The Other Daughter

by Lisa Gardner

  “What about Harper and Patricia Stokes?” David asked from the doorway. “Did you contact them?”

  “Not yet, but since Melanie's not cooperating . . .” Larry Digger made a show of shrugging, but his gaze was shrewd. He leaned against the bureau and eyed them both.

  “I figure I can write this up by end of week,” he announced. “Auction it off to the highest bidder, with or without a quote from Miss Holmes. Welcome to journalism in the nineties.”

  “Then it is about money. When all is said and done, you are simply after a buck. Well, that answers my question. Good day, Mr. Digger, and good riddance.” Melanie shook her head in disgust and stood.

  Digger grabbed her arm. Bad move. David immediately strode toward him.

  “Oh, what are you gonna do, gimpy?”

  David's face turned to stone, and Melanie felt the hair prickle at the nape of her neck. David Reese was angry, a deep anger that made him dangerous. At that moment Melanie had no doubt he could inflict as much or as little damage as he intended.

  The reporter was not a dumb man after all. Very slowly he brought up his hands. “Hey, hey, hey, we've gotten off track here. We all want the same thing. I'm sure we can work it out.”

  David relaxed just slightly, but his gaze held a warning. Digger tried to plead his case to Melanie instead.

  “It's not about money,” he said sourly. “It isn't.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Goddammit! Don't you think I'm tired of chickenshit tabloid journalism too? I have a real lead, Melanie Stokes, whether it violates your precious little world or not. And I intend to write a real story whether you like it or not.”

  “Tell me the truth,” Melanie said curtly. “Tell me something convincing.”

  Digger crossed to the bedside table and picked up a handful of ragged papers. “You want your truth, here it is. This is the story of Russell Lee Holmes and the woman who bore his child.”

  “How do you know?” Melanie pressed. “How do you know?”

  Digger was silent for a moment. He seemed to be contemplating his options. Maybe his greed was warring against what appeared to be his genuine pride in a job well done. Maybe he just wasn't sure how seriously to take her. Then he spoke.

  “Russell Lee Holmes had a tattoo on his upper arm. This was all documented when he was arrested. The tattoo said ‘Trash loves Angel.' Now, Trash is Russell Lee's nickname. He wouldn't tell anyone who Angel was, just said he wasn't ‘no fuckin' virgin.' But, unfortunately for him, Russell Lee sometimes spoke in his sleep. He liked to say the name Angel. And every now and then he'd have these little conversations with his baby—with his own kid.

  “Even before they brought him to the electric chair, I started looking into it, trying to find his wife and child. I wanted to know what it was like to be married to Russell Lee. You know anything about child molesters, Miss Stokes?”

  She shook her head.

  “There are several types. You can be either a preferential child molester—meaning you really do prefer children—or a situational molester, which means you'll turn to children if they happen to be around, but adults will do just as well. Make sense?”

  Melanie nodded, though she wasn't sure something so horrible could make sense. Larry Digger continued more enthusiastically now, warming to his subject, pleased to show off his research.

  “Most child molesters are situational offenders,” he said. “They fall into four categories—repressed, morally indiscriminate, sexually indiscriminate, and inadequate. A repressed guy will molest his own children versus risking approaching anyone else. He's not only a sick son of a bitch, he's basically a spineless bastard as well. The morally indiscriminate, on the other hand, is a true equal opportunity monster. He'll rape his children, he'll rape his neighbor's children, and then to top it all off, he'll rape his wife and his neighbor's wife. He has no conscience at all, and preying on kids is just part of the fun. Then we got the sexually indiscriminate. He'll prey on anyone too, but for a different reason. He's sexually bored, likes the risk, the sense of adventure. What do you think is worse, Melanie? Preying on your kids because you can or preying on your kids because you have nothing better to do with your time?”

  He didn't give her a chance to answer, which was just as well. Melanie suddenly had a feeling where the reporter was going, and it was a freight train straight to hell.

