by T. R. Ragan
She nodded. “Janelle told us everything—well, you know, except the gritty details. Heck, most of us knew what was going on between your wife and Benjamin long before they started meeting every day at lunch.”
His insides twisted. Janelle had told him she’d only been with the man on one occasion. More lies? It felt as if a school of tiny fish suddenly darted out of their hiding place and were now swimming around inside his gut.
“Are you all right? Did I say too much?”
“No, it’s just that I thought—just assumed, really—that they mostly met after work. I didn’t realize they met for lunch.”
Margery blushed. “I did say too much. I’m so sorry. My husband always tells me I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”
“Listen, Margery,” he said, placing a gentle hand on hers. “Everything’s fine. Janelle and I have worked things out. You and I have been friends for a long time. I don’t want you to ever feel as if you can’t talk to me, OK?”
She smiled, relieved. “Thank you. I appreciate that. She doesn’t deserve you. I—oh, my, there I go again.” She made a zipping motion over her mouth. “I’m done talking. I think I’ll go ask that nice policeman what that woman did, so I’ll be able to relax.”
He watched her walk away. Janelle was definitely getting laid tonight. When they were first married, she used to talk to him about her fantasy of having kinky hot sex that involved a bit of pain, using whips and hot wax. At the time he’d thought the idea was ludicrous.
Oh, yeah, Janelle was going to get exactly what she asked for, he thought as his knuckles popped, one after the other. He was going to do things to Janelle she’d probably never envisioned, not even in her wildest fucking imagination.
CHAPTER 31
Jessica was surprised to learn that the shooter was female. It wasn’t difficult to find information on Kristin Swift. She was sixteen years old and lived with her grandparents in Oak Park, Sacramento. According to the kids in Kristin’s neighborhood, she had ongoing problems with depression and substance abuse. Her actions went beyond those of the typical rebellious teenager. Not only did Kristin skip school more days than not, she got into a lot of fights and had had her share of run-ins with the law.
Jessica parked at the curb, climbed out, and walked toward the house. A few of the homes in the area had seen better days, but for the most part the street was quiet and well maintained.
She had yet to tell Eloise Hampton, the dead girl’s mother, that she knew who had killed her daughter. Before she called the police, she felt compelled to talk to Kristin Swift to find out why she’d shot the bullet that killed a very special little girl.
In January, only a few short months from now, Jessica would be attending Quantico in Virginia. There would be no room in her future for letting a case get personal.
She knocked on the door and didn’t have to wait long before someone answered. The woman stood well under five feet. Her hair was three shades of gray and she had dark blue eyes that peered at Jessica with mistrust. A television blared in the background. The woman held the door close to her chest, making it impossible for Jessica to see inside the house.
“Hello,” Jessica said. “I’m here to see Kristin Swift. Is she available?”
“What do you want with Kristin?”
Jessica wasn’t fond of using falsehoods to get what she was after. She’d never been good at weaving stories, and besides, the truth worked just as well. “I’ve been told Kristin might have something to do with a recent incident involving the Franklin gang. I need to talk to her about it before anyone jumps to conclusions based on rumors.”
When the woman looked over her shoulder, the door came open just enough for Jessica to catch a glimpse of a young girl about Kristin’s age. Eyes wide, the teenager pushed away from the table and ran to the back door. Jessica saw her yank open a sliding door and run.
Instinct catapulted Jessica forward, but the old lady slammed the door in her face, sending Jessica tumbling backward, down two steps and into a thorny rosebush. She cursed as she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the pain as she ran to the side of the house. She caught sight of Kristin right before the girl jumped the back fence.
Jessica took a faster route through the neighbor’s side yard, ran past an aboveground pool and pulled herself over a rotted fence pieced together with plywood. She landed on both feet and ran across the yard before a dog’s snarl stopped her from taking another step. One inch at a time, she turned her head until she could see what breed of dog she was dealing with. Not good.
A pit bull. A very angry pit bull, maybe twenty feet from her.
She jumped, her fingers clawing into the top of the wood fence, her feet trying to find traction on the wood.
The dog snarled and snapped and she felt its breath near her leg before she kicked him in the chops. Straining, she yanked herself to the top of the fence and threw herself over. The fence shuddered as the beast plowed into the other side. Every dog in the neighborhood was barking now, sounding like a zillion sirens going off at once.
Not too far ahead, she watched Kristin struggle to climb over another fence.
Already out of breath, Jessica hoped the girl wouldn’t make it, but Kristin pushed and pulled, dropped to the other side, and ran toward the main street.
By the time Jessica got to the main street, Kristin was gone. Bent over and trying to catch her breath, she took a good look around the neighborhood. Ready to give up, she heard a commotion and looked to her left just as a man raised his broom to shoo Kristin out of his yard.
Jessica took off again, her left arm stinging after being raked by rose thorns. She darted into an alleyway, close on the girl’s heels. She almost had her.
Shit.
Two skinny man-boys stepped into view just ahead of Kristin, stopping her cold. The bigger of the two boys grabbed her arm and held tight. The smirks on their faces told the story. They were up to no good.
