The Other Daughter

by Lisa Gardner

  Melanie got up and shakily ran a glass of tap water in the sink. “Then why can I picture Meagan in that shack? If she wasn't kidnapped by Russell Lee Holmes, why would she be there?”

  “I'm not sure, Ms. Stokes. I'm honestly very curious about your ‘memories' and what they might mean for the Meagan Stokes case. My overall impression is that it was a copycat crime deliberately set up by someone who knew something of Russell Lee Holmes's activities and who set out to emulate them, not out of neurosis, but out of a rational desire to cover up his or her own crime. When Meagan was kidnapped, it was already suspected that the children were kept alive and hidden away, so perhaps a shack was chosen to ensure that the crime fit as much ‘physical evidence' as possible. In 1972 that was certainly enough to fool the local police and FBI.

  “But as I mentioned before, profiling takes us beyond mere physical imitation of crimes to the underlying motivations and behavior. Once again, the Meagan Stokes case does not fit with Russell Lee's motivation. Which brings me to the final, overwhelming factor in my mind—the disposal of her body.

  “All of Russell Lee Holmes's victims were stripped naked and dumped. Except for Meagan Stokes. She was naked, but her body had been wrapped in a blanket. She was not dumped, but carefully buried. She was also mutilated, her hands and head cut off. Are you familiar with decapitation, Agent Riggs?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Decapitation generally happens for two reasons. One is logical. The cleverer criminals, generally psychopaths who are actively seeking ways to cover their footsteps, will remove the head of their victim to make identifying the body difficult. They will also cut off hands in some cases.”

  David said, “But we've already established that Russell Lee Holmes isn't exactly clever or logical. So what's the second reason?”

  “Emotional. Sometimes, if a murderer feels guilty about a victim, suffers remorse or shame, he will mutilate heads or hands to depersonalize the crime. Decapitation can be an indication that the victim was close to the killer.”

  “Oh, God,” Melanie said, already knowing what was coming next.

  “In conclusion,” Quincy said quietly, “the body was covered by either someone who was very careful, or by someone who truly cared.”

  “The parents,” David filled in, then added almost savagely, “for the money, right? The million bucks.”

  Melanie looked at him, startled. “What?”

  “Harper and Patricia Stokes had million-dollar life insurance policies on both of their children,” Quincy provided calmly. “In fact, before Russell Lee Holmes confessed, the police were actively investigating Harper Stokes. The seventies were a tough time for him. He had lost quite a bit of money on various speculative deals, and without that life insurance policy he may have been forced to declare bankruptcy.”

  “You do not murder your own child for money!” Melanie shouted. “Not . . . not even for a million dollars! And if both of them were insured, why Meagan? Why not Brian? Oh, God, why not Brian?” She bowed her head, even more horrified. Of course Brian had probably thought of that before. Most likely her moody brother had spent most of the last twenty-five years thinking Why not me? And he had always been resentful toward their father, almost hateful. Had he known? Had he suspected? Oh, Brian . . .

  “Wouldn't you just fake the kidnapping?” she cried. “Couldn't they have just faked Meagan's disappearance, held her in a shack, and collected the ransom money from the bank or whatever? That would fit with what I know—”

  “Except how would they explain the money,” David said softly. “If Harper and Patricia Stokes suddenly had a hundred thousand dollars, people would get suspicious. If they had lost their daughter, however, and received the life insurance, then everything was explained.”

  “Except their daughter is dead. They wouldn't do that. I know them, David. They are my parents and I swear to you they couldn't do something as sick as murder their four-year-old daughter for money.”

