by Lisa Gardner
Melanie finally relaxed. But then David took her chart from her. He took her pencil. He drew a few lines. And that easily, he burst her bubble.
“You're right, Melanie,” he said simply. “You're absolutely right. Alone, no one individual meets all the requirements. And that's what the message has been all along. I was a fool not to see it earlier. It's not one person who's getting notes. It's all of them. And if you put them all together . . .”
He looked her in the eye. “Your mother, father, brother, or godfather could not have committed this crime. But this family, on the other hand . . .”
“No,” Melanie said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I'm sorry, Melanie. But yes.”
She had to get off the sofa. She paced around the room a few times, her thoughts in turmoil.
“It's the combination,” David murmured, making quick notes and seeming to speak almost to himself. “As individuals they fail. But as a group they cover all the traits and areas of knowledge needed to carry out the crime. Harper devising the ransom demand, coming up with the idea to make it a copycat crime. Your guilt-stricken mother wrapping up Meagan's body. Your godfather disposing of it, I think, and handling the deal with Russell Lee Holmes when the police started asking too many questions. Getting Russell Lee to confess to Meagan's murder in return for your family providing a home for his own child. Think of how much Russell Lee would've liked that. A lifetime of hating poverty, and one day he gets an offer to transport his child to the upper class. What a deal.”
“But . . . but the murder,” Melanie protested. “No one is cruel enough to commit the murder. You said yourself, no one is cruel enough to commit the murder!”
David looked up, his expression distracted. She realized with a start that this had become an academic exercise for him, a riddle for the great agent to figure out. She was shocked.
“What if it wasn't murder, Melanie? What if it was an accident? What if little Brian Stokes simply went too far with his jealous rampage one day?”
“Oh, God,” she whispered in horror.
“Think about it, Melanie. Nine-year-old Brian. He harms Meagan out of jealousy or rage and what do your parents do? They've already lost one child.”
“No.”
“Your godfather also seems loyal to him. Plus, he'd probably do anything to keep Patricia from suffering more. Finally we have a situation worthy of the three adults getting over their differences and working together.”
“But the decapitation, the mutilation.”
“Maybe they had to. Quincy said decapitation can also be about covering up a crime. They're trying to imitate a killer who strangles his victims. But what if it was an accident that killed Meagan? Maybe she fell down the stairs, maybe she was hit in the head. They must decapitate her or the real cause of death will be determined. If she was hit with a blunt instrument, there might even be paint or fiber or metallic particles buried in the wound that could be used to trace the murder weapon. So in for a dime, in for a dollar. They decapitate the body, remove the hands to hide other wounds or physical evidence, and devise a plot to imitate some serial killer they've been reading about in the paper.”
Melanie was shaking her head.
“But the police aren't convinced,” David continued. “Harper doesn't know enough details, so his copycat attempt fails. Then Russell Lee is arrested, so they decide to go straight to the source. Jamie. Jamie pays him a visit. And they strike a deal.”
David looked at her somberly. “I'm sorry, Melanie, but that scenario works. You are Russell Lee Holmes's child and they took you in the night he died to cover up what happened to Meagan five years before.”
“You're wrong, you're wrong,” Melanie kept repeating.
She had wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and her voice came out sounding more desperate than she'd intended.
David rose off the sofa. There was a look in his eyes Melanie had never seen before. Maybe tenderness. Maybe compassion. He took her hands, and then, in a move she didn't expect, he drew her against his body and pressed her cheek against his chest. She realized for the first time that she was trembling uncontrollably.
And then he whispered roughly against her temple, “Maybe. But there's no arguing that Larry Digger was killed. Or that shots were aimed at you.”
She collapsed. Her knees buckled and she would've fallen if David hadn't already been holding her. Her hands grabbed his shirt for support. Her body sagged into him and he gripped her tighter.
“It's going to be all right,” David whispered against her hair. “I won't let them hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you.”
“My family, my family . . . I love them.”
She buried her head against his shoulder and held on tight.
The storm lasted a bit. Gradually she was aware of David leading her over to the couch. He lay down with her, wrapping his lean body around her. He stroked her hair, her back. Then his lips brushed her cheek, the curve of her ear. Tender. Soft.
She turned to him savagely, caught his lips full-force with her own and kissed him hard. Lips bruising lips, teeth smashing, breath labored. She arched against him, tried to bury herself in the feel and taste and sensation. He ravaged her totally, his tongue plunging into her mouth, filling her, making her whole . . .
Then, when her breasts were swollen and her nipples tingling and her whole body restless and writhing, he pulled away. She could hear his ragged breathing and the racing beat of his heart. She could see that his hands trembled.
“No more,” he said roughly.
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn't be right. I want it to be right.”
He got off the couch in a hurry, obviously realizing that she was in no mood to be denied and he was in no shape to win. The front of his slacks bulged with his erection, and he had to fist his hands in his back pockets to keep from reaching for her again.
Melanie contemplated forcing the issue. He wanted her, and she needed to be wanted. By anyone.
But he was right. She was too desperate and she'd hate them both later.