Kristin tried to pull away.
Jessica held up a hand and said, “Let her go, boys.”
One of them pulled out a switchblade and made sure they could both see the blade. “Or whatchya gonna do?”
Jessica pulled out her gun, then flashed her California driver’s license and said, “FBI.”
They were too far away and too stupid to take a closer look. Her 20 weeks of training and 850 hours of instruction at Quantico wouldn’t start until January, which meant she wouldn’t have credentials or a badge until June. They ran off, leaving Kristin to fend for herself. The gun wasn’t loaded, but nobody else needed to know that. It certainly had Kristin’s attention.
“What do you want me to do?” the girl asked.
“I want you to sit down with your back to this wall here and don’t move a muscle.”
“You’d really use that thing on me?”
“Don’t test me.”
Her back against the wall, the girl slid down until she was sitting on the ground.
Jessica tucked the gun into her waistband and slid her wallet back into her pants pocket. Still catching her breath, she rubbed her arm. “God damn, that hurts.”
“You shouldn’t use God’s name in vain.”
“You shouldn’t run from the FBI.”
“How was I supposed to know you were a fed?”
A minute ago, Jessica hadn’t thought she could lie her way out of a paper bag; now she was on a roll. “I want to know why you shot a bullet into the house on Fern Street two weeks ago.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jessica wasn’t the violent type, but she found herself wanting to shake the girl. “You can lie all you want, Kristin, but I already have two witnesses and a gun with your prints that says you’re the shooter.” Another lie.
The girl looked worried. “What do you mean by witnesses?”
“Two members of the Franklin gang gave me yo
ur name to save their own asses. If you want any chance at all of avoiding a life sentence, you need to talk.”
Silence.
Jessica bent down on one knee so she could look Kristin in the eye. “Listen, that girl you shot and killed was twelve years old. She worked hard in school and never got in a fight in her life.”
Kristin’s eyes narrowed. “I bet you she had two parents who loved her. I bet you they made sure she had food to eat. They probably tucked her in bed at night.”
Jessica wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted to hear from this girl, Taylor’s shooter—maybe some remorse, but certainly not this bullshit. “She wasn’t that different from you,” Jessica said. “She never met her dad.”
“I bet if we walked into her room right now, everything would be just right—a brightly painted room with lights that worked so she could read at night,” Kristin went on, every word dripping with hatred. “I bet you she has sheets on her bed that smell like soap and flowery perfume.”
Jessica stood tall again and crossed her arms.
“I wonder what she had for lunch at school every day,” Kristin went on. “Do you think she had to beat other kids up for a quarter? I bet you I could guess what was inside that brown paper bag with her name scribbled on it—peanut-butter sandwich, some pretzels in one of those fancy plastic bags with the zippers and—”
“Listen, you little crybaby,” Jessica interrupted. “Her mother worked twelve-hour days and she still couldn’t afford to put more than a bowl of beans on the table most nights.” Anger caused the blood in Jessica’s veins to bubble and pop like hot grease. “That little girl you shot and killed had a name. Her name was Taylor, and in case you forgot, that little girl with the clean-smelling sheets . . . she’s dead.”
Kristin’s gaze fell to the ground, her shoulders quivering.
Jessica wasn’t falling for it. “Why did you do it?”
When Kristin looked at Jessica, her eyes were smeared with mascara. “They handed me the gun and told me I had to shoot it if I wanted to be part of the family.”
“And so you blindly did as you were told?”
“Why not? I did everything else they told me to do.” She wiped her eyes and nose clean against a shirtsleeve. “Thirty minutes before they drove me to Fern Street, they passed me around like a chocolate dessert for everyone to nibble on, so I figured what the hell. What did I have to lose?” Kristin closed her eyes tightly but that didn’t stop the tears from leaking out. “I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said, whispering now. “I never meant anyone no harm.”
CHAPTER 32
Forty-eight hours after Dr. Madeline Blair was attacked and then taken to the police department for questioning, she was released. With a lawyer at her side and no proof of wrongdoing, the police were unable to make an arrest.
In order to get the investigation started, Lizzy needed a list of names—family and friends. She still had a lot of questions for Madeline. Afraid to leave her house, Madeline insisted they meet her at home.
Because Lizzy would need help with the investigation, she’d asked Hayley to join her. Hayley had already arrived, her car parked at the curb. She’d brought Kitally, Lizzy’s newest employee, along with her, and the two girls were leaning against the car, waiting.
After Madeline allowed them inside her home, quick introductions were made. Madeline looked much better than the last time Lizzy had seen her. She wore formfitting athletic wear and running shoes. Her hair was tied back, which served to accentuate her high cheekbones.
Once they were seated in Madeline’s living area, Kitally and Hayley pulled out their laptops and Lizzy paper and pen for taking notes.
Lizzy spoke first. “As you know, Madeline, I called this meeting together because we can’t begin an official investigation until we’re familiar with all the facts of your case. I realize the past few days have been tough, but we won’t be able to help you until we look at everything.”