  “Ms. Stokes,” Quincy interjected somberly. “I know you don't want to hear this, but based on what I've seen here, I think Meagan Stokes was decapitated out of guilt. She was buried out of remorse. And she was wrapped in a blanket out of love. Ms. Stokes, in only three other cases have I seen a child's body so carefully swaddled and buried. In all three of those cases, the killer turned out to be the child's mother.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Serial killers do not have a need to cocoon their corpses in soft blankets. Protecting a child, however, even when it is too late, even when it is out of guilt, is a trait that is distinctly maternal. At this point, based on what I have read, I would reopen this case, Agent Riggs and Ms. Stokes. I would look at the family members very carefully. I would examine everyone's motives and exactly what was going on with the family in the summer of 1972, including all friends and relatives. And I would start with Patricia Stokes.”

  SIXTEEN

  T HE WALTHAM SUITES was a decent hotel. The two-bedroom accommodation was decorated in shades of blue and mauve with that fake cherry-wood furniture so many New England hotels favored. One bedroom was upstairs in a loft area, the other was downstairs across from the kitchenette. David placed his duffel bag in the lower bedroom—closest to the door—while Melanie roamed the living room, her complexion still the color of bone.

  At the drugstore by David's apartment they'd gotten her some basic toiletries. The pharmacy chain didn't carry any clothes, so Melanie remained stuck with David's old T-shirt and oversized sweats. They made her appear small, particularly now as she stood at the dark window with her arms around her waist and her gaze focused on a moonless night. Outside, cars raced down the interstate. Headlights washed over her face briefly, illuminating her eyes.

  “Well,” David said at last, “what do you think?”

  “It's fine.”

  He waited for her to say something more, but she didn't. David wasn't sure what to do. Ever since the discussion with Quincy, Melanie had slid deeper and deeper inside herself. Her eyes had taken on the flat look of a war veteran, her lips compressed into a bloodless line. She'd hit the wall, he figured, and now would either bend or break. Unfortunately, he couldn't figure out which, and it was beginning to scare him.

  She turned on the TV. A brightly dressed anchorwoman gazed somberly at the camera while reporting, “Shots broke out in downtown Boston earlier today.” Footage of the outside of the hotel filled the screen. People were gawking at the door. A few tourists were taking pictures. Little was known, and the ten-second report wrapped up without saying much of anything.

  Melanie turned off the TV. She picked up a magazine, flipped through it, set it down. Next, she picked up an ashtray. Her hands were trembling. Christ, she had small hands. He couldn't imagine her shut up in some shack with the likes of Russell Lee Holmes.

  David set his laptop down on the dining room table. He planned on working most of the night, doing more research, catching up on his paperwork. At seven A.M. sharp he and Chenney had to meet with Supervisory Agent Lairmore. The discussion wouldn't be pretty. Lairmore liked things neat and clean, investigations run like paint-by-number kits. That his healthcare fraud agents were now chasing a twenty-five-year-old homicide would not amuse him.

  David walked into the kitchenette, tossed his supply of vegetables into the freezer, then hesitated.

  His back hurt. Shit, it throbbed.

  He wasn't sleeping enough, and he was under stress. He was shooting guns again, and recoil always did him in. Truth of the matter was, the Bureau had done the right thing by assigning him to white collar crime. He couldn't go racing down dark alleys in the heat of the moment. He couldn't leap tall buildings in a single bound. He did have a medical condition, and it was growing worse.

  His life now boiled down to three fun-filled options each night: carrots, cauliflower, or broccoli?

  He went with cauliflower, stuffing two bags in the back waistband of his jeans. When he walked out of the kitchen, he looked like an idiot, and he knew it.


  Melanie was no longer on the couch. She'd returned to the window and had her hands pressed against the glass. There was something about her profile, haunted, stark, resigned, that sent him reeling.

  David had a crazy flashback. He was nine years old, and his mother had finally come home from the hospital. She was lying on the couch in the living room with him and his dad and Steven around her. His dad and brother were smiling rigidly. Dad had explained it to them earlier—their mom was dying. Nothing more to be done. Now they must be strong for her. As strong as strong could be.

  His mom ruffled his hair. Then she stroked Steven's cheek as if he were still a baby. Then she looked away, her gaze steady, accepting, and so racked with pain, it had socked the breath right out of David.