She rose from the sofa and walked to the window. “They've never harmed me, David. They've been so good to me.”
He didn't answer. Minute ticked into minute.
“The police should find the shooter soon,” David said at last. “Once we get our hands on him, he'll be able to tell us a thing or two.”
“Such as who hired him.”
“Exactly.”
“And then we'll know.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
David raised his arms above his head and stretched out his back. “I gotta get some sleep.”
“I know.”
“You gonna stay up? Will you be okay?”
“I'll be fine.”
“We're going to get to the bottom of it,” he said again. “We will.”
Melanie simply smiled. She wasn't so sure herself anymore. And she was wondering if there were some truths that should never be known.
David moved toward the bedroom. Then he stopped and turned, his gaze unreadable.
“You know,” he said quietly. “You don't need them as much as you think you do. You're stronger than you know.”
“What does that have to do with the fact that I love them?”
David didn't have a reply.
Melanie stayed up long into the night. She sat on the sofa with her knees pulled up against her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She thought of her parents and her brother and her godfather. The way they had held her and made her laugh and doted on her. The way they had lavished their time and attention on her as if she were a long-awaited present that was finally theirs at last.
Right before she fell asleep, she thought, If I really am Russell Lee Holmes's daughter, why did Quincy say my memories of the shack weren't right? And if all this was done to protect Brian, wouldn't it matter that he's now been disinherited from the family?
The shooter, she th
ought groggily. The shooter will tell.
But there was no such luck. The next morning she and David awoke to the hotel phone ringing. It was Detective Jax. He'd found the shooter all right.
Unfortunately, the man was dead.
TWENTY-ONE
I T WON'T BE pleasant,” David warned.
Melanie merely nodded, keeping her gaze out the passenger-side window, where semis barreled down Highway 93 and distant factories emitted plumes of smoke. They were approaching the harbor district of Boston. She caught the first whiff of salt.
“Jax said he was in the water,” David said. “That always makes it look worse. Really, Melanie, you should wait until the body has been processed. You can ID it by video at the morgue.”
“But it won't be ready until tomorrow morning, correct?”
“Boston homicide is a little overworked.”
“Then I'll do it now,” she reasserted firmly, as she'd been saying since they first got the call. “If it's him, and he's dead, then I can go home. No sense in delaying that any longer than necessary.”
“Why don't we hold off on any quick decisions,” David said vaguely, which was enough to let her know he was going to make an issue out of it. She shot him a quick glance, but he refused to meet her gaze. Obviously he didn't want to engage in the discussion then. Fine, it could wait until she saw the body. It wouldn't change her mind. She had spent a lot of time thinking since last night and formed some opinions of her own.
She turned back to the car window. The exit appeared on their right, and David careened across three lanes of traffic to take it. One tourist honked. No one else seemed to notice. The wharf came into view. As crime scenes went, this one was hard to miss.
Black and white police cruisers peppered the scene. Yellow crime tape draped across the road. One beefy officer had adopted an aggressive stance outside the perimeter and was waving them away until David flashed his creds. Like membership in an elite club, the FBI shield entitled them to a first-class viewing of a dead man.
They pulled in next to two dark sedans and one old clunker. David opened her door for her. She realized he always did that, even held out chairs. His mother's doing, she thought, and accepted his hand to pull herself out of the car. When he held out his arm for her, however, she shook her head. She preferred to walk this path alone.
They crossed to a group of plainclothes detectives and one medical examiner. The air was tangy with the scent of salt and underlined with the heavy sweetness of rot. This area of Boston's harbor was far from scenic, and Melanie had never spent much time down here. There was an old fish packaging plant that had seen better days. The dark, oily water was stagnant with dead fish, fallen sea gulls, and today, a man's corpse. In spite of all of David's warnings, Melanie recoiled at the smell.
Detective Jax turned to greet them. He once again worked a toothpick between his teeth, giving David a firm handshake and Melanie a sympathetic smile.
“How y' doin', Ms. Stokes?”
“No one's shot me yet. I must be doing better than Monday.”
Detective Jax flashed a grin, then grew serious. “Just so you're prepared, it's not pretty.”
“David warned me.”
“Sure you don't want to wait for the morgue tape?”
“As I've said—”
“Okay, okay, I got it. You're tired of Club Fed and want to go home. Fine. Then here's the drill. You don't have to memorize him or nothing. Just take a glance. Tell us if you think it's him. One look, you're done.”
“Go home and forget all about it?” she murmured, then followed Detective Jax to the body. David rested his hand on the small of her back.
There was no mistaking the dead man. He was faceup on the cracked asphalt. Puffed face gray and rubbery. Bloated hands over his head, picked ragged by feeding fish. Dark suit waterlogged and algae coated. Black holes on his white dress shirt where two bullets had fired home.
No blood this time. The water had washed it away.
“What do you think?” Detective Jax asked.
“That's him.” She kept staring. She couldn't help herself. Dead never looked the way she thought it should. With Digger it had been too bloody. With this man it was too alien. The water had turned him into something resembling a wax doll.