Madeline nodded.
“About the night you were attacked, do you recall anything unusual—for instance, any strange smells?”
“Moldy, stale,” Madeline said. “He smelled like death.”
“How about his voice? Can you describe it for us?”
“In my opinion, most men tend to sound monotone,” Madeline said. “This guy’s voice had much more range. It’s hard to explain, but I guess I would say his voice sounded borderline feminine. Quiet for the most part, but then he would get angry and his voice would crack with emotion.”
“Did he have an accent?”
Madeline shook her head.
“And you never got a glimpse of him?”
“No. I couldn’t see him at all.” Madeline’s eyes widened. “He did make a strange noise with his tongue and he tended to crack his knuckles every so often.”
Lizzy wrote it all down.
“What about the neighborhood?” Kitally cut in. “Did anyone around here see anything? Or what about you, have you seen anything suspicious in the area lately?”
Lizzy sighed. She’d explain the rules to Kitally later when they were alone. There was a pecking order. She asked the questions first, and then if she missed anything, her assistants could speak up.
Madeline held a file on her lap. She flipped it open and handed Lizzy a flyer. “I did find this in my mailbox yesterday. My neighbor Mr. Whitton, a retired MP, passed out flyers to the neighborhood after his wife noticed a Honda Civic parked at the curb for hours.”
“If you could give me the Whittons’ address, I’ll pay them a visit,” Lizzy said.
Madeline pointed out the front window. “No need to give you an address. They live in the blue-and-white house right across the street. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Lizzy said, moving along. “Can you tell us what your daily routine was before you began receiving strange items at your doorstep?” Lizzy had already filled Hayley and Kitally in on the specifics of what Madeline had been through, so there was no need to repeat what she already knew.
“I used to run every morning around seven. I stopped after I realized I was being watched.”
“After your run, what did you normally do?”
Madeline gestured toward the file in her lap. “I wrote it all down for you. After my run, I would usually make myself breakfast, take a shower, maybe do some laundry or run a few errands—grocery store, post office, hair salon, et cetera. I like to be at my office on Madison by two o’clock. That’s when I determine what I’ll be talking about on my show that day. If I have a special guest I want to have on the air, I’ll plan weeks in advance.”
“Did you say the Honda Civic the neighbor saw was silver?” Hayley cut in.
Madeline nodded.
“This article I found online,” Hayley went on, “says that David Westlake was seen talking to a man driving a silver Honda Civic.”
“Good work,” Lizzy said. “Could you bookmark that page and see if you can find the name of the man who saw David Westlake, or the security company’s name?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Great, let’s make it a priority to talk to him.” Lizzy tapped her pencil against her chin. “How about restaurants? You said Monty’s Bar & Grill was one of your favorites. Do you usually eat lunch out?”
Madeline nodded. “I go there a few times a week. Usually Tuesdays and Thursdays. Same table, same waitress . . . Amber, the young girl you met when we had lunch.”
It took another twenty minutes to find out which bank Madeline used and also her nail and hair salon, post office, grocery store, et cetera. It was time to move on to her personal life and family members.
Kitally stood.
“What is it?” Lizzy asked.
“I need to use the bathroom?”
“Down the hall to the left,” Madeline told her.
“Any sisters or brothers?” Lizzy asked next.<
br />
“One of each. Both older. My brother recently moved to San Francisco. My sister lives downtown. Mom and Dad moved to Folsom a few years ago.”
“Any ex-boyfriends or old roommates—anyone who might hold a grudge for any reason at all?”
“I have a few ex-boyfriends, but offhand I only know what two of them are up to. One is married, living in Los Angeles, and the other guy is living the good life on the beaches of Thailand.” Madeline handed Lizzy a list of names. “Here’s a list of everyone I know, family and friends. But I really don’t think it could be anyone I know.”
“Sibling rivalry?”
“No way. All three of us are proud and supportive of each other’s accomplishments.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to talk to your family members and coworkers.”
“That’s not a problem.”
Kitally returned to the room holding a magazine. Lizzy was about to lecture her about touching other people’s things when Kitally opened the magazine and held it up for all to see. The inside pages had been cut up; some pages had one missing letter in the header, others were cut to shreds. “Didn’t you say Dr. Blair received a note made out of letters cut from a magazine?” Kitally asked.
Madeline paled.
Lizzy came to her feet. “Set that on the table, will you? Whoever was in this house obviously left more than just a wallet for the police to find. If you’re OK with it, Madeline, I think it’s time we all take a look around to see what else we can find.”
Madeline agreed.
“I have an evidence kit with latex gloves in the trunk of my car.” When Lizzy returned, everyone put on a pair of gloves. Without further instruction needed, Hayley focused her search in the dining room/kitchen area, and Kitally made her way upstairs.
Madeline stayed where she was, her face pale.
“We need to search every bit of this house,” Lizzy explained, “turn every room upside down. I don’t think it would be wise to wait for the police to show up with a warrant and find any more surprises. Every bit of this house, every drawer and closet needs to be—”