“Jude,” she said, trying to navigate through rush-hour traffic. “I don’t even know if she’s still living at home. They’ve had all kinds of problems with her. Veronica was going to throw her out if she didn’t get her act together.”
“I need you,” Brad said, talking to someone in the office. “Linda Cartwright is here. I’ll bring her with me.”
“It could be someone other than Bramson. I—I can’t remember what cases I assigned her.”
“I’ll print out a list from your computer,” Brad said. “We’ll be there as fast as we can. Whatever you do, don’t talk to the press.”
“Hurry,” she said, hitting the wrong button to end the call and speed-dialing her brother, Neil’s number. She flipped the phone closed and tossed it back into her purse. She hadn’t called Marcus yet. She didn’t have time to talk to Neil.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up in front of a modest stucco house. The exterior needed painting, and most of the flowers had died from lack of water. A bicycle was lying on its side near the sidewalk. When she reached the front door, she could hear the TV blasting inside. It sounded like cartoons or some other type of children’s program. Thank God, she thought, it wasn’t the news. She swallowed hard and rang the doorbell.
A tall, attractive man with prematurely gray hair and pale blue eyes answered the door. Drew Campbell was barefoot, wearing jeans and a green cotton T-shirt with some type of stain on the front. “Carolyn,” he said. “Haven’t seen your face in a month of Sundays. Veronica isn’t home, but come in.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the living room. Toys were scattered everywhere, along with juice cups and half-empty bowls of cereal. Stacy, their eight-year-old, was sprawled out on the sofa watching TV. She was tall for her age and reed thin. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail.
“Excuse the mess,” Drew said. “We live in a perpetual state of chaos. You look like a wreck, Carolyn. Getting ready for the big day, I presume. I was planning to call Marcus and tell him I wouldn’t be able to make his bachelor party. Nice of him to invite me, though. Seems like you’re getting yourself a swell fellow there.”
Michael, the couple’s four-year-old, raced into the room screaming, “Petey took my truck and won’t give it back.”
“Gotta share, kiddo,” Drew said, hoisting him up in his arms. “You know who this lady is, don’t you? This is your godmother, Carolyn. She came to see you. Why don’t you give her a hug?”
“No,” he said, pouting. “I want my red truck.”
When Carolyn gazed at the child’s round face and wide-set eyes, she saw a miniature version of Veronica. “Is Jude here?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Drew said. “I just picked the kids up from the babysitter. I think we found a live-in, but she hasn’t started yet. What’s going on? Jude’s not in trouble again, I hope.”
“No, no,” Carolyn said. “Why don’t we sit down? Something’s happened. I thought Jude could look after…” She waved her hand in front of her. “Never mind…it doesn’t matter.”
“Turn the TV off,” Drew said to his daughter. “You’re not supposed to watch TV until you finish your homework.” When the girl ignored him, he barked, “Now, Stacy.”
Once Stacy had left, Carolyn started to ask him to send Michael to the other room as well, but decided he needed something in his arms when she told him. He took a seat beside her on the sofa. “Veronica was shot, Drew.”
Michael saw a toy on the cushion behind him, and tried to climb out of his father’s arms to reach it. Stacy passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen, a spiral notebook in her hand. Carolyn’s eyes darted around the room. Her head was spinning. There were too many things going on at the same time, and far too much clutter.
“I’m sorry,” Drew said, taking a drink out of one of the children’s juice cups.
Carolyn gave him a strange look.
He laughed. “With this many kids, your own needs fall by the wayside. If I get thirsty, I’ll drink just about anything. Not milk, though. Milk spoils. What were you saying about Veronica? She must have stopped off at the grocery store, or decided to work late. She’s generally home by now.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t know why I’m telling you. I keep forgetting that you’re her boss.”
“Veronica’s been murdered,” Carolyn said. “Someone…shot her.”