  They were all trying to be brave for her, he'd realized at the age of nine, when really his mother was the brave one. They were trying to be heroes, when she already was one. Oh, God, his mother was a magnificent woman!

  And a heartbeat later the cancer took her away.

  David snapped back to the hotel room. Grown man, not a kid. Frozen vegetables strapped to his back. That familiar ache tightening around his ribs.

  He wished he could stand more like a man for Melanie Stokes. Goddammit . . .

  “You should get some sleep,” he said tersely.

  She turned toward him, her face expressionless. “What are you going to do?”

  “Work. Tomorrow I got a meeting with my boss, then I'll follow up with Detective Jax. It'll be a busy day.”

  Melanie frowned. “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Stay outta sight, of course. Relax a bit. Sit back and smell the coffee.”

  “Sit back and smell the coffee?” She arched a brow, her voice picking up, her cheeks turning red. Maybe he shouldn't have sounded so flippant. “Sit back and smell the coffee. Oh, sure. In the last two days I've learned I probably am the fucking child of a fucking murderer, adopted by other fucking murderers to cover their own fucking tracks. Sure, let me spend the day with Juan Valdez. That sounds fucking great!”

  David leaned back. Then his own temper sparked. So he didn't know all the right things to say. He was just a guy. An overworked, unappreciated, sexually frustrated guy.

  “I'd take you to the office,” he informed her coldly, “but the Bureau doesn't have day care.”

  Her eyes went wide. The pulse point on her neck began to pound. Her hands formed into tight fists, and the frustration ripped down her spine in a long, violent tremor.

  He was suddenly breathless.

  Melanie wanted to fight, he realized. She wanted to yell, she wanted to scream, she wanted to run. He could feel it all there, broiling, clouding her eyes.

  Saint Melanie. Charitable Melanie. Perfect daughter, perfect sister Melanie. For the first time he got it. All the little bits of her—the angry parts, the resentful parts, the fearful parts—she swallowed back down because she was the adopted daughter and she couldn't afford to make waves. She couldn't afford to be less than Meagan.

  Shit, he suddenly wanted to kiss her. He wanted to close the space between them, take her lips, and feel all those emotions explode beneath him. Wild Melanie. Hurt Melanie. Real Melanie. Fuck. He wanted the honesty of it, and that was the biggest lie of all.

  “I want to be alone,” she said abruptly.

  “Still hiding? Still going to smile and pretend it's all right?” He took a step toward her.

  “You're one to talk,” she said, bringing up her chin. She was trying to look blasé, but he could tell she was pissed. Her cheeks were red and her eyes overbright. She looked gorgeous.

  He took another step and she shook her head.

  “No,” she said fiercely. “Dammit, just no. I don't care how you look or if you smell like Old Spice. I don't care if it's been months since I've had sex. I don't care if fucking you would be a helluva lot better than thinking about Russell Lee Holmes—”

  “So you've thought about it.” His tone was blatantly triumphant, unforgivably smug. She looked mutinous.

  “Of course I did. You picked me up that first day. Carried me. Made me feel safe.” Her voice faltered. She made a wistful sound, and it lured him closer, made him hold his own breath. Then her lips thinned and she recovered herself with a vengeance. “But that wasn't real, was it, David? Not an act of kindness at all, but a federal employee doing his job. And you lied to me. I am so tired of everyone lying to me!”

  “I did my job by covering my identity. Not all lies are created equal.”

  She laughed harshly. “Splitting hairs, that's what it boils down to. Splitting hairs. Oh, my God, my mother.”

  She sat down on a chair. David said to hell with it and went over to her.

  She was stiff, resistant. He curved one arm around her, figuring if she belted him, it was his own fault. But she didn't hit him. She made a sound, the sound of surrender, then strong, capable Melanie Stokes buried herself in his arms.

  Ah, Christ. She was so small, hardly made a dent against his chest. And all that silky blond hair and the soft citrusy scent. He did want to keep her safe. Lord help him, he wanted to be her hero.