“Looks like he'd been shot twice, close range,” Detective Jax said conversationally. “Probably the day before. It's gonna take a bit to ID him—no papers and not much for fingertips. Guess the fish had a real banquet. We'll send him to the state crime lab for analysis. The water will make it tougher—he's a floater and a bloater—but I've requested Jeffrey Ames for the job. Jeff's the best.”
“I know Jeff,” David spoke up. “He's good.”
“You know Jeff?” Detective Jax switched the toothpick to the left side of his mouth and peered at David curiously.
“I'm a member of the Mass Rifle Association,” David explained. “Jeff shoots there too.”
“You're a member of the MRA? Wait a sec, David Riggs. Are you Bobby Riggs's son?”
David nodded. Detective Jax lit up.
“Holy hell, good to meet you. I love Bobby. Man does beautiful work. Give your father my regards, 'kay? Oh, and tell him I wanna bring in my gun. Damn sight is driving me nuts.”
“I'll tell him. When do you think you'll have the initial report?”
“Forty-eight hours maybe? I'm gonna put a rush on it, but we're a little backed up these days. Spring's rough around here.”
“Do you know who killed him?” Melanie asked quietly. Her stomach was beginning to roll.
“Don't have any witnesses, if that's what you mean. We're still detailing the area, but so far no brass and no traces of blood, so he was probably shot somewhere else. Lab guys may find something on his shoes or clothing that can help us locate the murder site. It's amazing what a couple of good chemists can do these days.”
“What about the notes he took? The papers from Larry Digger's room?”
Detective Jax shook his head. “Nope. My guess is he showed up for contact, delivering the goods and expecting to get paid. But maybe his employer wasn't so happy about the mess he made of things, or the job being only half done. So he closed out the deal with a couple of deliveries of lead. There just ain't no honor among thieves.”
“So we don't really know anything yet,” Melanie murmured. “Sure, this person is dead, but his employer could just hire another, and another, and . . .” Her voice was rising. She was losing it after all.
David and Detective Jax were watching her closely. She took a deep breath, focused on the warm, familiar feel of David's hand against the small of her back. She nodded and everyone relaxed.
“You guys care to start explaining things yet?” Detective Jax asked. “Or should I just wait until the next dead body?”
“I don't know,” David replied. “When are you planning on finding the next dead body?”
“Oh, holy Lord, working with G-men sucks.” Jax spat out his toothpick. “Look, I'm going after this with all I can, Agent Riggs. I don't have the resources of the Bureau or the experts of the Bureau, but what the hell, I like to think us poor local slobs run a pretty good show. Now, do you want to give me any hints, or should I just keep gnawing away at this like a Chihuahua?”
“Larry Digger said he had proof of who my birth parents are,” Melanie offered. “It seems someone doesn't want me to know.”
“Why? Everyone's finding their birth parents these days. It's about as popular as no-fat double lattes with whip.”
“Because maybe my birth father was a serial killer. And maybe it would be embarrassing for my family if it was discovered that they had knowingly adopted the child of such a man.”
Now she had Detective Jax's undivided attention. “Well, shoot me, that would make a difference. So this Larry Digger, he claimed to have proof of where you came from?”
“That's what he said. We never got to see it, but we heard quite a bit of his story.”
“And he alleged your parents
knowingly adopted you anyway? They got big hearts, or what? I didn't think the Beacon Street type liked to go outside established bloodlines.” Jax gave her a look. “Ms. Stokes, I can dance as well as the next guy, but this tango is ridiculous. If you want me to help, you give it to me clean. I'll see what I can do. Welcome to the Jax School of Justice. 'Kay?”
“Needless to say,” David said smoothly, “it's an ongoing investigation. Listen, Detective, if you want to help, here's what we need the most: Our shooter is dead, but we still don't know who hired him, and since the job wasn't completed the first time, there's a good chance that there'll be a second contract on Melanie's life. If you hear anything—”
“I think I'll let you know.” Jax returned to Melanie, shaking his head. “I'll work on this as hard as I can and you got Mr. Personality here, too, but these things take time. It'll be days before I get the first lab report, and that's assuming the initial chem run yields findings. With bodies that have been in the water, it can take longer than that. I can already tell the bullets are soft lead, so they won't have any striations, which means the lab will have to determine gun type by class, not characteristic. That takes longer as well. Seriously, ma'am, we're looking at weeks before we start getting the first clue, and considering that you're already in danger . . .”
“He's right,” David said, having found an ally for his case. “I'll take you back to the hotel, Melanie. We'll buy you clothes, come up with a good excuse for your parents. Hell, you can tell them you're off to find yourself. That's true enough. And it would certainly be a lot safer—”
“No.”
“Yes—”
“No! I know who I am, David. I'm twenty-nine years old, I have lived the last twenty years in the Stokes household, and that is where I belong.”
“Like hell it is. They are going to get you killed—”
“You don't know that! We don't have a shred of evidence, just a bunch of far-fetched theories. I'm not going to walk away because of that. For crying out loud, we are never going to move beyond theory with me shut up in a hotel room anyway. At the very least, you can consider my going home as the most efficient means of moving the investigation forward.”