It was as if a tunnel had opened up between them. The noise of the television and the children’s voices disappeared. Drew sat the boy down on the floor, staring at Carolyn with a bewildered look on his face. For a long time, neither of them spoke. “I don’t know that many of the details yet,” she continued, rubbing her sweaty palms on her slacks. “The police found her in a room at the Motor Inn on Thompson.” He started to say something, then stopped, his mouth hanging open. She didn’t know what else to do, so she kept talking. It was better to fill the air with words than silence. “She mentioned checking on a probationer when I talked to her this morning. I’m so sorry, Drew. You know how much I loved her.”
He stood and walked toward the back of the house, leaving Michael in the living room. Carolyn followed him, finding him in the master bedroom on the bed. She went over and stood beside him. “Please say something, Drew,” she said, watching a tear roll down his cheek. “There are things…things that have to be done. The children…plans…relatives…a funeral home.” She was bombarding the poor man. She looked around, almost as if she was searching for an escape hatch she could jump through. She wasn’t good at this type of thing. “I’ll give you some time alone.”
“Please,” he said, covering his face with his arm.
Carolyn left, pulling the door closed behind her. Michael stared up at her, sensing that something was wrong. “I want my daddy,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “I’m hungry.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” she said, taking his hand and leading him down the hallway. “We need to find Peter and Jude, okay? I promise I’ll get you some food, just not right this minute.”
“Mac and cheese,” he said. “And Pop Tarts.”
“Sure,” Carolyn said, hoping Brad would get there before she lost it. Peter, the seven-year-old, was pushing toy trucks and cars over a rubber mat that had been made to resemble a city. Since he seemed to be preoccupied, she continued on to Jude’s room, cracking the door and peering inside. It didn’t appear as if the girl was home. Clothes were scattered everywhere, the beds were unmade, and the computer on the desk was turned off. Stacy shared the room with her older sister. Carolyn wondered why they hadn’t converted their garage the way she had to give the older girl some privacy. Where in God’s name would they put a live-in nanny?
“Do you know where Jude is, Michael?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Are you gonna be our new babysitter?”
“Not exactly,” Carolyn said. Their house was smaller than the one she’d just sold, not more than twelve hundred square feet. She felt a chill and looked over her shoulder, expecting to hear Veronica’s boisterous laugh and learn that it was another of her practical jokes. Her death didn’t seem real, and yet at the same time, it seemed so immediate it was terrifying.
Carolyn stared at the framed photos lining the wall in the hallway. She’d lived so much of Veronica’s life she felt fractured, as if a part of her had disappeared. The boy broke away and went sprinting back to the room he shared with his brother. She heard something crash into the wall and rushed to see what had happened. Michael was sitting in the middle of the room bawling.
“He threw a car at me,” Peter shouted. Seeing Carolyn, he looked confused. A look of recognition appeared, and he went back to playing as if she weren’t there.
When Carolyn turned around, Drew was standing in the doorway. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t…I mean, do we have to call a funeral home now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I have to find Jude. She doesn’t have a cell phone. Veronica took it away from her. Sometimes she doesn’t come home for days. I can drive by some of the places whe
re she hangs out.”
“Don’t worry about a funeral home,” Carolyn said, realizing there would be an autopsy. “The most pressing thing at the moment is for you to identify the body. The police want you to go to the morgue. You can call your regular babysitter if you’d like, or we can wait until Brad Preston gets here. He’s bringing Linda Cartwright. She’s one of our investigators. She can watch the children for you. She’s got two kids about the same age as Michael and Peter.”
Peter turned and stared at her, a somber expression on his face. She wondered if he’d figured out what they were talking about. She hadn’t wanted to do it this way, in front of the children, but it was too late now.
“When is Mommy coming home?” Peter asked in a strained voice.
“I don’t know,” Drew said without thinking. “I can’t do what you said, Carolyn. I don’t want that to be my last memory. Besides, I need to track down Jude. Why can’t you identify her?”
