The tape began at one second after midnight. The first few people passing by the camera were stumbling and laughing, mainly couples, or one-night stands. For a brief moment Megan wondered if she and the stockbroker guy from the other night looked as ridiculous as these poor fools had.
Probably so. Whatever.
The visual looked like black lava pouring over the screen, then nothing but static.
“Wait, Christ,” Megan snapped.
“I’ll fast forward.” Nappa skipped over static until a new visual could be found. The timer landed on ten past five in the morning.
“That’s over four hours missing. Shit!” Megan began biting her fingernails. “Let’s keep going.”
The video returned to the original format. Mr. Mendoza was shown entering and leaving the hall a handful of times. A brunette walked out of the building at five twenty. Her hair mussed up in the back and the back of her shirt half tucked into her skirt.
“Walk of shame,” Nappa commented passively.
A woman with a ponytail skipped down the stairs, checking her watch before opening the door.
“Wait!” Megan yelled. “Go back, that’s Shannon.”
All detectives, including Megan noticed her faux pas: calling the vic by the first name made it personal.
Shit.
She attempted a weak pardon for her fervent display, “That’s our vic.” They scrolled back. Shannon Elizabeth McAllister stood in the entranceway of the building she was about to be murdered in, setting the time for her run. The very last jog she would take in her short-lived life.
All four detectives sat anxiously in front of the monitor. Images froze seconds at a time, then again the screen turned to black. Megan was ready to throw the television to the floor when the visual returned. Shannon re-entered the building, “What does the time read in the corner?” Megan moved closer to the screen, “Christ, even that is hard to read.”
“Six twenty-six?” Palumbo guessed.
“That makes sense. That’s near the time the super, Mr. Mendoza, said he’d spoken with her,” Nappa added.
“She’s alone.” Megan knelt in front of the screen. Every second the video continued felt like cement hardening around her chest. The next shot would be the last on the security video.
“Look. Someone’s buzzing into the building.”
Nappa, Palumbo, and Rasmussen leaned forward, as if somehow the movement would give them a clearer view. A person dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, back to the camera.
“They’re not in full shot,” Nappa said.
“He didn’t want to be,” Megan answered. The video showed one quick motion up to the building’s buzzer. “What is that?”
“The shot is so grainy. What is what?” Nappa asked.
“That.” Megan pointed to what looked like a string wrapped around the wrist. “I can’t make it out.” The video froze before darkness overtook the monitor for a final time. A macabre feeling silenced all four detectives. Megan glanced back at the photos she’d pinned up. Their horrid nature now felt even more gruesome. She pointed at the screen.
“That’s our mother fucking unsub.”
nine
As I received the Holy Communion during morning mass, I couldn’t help but smile at my accomplishment. I indeed had chosen well. God bless you, Shannon.
_____
Megan’s eyes remained closed as she turned over. She didn’t need to look at her alarm clock—it was always morning when you had insomnia. Thoughts acted like kamikazes hitting her mind. She turned and twisted under the sheets. She usually slept on her side or stomach; for the next few minutes she’d lie on her back, avoiding the realities of the day by focusing, instead, on her body.
Megan was right-handed, but wished she’d been born ambidextrous, at least when her legs were spread. Her left hand flowed through her hair and across her face, lightly touching her lips. Her right hand did the same, just lower.
For the next few minutes, she was able to keep the morning at bay, but her body always ended up feeling better than her mind did when she was done. She turned over, snuggling her head into the pillow when a single tear ran down her cheek. Just one. That’s all she allowed before work.
Megan wiped her cheek and stared at the Bloomingdale’s bag in the corner of the room. She’d bought her mother a new nightgown weeks ago, but she hadn’t yet given it to her. Now, with Pat gone, she couldn’t just drop it off with her father at the house in Brooklyn. It was hard to get used to the idea that the house was now empty, and that her mother was living in a nursing home. But since it was so early, Megan knew she had time to take the subway to the Olsen Facility and back before meeting Nappa.
The thought of her mother wearing a generic patient’s gown gnawed at her. Her mother would have a fit if she were alert enough to know she weren’t looking her best. It wasn’t out of vanity; Rose grew up with very little but was taught to respect what she owned, and now her few outfits consisted of nightgowns, slippers, and diapers. Megan wanted her mother to keep what integrity remained. There were times she thought it was out of guilt, but now it was partially due to Shannon’s murder. There’s a mother-daughter bond, if you were lucky, that reached beyond a mother dishing out guilt and bra advice. To have a woman in your life who understands you just as well as, if not better than you know yourself, was an incredible gift. Megan could tell Mrs. McAllister had had that special bond with Shannon. She envied it.
Megan knew more than ever that her time with Rose was limited, but “forgive and forget” proved more difficult to achieve as she got older. Some wounds take a hell of a lot more than just time to heal, and others would never have the chance. Megan kicked the covers off to attempt a quick shower. The prewar building had prewar plumbing, too; it took more time to wait for the water to heat up than for the actual shower. She passed the few minutes brushing her teeth while simultaneously looking in her closet for something to wear. Catching her reflection in the full-length mirror, she abruptly stopped brushing to critique her morning attire: an oversized NYPD sweatshirt and a pair of bright blue boxer shorts. She shook the tip of the toothbrush at her reflection. “McGinn, not a sexy look. This is why your right hand sees more action than you do. Well, most of the time, anyway.” The thought of her sex-fest with the stockbroker made her shake her head.