  “The fourth type is the inadequate,” Digger announced. “He's a loner, probably has no adult relationship to fulfill his needs, and in the end lures children he knows or has easy access to, because they are nonthreatening and he knows he's a wimp and not capable of much. So there you go, four types of sickos. Wanna cast your bet as to which type fits Russell Lee Holmes?”

  “Morally indiscriminate,” David said without hesitation. “Has no conscience or sense of remorse about his actions. He didn't even repent when sitting in the electric chair.”

  Digger nodded approvingly. He looked Melanie in the eye.

  “There's another defining characteristic of the morally indiscriminate offender, a neat little twist that'll just chill your heart. He'll not only turn on his own children, but he'll have children just so he can have them to turn on. So he has property at home. So he has all the access a godlike creature such as him is entitled to. I want to find Russell Lee Holmes's wife because I want to ask her what it was like to realize she'd been used by her own husband to produce his next victim.”

  Digger's voice turned soft. “Do you understand yet why you were given up by your own mother, Miss Holmes? Why you might have been spirited as far away from Texas as possible? Why your birth mother has never made any attempt to claim you or acquaint you with your past? Do you understand yet why you had been brought into this world?”

  Melanie was having a hard time breathing. A fresh migraine was taking root behind her eye. The shadows were shifting in her mind again, revealing glimpses of a time and place she didn't want to know. The wooden shack. The little girl, clutching her favorite toy and staring right at her, not knowing yet what her fate would be.

  “You still haven't given any proof,” she said roughly. “You've only established that Russell Lee Holmes was evil. I got that. So his wife had motive to give her child up for adoption. I got that too. But you still haven't said anything to convince me that I'm that child. Come on, how in the world would some poor woman in Texas get her child to a Boston hospital ER?”

  “Honestly, I don't know. But I can still give you your connection. See, I tracked down the midwife who had the honor of delivering one Baby Doe to none other than Russell Lee Holmes and his wife. Of course, she didn't know who they were then. Interestingly enough, Russell Lee used aliases for himself and his wife even before he began his dirty deeds.

  “But when Russell Lee's pictures suddenly became front-page news, the midwife figured it out. And then, when she's still trying to figure out if she should say something about it or not, a man appears in her doorway.

  “He offers her a large sum of money to forget all about Russell Lee Holmes's child. He tells her if she ever says a word, there will be consequences. Dire consequences. Now, this is the kind of man you don't mess with. So the midwife agrees. She doesn't take the money—she's got a little bit of an attitude about pride in her job and all that—but neither does she ever say a word. The identity of Russell Lee's kid remains safe with her long after Russell Lee goes to the chair.”

  Digger smiled. It was the only warning Melanie got. “Hey, Miss Holmes, the man who approached the midwife was Jamie O'Donnell. Now, if this has got nothing to do with you, why does your godfather care about Trash's first kid? Why is he showing up on the porch of some little old midwife and threatening her life if she can't keep a secret? You wanna tell me?”

  Melanie's stomach plummeted. She didn't have an answer.

  “Did you . . . did you contact Jamie? Did you ask him that?”

  “Jamie O'Donnell? Shit, you're a few cards short of a full deck. The man runs guns, for God's sake. He knows
people, he's hurt people. No way in hell I'm going near him.”

  “What?”

  Larry Digger blinked at her shocked tone. “Lady, don't you know anything about your family?”

  Melanie was dazed. Her godfather imported small gift items. Wooden boxes from Thailand, figurines. He traveled a lot. That's all.

  “What about this Angel?” David asked. “You found her?”

  Digger shook his head. “No. Like I said, the woman used an alias and the midwife knew only the fake name. I asked for a description, but it was too generic to help. Russell Lee didn't leave any personal documents behind, and even his lawyer is a tight one on the subject. Client-lawyer privilege carries to the grave and all that crap.”