Carolyn sat down on one of the twin beds, pulling Michael into her lap. “I guess I could,” she said, stroking the child’s arm. A mother’s touch, she thought. Veronica’s children would never feel that again. Maybe Hank had been justified in asking her to break the news to Drew, but she was too emotionally involved. A stranger might have been better. “They say it’s important. It helps you begin the grieving process.”
“I want my wife back,” Drew said. “I don’t want to start the grieving process.”
“Star Wars,” Michael said, clapping. He hopped out of her lap and dug in a box, returning and handing her an action figure.
“That’s Grievous,” Peter told her.
“Please, can’t we talk in the other room?” Carolyn handed the boy back his toy. Her stomach was churning with acid. Veronica was in the morgue and she was here, surrounding by everything she knew and loved.
“The kids want to be wherever we are,” Drew said. “One room is as good as the other.”
The doorbell rang and he left to answer it. Carolyn stayed in the children’s room, hoping she could keep them entertained. She stretched out on the floor, removing a handful of action figures from the box and offering them to Michael. While his brother’s head was turned, he snatched a truck off the mat. Peter exploded and kicked him. “You messed up everything again.”
A pretty brunette in her late thirties stuck her head in the room. Linda Cartwright nodded at Carolyn, and then squatted down beside the children. “You guys wouldn’t want to go to Dave and Busters with me, would you?”
“I wanna go,” Michael said, throwing his arms in the air.
“Who are you?” Peter asked.
“My name is Linda,” she told him. “I’m a friend of Carolyn’s. And what’s your name, big guy?”
“Peter,” he said, sizing her up. “Can you cook?”
The kids must think they’re interviewing nannies, Carolyn thought, tugging on Linda’s sleeve. Veronica hadn’t said anything about hiring a live-in. Since she worked at home three days a week, it made more sense to take the children somewhere else. Stacy and Peter were in elementary school and Michael was in preschool. Why would they pay a live-in when they were strapped financially?
“Peter,” Linda said, “why don’t you and Michael put your toys away before we leave? If you’re good, I’ll buy you lots of game tokens.”
“Mickey needs a car seat,” Peter told her, sounding wiser than his seven years. “Mom makes me ride in a booster seat. It’s okay if you don’t have one.”
“Guess what?” Linda said, smiling. “I have two car seats, and one’s a booster. My boy, Ryan, is six and Timmy just turned four. Maybe you can come over and play with them one day. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Linda’s cheerful demeanor disappeared once they stepped outside the room. She was strong, Carolyn thought, the type of person you’d want beside you in a crisis. Brad had made a good decision in recruiting her to help out. “They don’t know their mother’s dead yet.”
“I gathered,” Linda answered. “You know Drew better than the rest of us. I’ll get the kids out of here so you two can talk. Has he notified Veronica’s family yet?”
Carolyn shook her head. “There’s another kid in the kitchen. Her name is Stacy.” She stopped and chewed on a cuticle. “Drew asked me to go to the morgue and identify the body. He says he can’t handle it.”
“Can your fiancé go with you?” Linda asked, tilting her head. “You’re awfully pale, Carolyn. I’m not sure you should be driving. Brad told me you’ve known Veronica since grade school. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she said. “We went to St. Andrews together. We were cradle Catholics.”
“Shouldn’t you call a priest, then?”
“No,” Carolyn told her. “Drew’s an atheist, and Veronica was furious over the way the church handled the sex scandals. The last person she’d want in this house with her kids is a priest.”
“That’s too bad,” Linda answered. “Faith can plug a lot of holes at a time like this, particularly when there’re young children involved.”
“Nothing can plug this hole,” Carolyn told her, heading to the living room.
She exchanged a few words with Brad, embraced Drew, and left to go the morgue.
CHAPTER 4
Tuesday, October 12—8:15 P.M.
One side of Veronica’s head was gone. Her blond hair was caked in blood, and her face was unreconizable. Carolyn bent over and stared at the gold wedding band on her left hand. “It’s her,” she told the morgue attendant, a portly Irish man with red hair and freckles. When he started to zip the bag up, she added, “I’d like a few minutes if you don’t mind.”
