franklin and recruited him to help talk some sense into Peter. She’d also asked, as an afterthought, to borrow his gun so she could emphasize to Peter the seriousness of her situation.
Peter had refused her demands and they had argued. When Peter became violent, she tried to lock herself in his bathroom, but Peter had followed and lunged for her. That’s when Franklin intervened. As the two men struggled, the gun accidentally discharged. Franklin panicked, fleeing the apartment and leaving the gun behind. Scanlon called upon Sturdivant, who had done some real estate work for her, to help remove incriminating evidence. Somehow the gun was missed.
With the knowledge that Sturdivant had already implicated her in Peter’s death, the impending ruin of her finances and reputation, and her own guilt about Franklin’s arrest, she saw no other option but to take her own life.
Charlie slipped the note into the plastic sleeve and pushed it to Wallace. Don sat back in his chair and sucked his teeth.
“I hope you’re not buying any of that,” Charlie stated.
“Nope. It defies logic and the evidence.”
“Wallace, you have to arrest Fairchild before he kills somebody else.”
“We’re getting a warrant now.”
Chapter 25
Charlie woke up to gentle nudging. She opened her eyes to a light-filled room and Mandy’s face hovering over her. Charlie yawned and stretched.
“I feel so refreshed. I must have slept twelve hours.”
“More like five. Serena Carruthers is here.”
“Here at the house?”
“Yes.”
“What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock. Serena said she called you several times and you didn’t pick up. You have a meeting in ninety minutes with Pam Fairchild.”
“What?”
“She said you knew about it.”
“What day is it?”
“Sunday.”
“I did tell her she could schedule the meeting for today, but . . .”
“She said she sent you a message,” Mandy said. Her look was quizzical. Not angry but annoyed. “Charlie, if you don’t get some rest, you’ll get sick. I thought you could stay home today.”
“So did I.” Charlie tossed bedcovers aside to sit on the edge of the bed. “Do you mind, honey? It won’t be a long meeting.”
Mandy didn’t respond.
“Where is Serena now?”
“In the kitchen. I’m going to make her a cup of tea.”
“Okay. Tell her I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
# # #
“You’re a suburban cop, right?” Serena asked Mandy, sipping tea. When Mandy gave a look of surprise, she added, “Oh, Detroit is a small big town. Word gets around about everyone and everything.”
“What’s the word on Charlie being in a lesbian relationship?” Mandy asked directly.
“Surprise. Curiosity. A few snide remarks.”
“Which camp are you in?”
“Definitely the curiosity camp. How did you two meet?”
Mandy described her first introduction to Charlie at a fundraising gala for the Police Benevolent Association four years ago. Charlie had been escorted by her already-ex, Franklin, and Mandy was with a male colleague. Their eyes met over the shoulders of their dance partners. Later in the evening Charlie gave Mandy a business card. There was instant chemistry, and a year-long whirlwind romance had followed.
“Last year we both sold our places and bought this home together.”
“I don’t know Charlie very well. Just through professional circles, but I thought she’d always had relationships with men,” Serena noted.
“I’ll leave it up to Charlie to tell you about her past relationships. But there are people who are bisexual, and have romantic attractions to both women and men.”
“I see,” Serena said.
“I’ve been out, meaning an open lesbian, since I was in my late teens,” Mandy explained. “Charlie, on the other hand, hasn’t really been vocal about her sexual orientation.”
Serena nodded. “It’s complicated in black communities. Black churches and families don’t exactly give the Good Housekeeping seal of approval to homosexuality,” Serena said. “Like I said, Detroit’s a big town. But it’s also parochial about some things. That may be starting to change.”
“One would hope so,” Mandy said.
“What do you think of Franklin?”
“I’ve never met him, but Charlie has told me a lot about him.”
“Hmm,” Serena said. “I dated him a couple of times after he and Charlie got divorced.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“He’s a smart, ambitious, successful brother. A lot of women had their eyes on him. It was sort of a surprise when he . . .”
“Fell in love with a white woman?” Mandy finished.
When Charlie stepped into the kitchen, Mandy and Serena were quietly sipping their teas. “So, what have you two been talking about?”
“Would you believe me if I said the weather?” Mandy responded.
“Partly you, Charlie, with a smattering of Franklin,” Serena quipped.
Mandy gave a little smile and nod at Serena’s joke. Charlie raised an eyebrow in Mandy’s direction, and Serena took a last gulp of tea. She stepped down from the counter stool. Her brown heeled boots and purse were of the same butter-smooth leather, and her brown herringbone suit was accessorized with a Chanel scarf. Charlie was the sidekick, in flat boots, black slacks, a turtleneck, and a three-quarter black leather coat.
“Ready to go?” Serena asked. “I’m driving.”
“I’m feeling underdressed,” Charlie responded.
“You look good. Not like you were up most of the night strategizing with cops.”
“She’s only had a few hours of sleep in the last twenty-four hours,” Mandy said with concern.
“Don’t worry. We’ll only be a few hours. I’ll bring her back to you in one piece,” Serena said.
# # #
When they arrived at the Fairchild house, a patrol car and a four-door unmarked police vehicle were in the circular drive. Serena parked behind them. Charlie led the way to the side gate and rang the bell. They rang a second time, and a buzzer released the gate. When the front door opened, a visibly upset Pamela Rogers greeted them. She directed them to follow her to the back of the house where they entered the conservatory Judy had raved about. The space really was beautiful. They sat at a table covered in cut flowers.
“Thank you for coming. Both of you,” Pamela said, looking at Charlie. “I . . . I’m sorry for my appearance. We’ve had some hard news. The police are here to question Daddy.”
“Does your father have his attorney with him?” Serena asked, going into lawyer mode.
“He’s on the way. The police say they only want to clear up some of the false accusations against Daddy.”
“I see,” Serena said.
“I’m so sorry for the things I said to you,” Pamela said, extending her hand to touch Charlie’s arm. “Please forgive me. I’m under a lot of pressure.”
“I know you are, Pamela, and I accept your apology. This has been very hard on all of us. How is your mother?”
“She’s so upset that Daddy sent her to her room.”
Serena and Charlie flashed an appalled look at the patriarchal gall in that statement.
“Pamela, why did you want to see us?” Serena asked.
“I want to reinstate you to Franklin’s case.”
“Franklin has already done that. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No. I was only allowed to speak to him for a few minutes,” Pamela said sadly. “He was appalled at my behavior toward you, Charlie. I know you meant well in everything you’ve done. I brought you in to look after Franklin, and that’s just what you’ve done. I don’t know what else to say. It’s been a living hell for me and my family, but it looks like it’s almost over.”
“What do you mean?” Serena asked.
“Karen Scanlon’s confession. She killed Peter and set up Franklin.”
“Who told you that?” Charlie asked.
“Daddy. He says she confessed to the whole thing.”
Serena and Charlie shared another glance. They’d discussed the staged suicide and the obviously forged note on the ride to the Fairchild home. Now they both decided to remain silent on the subject.
“Well, that’s right, isn’t it?”
When Charlie gave no indication she might respond, Serena squared her shoulders and answered.
“The police have reasons to believe Scanlon’s suicide note isn’t authentic.”
Find Me When I'm Lost Page 20