  Digger stared at Melanie. “You must have lived at least a few years with your birth mom. Now, I know your memory isn't all it's cracked up to be, but a mom is a mom. She's gotta be in your mind somewhere. A little bit of hypnosis, regression therapy, whatever, I can reunite mother and child. Now, how is that for a story? What d'you say, Miss Holmes? Wanna meet your real mom? Wanna hear your real name? It'll be fun.”

  Knocking sounded at the door. “I ordered breakfast earlier,” Digger said. “Never come between a man and his fried eggs.”

  David stepped toward Melanie. Digger opened the door. Two sounds emitted—short, popping crackles, like potato chip bags bursting open. And Digger collapsed where he stood, blood bubbling from his chest.

  Melanie found herself looking at a dark-haired man wearing a poorly fitting hotel uniform and a very large gun.

  He took aim again.

  “Get down!” David roared, leaping toward her and sending them sprawling behind the bed. Two more pops. Bullets sailed just above their heads.

  As she watched, David reached beneath his nice sports jacket and pulled out a gun.

  “FBI,” David Reese yelled. “Drop it!”

  TWELVE

  T HUNDER ERUPTED SUDDENLY from David's gun. Three pops followed, sending one bullet flying past Melanie's ear. She cringed, and then David's gun roared once more.

  “On the count of three,” David commanded.

  “What?” She couldn't hear through the ringing in her head.

  “On the count of three, run.”

  Pop, pop.

  “One. Two. THREE!” David sprang up firing. “Now, now, now!”

  Melanie crawled two feet before she could get her legs beneath her. Still firing with one hand, David pushed her, and she bolted out from behind the bed.

  The shooter was fleeing down the hall, carrying Digger's notes and leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  Melanie took off in the opposite direction. David Reese was right behind her.

  “Everyone down! Shooter in the building! Press the alarm, press the alarm!”

  People flattened like pancakes. Two women screamed. Melanie kept running through the lobby and the doors into bright blue sunlight and Copley Street.

  She made it halfway up the block before a strong arm whipped around her waist and snapped her to a halt. She screamed, he stuffed a hand in her mouth and yanked her into a doorway. She started fumbling for her mace.

  “It's me, goddammit, it's me. Calm down!” David's skin was pale, his hair spiky with sweat. She couldn't see any sign of a wound, but he was breathing hard and he looked as if he was in a lot of pain. Maybe ducking up and down and shooting firearms weren't good for his back. If he did have a back problem. If his name was David Reese.

  She tried to shove away from him. He locked his arm around her waist more firmly.

  “Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing?” she yelled, still pushing hard.

  “Trying to keep you out of the line of fire,” David bit out. “Do you think a guy like that has qualms about shooting you in the back?”

  She almost wiggled free. He caught her again. “I don't know what I know about a guy ‘like that.' I've never been shot at before!”

  “Well, neither have I, so shut up and let me think.”

  Sounds had erupted on the streets. People shouting. Cars honking, then screeching to a halt. The shooter was probably bolting from the back exit of the hotel. After another moment David loosened his grip and looked out into the street.

  “Shit.” He turned on her angrily. “Don't you realize who that was?”

  “No,” she spat out. She took advantage of his relaxed grip to try to yank away. “Dammit, let me go!”

  “Jesus Christ.” He half released her, half covered her mouth. Bad move. She bit him. This time he let go, but his eyes were burning.

  Down the street, sirens finally split the air, and two cop cars came barreling into view.

  “That was the guy reading the paper in the lobby,” David growled. “The guy who watched us walk into Digger's room, and instead of turning away, came in after us. Now, why the hell would someone do that?”

  “Are you really with the FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  “You lied to me!”

  “Well, you got your revenge, because that guy wasn't firing blanks and he wasn't shooting for show. Now would be a good time for you to answer more questions, starting with the complete list of everyone who would want you dead!”

  LATER, DAVID REESE took her back to the hotel room which was now swarming with police. He introduced himself as Special Agent David Riggs of the Boston office FBI and promptly launched into a steady stream of questions, as if caterers turned out to be undercover agents every day.

