Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16)

by Michael Lister

  “You didn’t, did you?” I say. “Mean to kill her.”

  She still doesn’t say anything.

  “I don’t think you did. I think Mariah changed her mind about running away. Did Caden not being willing to go make her want to stay?”

  Tears fill her eyes, but she still doesn’t speak.

  “I keep thinking of how Mariah died,” I say. “A single blow to the back of the head. And the way she was tied up afterwards—as part of the staging to make it look like something else. You did that to get back at Trace, didn’t you? To cause him even more grief and pain. I just keep remembering how there were no abrasions or bruises where the ropes touched Mariah’s skin. That’s because she was already dead when you tied her up.”

  She nods.

  After answering Reynolds’ question and laying out my theory for everyone at the rental house in Stars Haven, Reynolds had responded that it was far too complicated to get a conviction and that he wouldn’t bring it to trial. So I asked Reggie if I could try to get Deidra to confess and she said she was going to suggest it if I hadn’t.

  Which is why I’m here now.

  After mirandizing Deidra and letting her know I’m recording our conversation, I began laying out the evidence against her and what I think happened, piece by piece, line by line, slowly, methodically.

  It seems to be working.

  “The most negative information about Trace came from you—someone who blames him for her sister’s death—and Chance Hill, a habitual offender still serving time long after Trace is out and doing well. Perhaps it was easier for everyone to believe —us and the media because Trace is African-American, an ex-con, and has a certain image as a rapper, but . . . I don’t believe he’s the monster you think he is. Anyway, Mariah comes down stairs to unlock the door for you and Caden. But Caden’s not there, is he? It’s just you. You give her the gifts. She thanks you and slips them in her backpack. You ask if she’s ready. She says she has to wait for Caden. And when you tell her Caden can’t go . . . what happens?”

  “I . . . I . . . started thinking about what I was risking,” she says. “Everything. Everything—including this place and the work I do here—to save her and . . . she doesn’t want to go now because some little boy that she just met won’t go with her.”

  “Did she say she was going over to Caden’s or just back up to bed? Or did she threaten to wake her dad? Did you grab her? Did she trip? Fall? What did she hit her head on?”

  I think of the huge bronze sea turtle near the door, how much its beak-like mouth matches Mariah’s head wound, and how the lab was testing it at this very moment.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  I wait.

  She doesn’t say anything else or respond in any way for a quite a while.

  I continue to wait.

  Eventually, more tears appear in her eyes, crest, then stream down her cheeks.

  “It was an accident,” she says finally.

  I nod.

  “I would never intentionally do anything to hurt anyone, but especially that poor little motherless angel who had been through so much. I was trying to help her, to save her. I was doing what I thought Myra would have done. Acting for her. There’s no way she wouldn’t have gone and gotten her daughter out of that . . . No way I couldn’t do it for her.”

  “I know,” I say, continuing to nod in ways that I hope are understanding and encouraging.

  “She just fell. Fell and hit her head. I was reaching for her, trying to get her not to walk away, but . . . I didn’t push her or trip her or . . . anything. It happened so fast. She just hit her head on that ridiculous bronze sea turtle and . . . She was there, alive one instant, and in the next she was gone.”

  From down the hallway I can hear the women whose lives she’s saving talking and laughing and interacting with Frank Morgan.

  “What then?” I ask. “You grab her up. Carry her to her room and . . . get the idea to make it look like something other than what it was, maybe frame Trace in the process. You know about Trace tying women up from your sister. Myra used to read about it and practice it in front of you, didn’t she? You told me she did. Did she talk to you about it, get you to tie her up for practice? Did you see the ropes on the landing or in the bathroom or were you brazen and committed enough to slip into Trace’s room and get them?”

  She nods. “His room. They were out. I knew they would be. Partying the way they do.”

  “But you couldn’t bring yourself to leave Mariah naked, could you? You undercut your own staging by putting her swimsuit on her and tying her up over it. Then, and this is most telling of all, you lovingly wrap her in a blanket to cover her and lay her under the bed.”

  She nods.

  “But you forgot the gifts were in Mariah’s backpack as you slip out into the night and drive back to Helen, didn’t you? What time did you get back—just a little before your parents knock on your door with the news that your niece is dead?”

  She nods again.

  “When I came to see you, I was here mostly to talk to you about Trace,” I say. “You really weren’t even on our radar, but you gave me your alibi and the story explaining why your prints were going to be found on the picture frame and earrings without me asking.”

  “After it happened . . . I thought . . . maybe some good could come of it. Maybe I could punish him for what he did to Myra. I don’t know . . . something just sort of took over inside me and . . . I became a woman on a mission, so focused, so brave, so . . . it was like it wasn’t me. It’s hard to explain.”

  “I looked into your sister’s death,” I say. “So did Frank. Trace didn’t murder her. Didn’t have it done. It really was what it looked like—an accidental overdose.”