  He pulled her onto his lap and rocked her against him.

  She did not cry. He figured she wouldn't. Instead, she fisted his sweatshirt, burying her face against his throat. He placed his cheek on the top of her head and wrapped his legs around her.

  “I love them,” she whispered. “They're my family and I love them. Is that so bad?”

  “No,” he said roughly. “No.”

  “They gave me everything I ever wanted. They played with me, they loved with me. They went to garage sales with me, for heaven's sake. The Stokeses at a garage sale. Surely that couldn't all be a lie. Surely.”

  “I don't know. I don't.”

  She gripped him tighter. And a heartbeat later she murmured, “I'm nine years old again, waking up in the hospital with all these lines and needles sticking out of my body, and this time there is no one to bail me out, David. This time there is no one there.”

  “Shh,” he told her again and again. “Shhhh.”

  She started to cry. After a minute he kissed the top of her head. Then he kissed her harder, smoothing back her hair, kissing the tears from her cheeks. And then he was kissing her neck, her forehead, the curve of her ears. Anything but her mouth. He knew, they both knew, he couldn't kiss her mouth. Don't cross the line, don't cross the line.

  She angled her head up and he grazed the corner of her lips, the tip of her chin, the point of her nose, the dimple of her cheek.

  “More,” she whispered, “more.”

  So he kissed her throat, small, nuzzling kisses, like they were hormone-enraged teenagers necking on the sofa. He drew her lobe between his lips and sucked. She sighed and shifted restlessly on his lap. He nipped her ear. She wriggled against his erection, and now they were both breathing very fast.

  Her neck. She had a long, sexy neck. Her cheeks, smooth as silk. He followed the line of her jaw, and then, as if drawn by a magnet, his lips were at the corner of her mouth again. He could feel her breath coming hard. Feel her tension, the tight moment of total anticipation. A slight turn, by either one of them, and the kiss would be had. Her lips beneath his. Her mouth opening hungrily. The wonderful, satisfying flavor of Melanie Stokes.

  He could feel her shuddering. God, she was tearing him apart.

  Slowly, very slowly, David drew back. They both sighed and it said enough.

  He was the agent building a case against her father. He still hadn't told her the complete truth, and he'd been raised better than that. Even if he couldn't be the baseball player his father had wanted, he could still be the man.

  “You all right?” he murmured after a moment.

  “Better.”

  Her hips were still resting against his groin. She didn't seem to mind, so neither did he. It was one of the advantages of being an adult, David thought. You really could just hold someone.

  He looped one long strand o
f her hair around his hand. She had beautiful hair. It smelled good too. He would like to bury both his hands in it and rub until she sighed.

  His erection got a bit more uncomfortable, and he had to shift.

  “You wear Old Spice,” Melanie murmured. “I didn't think anyone wore Old Spice anymore.”

  “My dad,” he said absently, and moved on to examining the shell-like curve of her tiny ear.

  “You're close to him, aren't you?”

  “Used to be.” Melanie Stokes even had pretty ears. Probably had cute toes as well, he thought.

  “Used to be?” She looked up at him.

  “Things change. They just do.”

  “The arthritis?” Her gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Is your father the same great communicator as you?”

  “I learned it all from him.”

  “Ah. And your mother isn't alive anymore to run interference. What a shame.”

  “I suppose.” He'd never thought about it that way, but Melanie probably had a point.

  “Tell me about your mother,” she murmured intently. “Tell me what it was like to grow up with people you knew were your parents and would always love you.”

  David couldn't answer right away. The pain beneath her words tightened his throat too much.

  She said, “Please?”

  “I don't know. I don't remember much. You know kids. You inherit the world and you take it for granted.”

  “Did your mom bake cookies? When I was in the hospital, I always imagined a mom in a white ruffled apron baking chocolate chip cookies. I don't know why that image was so strong for me.”