When she opened the bathroom door, a wave of steam greeted her, warming her face and legs. She noticed her bathing suit hanging from a hook on the back of the door. The moisture in the bathroom brought out the chlorine smell still lingering in it, which was surprising given how long it had been since her last gym visit. She used her bath towel to cover the black spaghetti strapped reminder of her lack of motivation. No need to feel more guilt so early in the morning.
She brushed past the shower curtain, climbed into the bathtub, and stood under the showerhead, the stream of hot water directly hitting her face. The vibration of the stream of water against her body was soothing. She could have stayed in there for hours feeling the repetitive force of the water relaxing her muscles. Almost like meditating. But her mind wandered, as it usually did. Thinking about finding her father dead and seeing her mother so disoriented left her heart as bare as her body was now.
She paid the price for lingering under the spray. A sudden shot of cold water sprang Megan from her thoughts. “Fucking hell!” Her upstairs neighbors had turned something on in their bathroom, forcing cold water down to hers—the not-so-luxurious part of living in a prewar building in Manhattan.
After Megan finished her morning routine and ran out the door, she was waiting impatiently for the elevator when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hallway mirror. “Oh shit.” She’d forgotten to put her favorite necklace on: a delicate silver cross with her birthstone, green peridot, set in the center, given to her by her parents the day she made her first Communion. She’d never forgotten what her father said as he claspe
d it around her neck.
Megs, I want you to always wear this, especially when your mom and I aren’t around to keep an eye on you. That way I’ll know the Big Guy is looking out for my girl, keeping you safe, and hopefully out of trouble.
She’d worn the necklace every day since her parents gave it to her. The only time she took it off was when she swam, and at night when she slept.
Megan dropped her stuff down next to the elevator and ran back into her apartment. When she took the necklace off at night, she always hung it on the corner of a framed photo taken the day of her Communion. A day, and a time, when her life felt more secure than it did now. Her gun might protect her, but it was the necklace that made her feel safe, and, now in a roundabout manner, served as the last lifeline she had to her father.
Megan made it back to the elevator just as it reached her floor. She rushed out of the building and headed to the subway station at 96th Street and Lexington. The smell of burnt bagels and bacon emanated from the corner deli across from Megan’s building. She joined the countless Upper East Side straphangers as they funneled underground. Clad in business suits, carrying briefcases or shoulder bags, they were armed with their morning coffee, newspaper, or electronic device of choice, walking numbly through life.
Megan made two quick calls from her cell phone as she power walked to the station. She left a brief message for Dr. Max, inquiring as to any more lab results. And she left another for Nappa to confirm where she was meeting him to interview one of Shannon’s best friends, the only contact Mrs. McAllister had been able to give them in her state of shock.
Megan entered the Olsen Facility in gust-of-wind fashion until she was stopped short when her jacket’s belt got stuck in the door. She yanked at it angrily until she was freed. Two nurses were seated at the front desk. One was a skinny blonde with far too many visible dark roots; the other was on the robust side, with a much prettier, kinder face. Her smile widened when she saw Megan enter.
“Morning.” Megan placed a small pink box tied with red and white string on their desk. “A few gourmet cookies for the morning sweet tooth.” A little food bribe could go a long way with staff members anywhere, not that Megan needed to bribe these women for better care. The fact that she was a cop and carried a gun certainly made a stronger impression than a box of sweets.
“My mother, Rose McGinn, was admitted yesterday. How was her first night?” Megan asked.
Marcie, the amply proportioned nurse with the kind face, answered, “We didn’t meet yesterday. I’m Marcie, your mother’s main nurse. She’s doing well. She’s having a good morning. She got her hair washed and just finished breakfast.”
“Good.” Megan nodded in relief.
She had already turned to walk down the hall when Marcie added, “Your brother sent a beautiful bouquet of pink roses. I put them in her room earlier.”
“Great, thank you.” Megan turned and muttered, “Yeah, like she can tell a rose from a fucking wrench at this point.”
Megan hesitated at the door to her mother’s private room. Rose sat at the window, her hands folded in her lap, tranquilly staring out at the day. Megan felt her heart sink as swiftly as an anchor to the bottom of the ocean, remembering her mother as she once was: a bright, stylish, articulate woman. They may not have had a harmonious mother-daughter relationship much of the time, but Megan gave credit where it was due. She was hard-pressed to recall a moment when Rose left the house not immaculately dressed. To this day Megan clearly remembered the first time her parents went on vacation without her and her brother. Rose wore a perfectly tailored teal suit similar to the one Tippi Hedren wore in the movie The Birds. She kissed her children goodbye, pulled on a pair of white gloves, and held Megan’s chin up toward her meticulously painted lips. “Be a good girl, Megan. Do everything your aunt says, and please take one bath while we’re gone,” she pleaded with the tomboy of the family before adding strongly, “I’m serious, no messing around, missy. You better be on your best behavior while we’re away.”