  “He took her from me—accident or not.”

  “The way you took Mariah from him,” I say.

  Her eyes widen in devastating recognition and she gasps.

  We are silent for what seems like a long while.

  “I do so much good,” she says. “And have for years now. My whole life is—this is my whole life. Saving the lives of battered women, giving them a different life than what they—than the brutal hell they’ve always known. And this—an accident, a split-second freak accident—is what I’m gonna be known for.”

  I don’t point out that she was wrong to be where she was in the first place and that if she hadn’t been attempting to essentially kidnap her niece none of this would’ve happened.

  “What’s gonna happen to me?” she asks.

  “That’s up to you,” I say. “But we’ve spoken to the district attorney and convinced him it was an accident. If you’ll cooperate and plead guilty, you’ll get manslaughter.”

  She nods and thinks about it.

  “You’d still have a life,” I say.

  “That’s more than Myra and Mariah,” she says, “and more than I deserve.”

  56

  “It was an accident, John,” Frank Morgan says.

  “I know.”

  We are standing outside Myra House.

  A Dekalb County Sheriff’s deputy has just taken Deidra into custody—something both of us found difficult to watch. She is guilty of obstruction and a variety of other charges related to breaking into Trace’s rented house and staging the crime scene, but it is difficult to find her criminally responsible for Mariah’s death.

  “She shouldn’t serve any time at all for an accident.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” I say. “And I made that argument to the DA, argued that Hank should get far more time than she does, but . . . think about all she did afterward. If she hadn’t tried to frame Trace and Ashley . . . If she had called an ambulance instead of staging it to look like a murder committed by someone inside the house that night . . . but she didn’t.”

  He shakes his head and frowns. “You have any idea how much good she does here?”

  “I do.”

  Through the windows, around curtains and in between blinds, the women of Myra House w
atched as their heroine and savior was taken away—and continue to watch the two of us now.

  “This place can’t survive without her.”

  “I think it can.”

  “How?”

  “You,” I say.

  “Me?”

  “She told me she was going to ask you to run it while she’s away.”

  His eyes show just how appealing he finds that idea.

  “Really?” he says. “Me, huh? I . . . I guess I could. How long do you think she’ll be gone?”

  I shrug. “Probably less than two years.”

  He nods. “I could do that, yeah. I’ll need to get a female partner to help make sure the women feel comfortable, but . . . I could . . . run the place.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “And Anna and I will help in any way we can.”

  And then it hits me.

  “You know . . .” I add. “Ida Williams would be a great help. I bet she’d be happy to help you.”

  He nods. “Probably be good for her too.”

  I smile. “Yes, it would. No doubt about it.”

  “At least tell me Hank Howard is going to get more time than Deidra. At least tell me that.”

  I nod. “Looks like it. The fact that he broke in with a weapon. Doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to make bail either, so it looks like he’ll sit in jail while awaiting trial.”

  “Good. That’s where he needs to be.”

  We are quiet a moment, and I notice just how much better—healthier and more vibrant—Frank looks than before he started helping out here at Myra House.

  “Does Trace know?” he asks.

  I nod.

  While giving Deidra some time to tell her parents what had happened and what was about to happen and to get a few things in order, I had driven over to Trace’s.

  I found Trace all alone in his crumbling kingdom. No family. No posse. No bodyguards.

  Nadine had resigned and moved out.

  He and Ashley had broken up and she and Brett had moved out.

  He is hemorrhaging money and losing all his income and can no longer afford to employ friends and bodyguards.

  But he didn’t seem to care.

  He is broken and grief-stricken and seems to prefer to be alone.

  “You know why we broke up?” he had asked me when we were talking about Ashley.

  I shook my head, though I could probably have guessed.

  “Neither of us could be completely certain that the other one didn’t do it,” he said. “You can’t be with someone who thinks you could’ve murdered your child any more than you could be with someone you think could have murdered your child. And it turns out I was right about her racist piece of shit brother. Can’t believe she let that sorry motherfucker know how much cash I carry. Hell, maybe she was in on it. See? I can’t be sure she wasn’t.”

  “We asked him,” I said. “He says it was just him.”

  “Well . . .”

  I didn’t say anything, just waited.

  “Can’t believe that bitter bitch was gonna take my kid away from me in the middle of the night,” he says, “but . . . I’m so glad she wasn’t . . . that . . . it was an accident and she wasn’t raped and didn’t suffer.”

  I nod. “Me too. So glad.”

  “My life’s still over,” he said. “And not just because part of the world will always think I did it or had something to do with it, but because . . . biggest part of me died when she did. Don’t . . want . . . no life now.”

  “What’d he say?” Frank asks now.

  I tell him.

  “Well,” he says, “I guess I better get back in there and reassure all these ladies about their futures and the fate of Myra House.”

  57

  I’m near Columbus on my way home when my phone rings.