  Melanie stared at Digger, unable to look away. He had a large hole in his chest and his blood was everywhere. It carried a warm, rusty scent and was underscored by the smell of feces and urine. David explained that death caused the bowels to relax and release their contents. Melanie hadn't known that.

  A Boston homicide detective arrived. Clad in a dapper double-breasted suit, his pitch-black hair slicked back and his face freshly scrubbed, he introduced himself as Detective Jax. He looked like he ought to be in a one-hour cop drama. He gave Melanie a slow once-over, offered her a seat and a cup of water, then got down to business.

  “Nine millimeter,” the detective told David as he dug bullets out of the drywall with his pocketknife. He dropped them into a plastic bag.

  “A Beretta,” David said. “Can't mistake the sound.”

  Jax pointed at the floor, where a trail of dark red drops led toward the hall. “His?”

  “Got his hand. Slowed him down a bit, but not much. Tough son of a bitch. I hate that trait in assassins.”

  Jax grinned. He finished collecting bullets and moved on to Digger's open duffel bag. “Two pairs of underwear, both dirty. Two white shirts, not really white. Three brand-new bottles of JD. A man with priorities, I see.”

  “He didn't seem that bad when we talked to him. Tox screen will tell the story.” David nodded at the cleared bedside table. “The shooter grabbed Digger's notes before taking off. Not an easy maneuver with shots being fired, so my guess is that was part of the deal. Two dead people and all the reporter's information.”

  “Two dead?” Melanie spoke up. “Why two targets? Only Larry Digger was shot.”

  David answered her. “The receptionist said the shooter was here all day yesterday. She simply assumed he was a friend of one of the guests. Then he showed up again this morning with the newspaper. So the guy is on day two of a stakeout when we showed up. He watched us head for Digger's room, then, according to the receptionist, he got up, made a call from his cell phone and disappeared to the basement, where he must have snatched the uniform.”

  Melanie's eyes widened. The Boston detective shared her concern.

  “This guy walked into the room with a silenced Beretta, knowing all three of you were in it?” Jax said.

  “No one knew I was Bureau,” David stated matter-of-factly. “And no one knew I was coming. My guess is, that's what the phone call was about. Whether the shooter should proceed with an unexpected third person present.”

  “Versus the original targets of Larry Digger and Me
lanie Stokes.”

  “You figure the shooter was told it would only be a matter of time before Melanie met with Digger. So he waits—two for the price of one. Harvard MBAs aren't the only ones worried about efficiency in the workplace anymore.”

  Detective Jax shook his head, working a toothpick in the corner of his mouth as if it were his last cigarette. “That guy had to be bumming when he realized you were a Feebie. So much for quick and easy.”

  David finally cracked a ghost of a grin. “I'd like to think so. It may be the only good thing to come out of this day.”

  His gaze flickered to Melanie. She got it. Good ol' David Riggs was lamenting the loss of his cover. Now he'd have to explain why a G-man was posing as a caterer. That would be an interesting conversation. She was already sharpening her claws for it.

  “Well, hope you don't have any travel plans, G-man,” Detective Jax said, “'cause this is our jurisdiction and we're going to have lots of questions for you.”

  “I got my case to run too.”

  “Which will be my first question—”

  “Detective, don't bother.”

  “Sooner or later—”

  “Then find me later.”

  The two men exchanged steely glances. Finally Detective Jax granted David the first round of the pissing war, shrugging a little and switching the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth.

  They decided to notice Melanie again, leading her out of the room so the photographer could shoot another roll of film. Someone in a white coat was running a tape measure between Larry Digger's body and the open door, while the medical examiner arrived and began a preliminary examination of the scene. The business of death, Melanie discovered, took a lot of people to complete.

  “We want you to come downtown now, ma'am,” Detective Jax said. “We have a sketch artist we'd like you to work with so we can start circulating a picture to local doctors. Maybe the guy went in search of a little love and tenderness for his hand.”