Forgiving the warranted threats, Megan never forgot how beautiful Rose looked that day. But disease has a way of aging the beauty right out of a person, and it had happened to her mother in record time. Face moisturizer and ChapStick replaced the morning regimen of makeup application. A robe, a nightgown, and slippers replaced colorful outfits, and a hospital name tag replaced jewelry as her accessory.
“Morning, Mom. How are you doing?” Megan prayed Rose would recognize her this morning, but the childlike smile she received was proof that confusion dominated Rose’s attempt to identify her visitor.
“I’m fine, dear.”
“You had your hair washed. It looks good. Did Marcie do it for you?” she asked.
Rose ran her fingers through her bob-length hair. “Marcie? Yes, she’s a wonderful girl. She’s a good daughter. She takes good care of me. A sweet girl.”
So much for prayer.
“Mom, I’m your daughter. Me. Megan. Marcie is your nurse.”
“Oh, you’re pretty, too,” Rose said, looking up at Megan.
Megan sighed, dragging a chair over alongside Rose. She grabbed the brown shopping bag off the bed.
“Did you send me those beautiful flowers?” Rose asked, pointing at the vase.
For a moment, Megan contemplated taking credit for the arrangement: a Band-Aid to cover the wound of not being recognized. Though tempted, she figured the one visit Brendan would make, Rose would have a lucid moment and tell him about all the beautiful flowers Megan had brought her. With a mischievous grin she answered, “No. Brendan sent them to you. He’s your son.”
“What kind are they?” she asked.
“They’re roses, Mom. Pink roses.”
“They’re pretty,” she said.
Megan hadn’t been in the room five minutes and she could hear the testiness in her own voice. “He sent them because they’re your favorite. You love roses. Your name is Rose.”
“I know my name, missy.”
“Now I’m talking to my mother!” she said, smacking her thigh. “I’m the only one you take that tone with.”
Rose’s self-pleasing grin was as brief as her lucid moment reminding her daughter who was in charge.
“Do you want to see what I brought you?” Megan gave Rose her gift. “Do you like them?”
Rose opened the brown bag as if it were the wrong order from a deli. “No.” She sounded like a child who was impossible to please.
“Back to black,” Megan whispered under her breath. “Mom, you love this color. It’s the color you chose on your wedding day for Aunt Maureen’s maid-of-honor dress.” Megan reached over and picked up one of the many photographs she’d placed around Rose’s room. It was her attempt to keep the memories from getting too far away. “See? This is you, Dad, Uncle Mike, and Aunt Maureen. You’re wearing blue. You love that color.”
Rose’s confusion forced Megan into defeat. No longer hoping for a breakthrough today, she folded up the new robe and slippers and stuffed them in the armoire on the other side of the room. A bottle of L’Occitane hand lotion on one of the shelves gave Megan an idea that she hoped would make her visit go by faster. “C’mon, Mom, I’ll rub your hands.” Not receiving a defiant no was a plus, so she squirted lotion into her palm and began to rub Rose’s hands together.
“What’s your name again?”
“Marcie.” Now Megan sounded like the disgruntled child.
“You’re not as fat as Marcie.” Her comment made Megan laugh out of the sheer rudeness of it, and the fact it was true.
She turned up the cuffs on Rose’s robe, massaging the insides of her arms. She’d forgotten about her scars until the tips of her fingers ran over the pale marks. The jagged line on her left wrist was a little over an inch and a half. The one on her right was longer. It still amazed Megan how much blood came from such small wounds. That memory was embedded in Megan’s mind. L
uckily for Rose, it was one that was swept away with her illness.
If there were a chance to go back in time and change an event, Megan would have changed the moment she found her mother. Pat had called home to say he was working late. Megan had answered the phone, already devising her lie. She’d had months of practice covering for her mother at that point. Pat wanted to speak to Rose, but Megan said she was napping. There was no need to give the technical term: sleeping one off. Megan would have the glasses cleaned and put away before her father returned home. The empty bottles she would wrap in brown bags and put in the neighbors’ garbage cans. Megan remembered there was something different with that particular phone call; the level of concern in Pat’s voice was stronger than in the past. He said he’d stay on the line while she went to wake her mother up. Megan tiptoed into her parents’ bedroom, something she did a lot after the cocktail hour, which had crept earlier and earlier those few months. The shades were drawn, as they always were. Depressed people prefer the anonymity of nighttime. Less to see, less to be reminded of, less to deal with. Megan went over to the bed only to find it empty. The light in the bathroom filtered through the crack in the door. She could hear water running but no sound of the shower.
“Momma?” The door creaked as she pushed it open. The splatter of red against the white wall looked like a painting by Pollock, but it was no canvas. Blood everywhere.
And that’s how she would forever remember the day before her twelfth birthday.
_____
“That girl is going to be the death of me,” Rose blurted out.
Megan rubbed her forehead as if doing so would wipe the memory away. “What girl, Momma?” She rolled Rose’s cuffs back down, covering her wrists.
Never Alone Page 7