  I’m in the middle of contemplating what I do, how I approach justice, how I apply the law and how I justify it to myself.

  It bothers me that Deidra will serve two years in prison for an accident while Sylvia won’t serve a single second for several coldblooded homicides.

  That reminds me that I still haven’t had to interact with Sylvia Summers, Reggie’s mom, since telling Reggie I would keep her secret. It will happen eventually, but it’s fine with me that it hasn’t happened yet.

  I wonder if my involvement in each case, even though in very different capacities, makes me a hypocrite. I conclude that it does—especially when I factor in what I did in regards to Verna and her role in the Janet Leigh Lester case.

  It occurs to me that I apply the law and justice just as arbitrarily and inconsistently as our justice system, and it makes me equally parts ashamed and determined to do something about it.

  It’s late—one-thirty or so in the morning—and I don’t recognize the number the call is coming from, but I answer it.

  “Why didn’t you come tell me?” Nadine says. “You were up here. You told everybody else, but I had to hear it on the TV. I was her mother—the closest thing that poor child had to one. Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  When I didn’t find Nadine at Trace’s, I made no attempt to track her down to tell her about Mariah in person like I should have. I was tired and drained and all I wanted to do was rush back to be with Anna and the girls—especially given everything that had happened—but I was wrong not to tell her face to face.

  “I should have,” I say. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I thought I’d be able to talk to you at Trace’s and when you weren’t there . . . I just . . . I’m very sorry.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I’m truly sorry. I know she was like your own daughter. It was . . . I should have.”

  “Well, you can tell me now,” she says. “Tell me what really happened, not that TV news crap.”

  I tell her everything I can.

  “So my baby didn’t suffer,” she says. “Wasn’t . . . messed with . . . That’s . . . Thank you, Jesus. Oh, Lord, I’m so relieved to hear that. Thank you, Jesus. And John. Thank you, John.”

  It doesn’t feel right for me to say thank you, so I don’t say anything. But I am very glad to give her the somewhat comforting news that it was an accident.

  “Now that I know for sure that boy ain’t done this terrible thing,” she says. “I may go back to work for him. He’s got no one else right now. No daughter. No girlfriend. No stepson. No manager—even ol’ Irvin left him. I know Trace doesn’t have a child for me to take care of, but . . . right now he’s the one needin’ takin’ care of. He can be my child.”

  “He’d be lucky to have a mom like you,” I say.

  “He’s basically a good man,” she says. “He really is. Sometimes he’s a lost little boy, but . . . mostly he’s a decent human being. Can you believe all the stuff the media has been saying about him? Easier for everyone to believe about a young black man like him.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Probably. But . . . don’t forget what was reported, perceived, and believed about John Ramsey—a rich middle-aged white man.”

  “Guess you’re right.”

  “But you’re right about what Trace needs,” I say. “You’re exactly what he needs right now.”

  “I may not even wait until the mornin’,” she says. “I may go back over there right now. He’s a night owl so I’ll know he’ll be up. I could cook him some middle-of-the-night breakfast. That’s his favorite.”

  “I think you should,” I say.

  “I think I will,” she says, then thanks me again and ends the call.

  58

  “So she confessed?” Anna whispers.

  It’s the middle of the night. We’re in bed. The baby monitor is off. Our girls are asleep in the room with us, their beds at angles around ours.

  I nod. “Seemed to need to.”

  The room is night-light dim and breezy because of the box fan and window unit.

  “Think it was a real unburdening,” I add.

  “I bet.”

  Johanna turns in her bed, tossing her covers about, and
I lean up to check on her.

  When I lie back down, Anna asks, “How long you think they’ll sleep in here?”

  “Is twenty-eight too old?”

  She laughs and says, “I adore you, John Jordan.”

  “Adore you more, Mrs. Jordan.”

  I reach up and touch her face, tracing her features with my finger.

  “I was thinking at least until Chris is sentenced,” I say. “If that’s okay with you.”

  “That’s absolutely okay with me, but I don’t think Chris is going to be a problem anymore—even before he’s sentenced.”

  “Hope you’re right,” I say. “But I can’t say I share your optimism.”

  “Do you really think Randa was going to kill him?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “I think maybe we’ve become her woes,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “I think she cares about us—our family, Merrill, Daniel, Merrick, Sam. Think she thinks under different circumstances she might be in our friend group.”

  “Really?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s just an impression.”

  “She’d make an interesting addition to the Scooby Gang,” she says.

  “That she would.”

  “Have I told you how glad I am you’re home?” she says.

  “Have I told you how glad I am to be home?” I ask.

  “I’m a little surprised Susan didn’t insist on getting Johanna after what happened,” she says.

  “She wanted to,” I say. “But Johanna told her she wanted to stay, that she felt safe. Susan felt reassured by the twenty-four-hour armed protection too. She knows Dad, Daniel, Merrill, you, Reggie—nobody would let anything happen to her, that it’s not just me.”