“Take all the time you want,” Sean O’Malley said. “Just give a holler if you need anything.”
Poor Veronica, Carolyn thought. Before Marcus had come into her life, she’d envied her. She might not have had much in the way of material possessions, but she’d had everything that mattered—a decent husband, four beautiful children, a great personality. No matter how depressed Carolyn got, Veronica always found a way to pull her out of it. She’d never let her work get to her. Last year had changed that, though. But she couldn’t think of that now. She had to pay her respects, let go, find a way to reconcile herself to what had happened.
Picking up her friend’s lifeless hand, she said, “I love you, honey. I promise the bastard who did this to you will pay. Don’t worry about Drew and the kids. It’ll be hard at first, but they’ll make it.” She placed the dead woman’s hand on her chest, the same chest the county pathologist, Charley Young, would soon slice open during the autopsy.
Why was she talking to a corpse?
Was Veronica with God now? She’d never done anything seriously wrong, at least not as far as Carolyn was concerned. Her friend didn’t see it that way. Now she wondered if Veronica had been right, and her death was some sort of divine retaliation. Veronica should have taken her suspicions to the police last year. Carolyn had talked her out of it. Was she now just as responsible?
Even with the most experienced officers, there was always that one case that tore their heart out. Veronica’s had been a child mutilation. She would have eventually put it behind her if the murderer hadn’t been set free. The worst part was that he’d been released because of the incompetence of the county’s chief forensic officer at the time. Robert Abernathy had been charged with multiple counts of falsifying and mishandling evidence, as well as perjury. Lester McAllen, the monster who’d butchered Billy Bell, was only one of scores of defendants whose convictions were overturned because of Abernathy. When Abernathy and Lester McAllen were both murdered, Veronica suspected the boy’s father had killed them. She also blamed herself for contacting Tyler Bell and telling him that the man responsible for his son’s death was scheduled to be released.
Carolyn wrapped her arms around her chest. If Veronica’s spirit was lingering somewhere, it certainly wouldn’t be inside this dreadful place. Carolyn made the sign of the cross, zipped the bag up, and quickly left the room.
O’Malley stood, handing Carolyn a white envelope.
“Is this her death certificate?” she asked. “I’m not a relative. She was my friend, but anything official should be handled by her husband.”
“Turn it over,” he said. “It’s got your name on it. You’re Carolyn Sullivan, aren’t you?”
She used her fingernail to tear open the envelope. As soon as she read it, she jerked her head up. “Where did you get this?”
“It was on my desk,” O’Malley told her, taking a sip of his coffee.
Carolyn’s eyes flashed with fear. “Who put it there?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Must have been someone on the day shift.”
“Call them,” she said, the paper fluttering in her hand. “This is a death threat. I have to know where it came from.”
O’Malley leaned back in his chair. “We’ve got three people working the day shift, Louise Reynolds, Sam Ornstein, and Cory Williams. Louise usually sits at this desk. She goes bowling on Tuesday nights. I guess I can try her cell phone. Tracking everyone down will take time.” He gestured toward a row of plastic chairs. “Have a seat. Want me to get you some coffee? I just put up a fresh pot.”
Carolyn ignored him, reading through the words again. The letter had obviously been typed on a computer. The font was enormous and all the words were in caps.
I KNOW YOUR SON GOES TO MIT.
I KNOW YOUR DAUGHTER GOES TO VENTURA HIGH.
I KNOW YOU NO LONGER LIVE AT THE SAME HOUSE.
I KNOW MARCUS, THE MAN YOU ARE GOING TO MARRY.
KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF THIS, OR I WILL KILL THEM ALL.
THEN I WILL KILL YOU.
“I need rubber gloves and an evidence envelope,” Carolyn said, interrupting O’Malley while he was dialing.
“I can only do one thing at a time,” he complained, opening the top drawer and slapping a box of gloves on the corner of his desk.
Revenge of Innocents Page 3