Never Alone

by C. J. Carpenter

  How was your swim?

  She was angry with herself for feeling scared during the night. Fear of anything besides commitment didn’t sit well with Megan. It was more comfortable for her to replace fear with anger, which she did well.

  “You sick fuck. What are you up to?” she whispered.

  _____

  Megan hadn’t planned on getting to Clarice Snowden’s office so early—neither had Clarice, based on the shocked look on her face when Megan walked in—but the four walls of her apartment felt like they were closing in on her, so she decided to go see her old friend, who hopefully could help her.

  Clarice Snowden was a stylish woman of a certain age. The thing was, no one ever knew Clarice’s real age, and no one would ever hear it from Clarice. She had smooth brown skin and was a total fashionista. She had the latest bag, hairdo, and wardrobe. She originally came from Charleston, South Carolina, and had been living in New York for over fifteen years, but she never lost that soft Southern lilt in her voice. She’d just recently signed off on her second divorce. Marriage for Clarice was like a pair of new shoes that just wouldn’t give, no matter how often or how long you wore them; it always felt too snug. Megan and Clarice had met at an NYPD holiday party three years earlier and had hit it off immediately.

  When Megan entered her office, she adjusted her leopard-print eyeglass frames and said, “Do my eyes deceive me or is this Detective Megan McGinn in person? And before seven o’clock?”

  “Good morning, Miss Clarice.”

  “Not one more step until you pay up, sister.”

  Megan slipped three dollars into a jar with the label “Pay Up If You Didn’t Shut Up” for all the Silence of the Lambs jokes she’d heard over the years.

  “Now, Ms. Snowden, where is all my hard-earned money going this week?”

  “Next week’s mani-pedi. If you say it a few more times, I can throw in an eyebrow wax.”

  “I like how you work.” Megan took a seat, placing the laptop on the corner of Clarice’s desk.

  “That, I assume, is for me.” Clarice took the laptop out of the bag.

  “Yep. Whatever you can find. I have no idea what’s in there, but my gut says to check it out. Computer Crimes Squad has the victim’s desktop, but we’re waiting on them and I doubt they’re going to find anything anyway.”

  “Those guys are busy night and day with child predators and porn sites.”

  “I very much appreciate this, my friend.”

  “It’s the least I can do after you set me up on that incredible blind date last month.”

  “Hey, how’s that going?” Megan asked.

  “Very well.” Dating the wrong men stopped being Clarice’s problem after her second divorce. She juggled, on average, three men at a time. The latest addition was a man Megan had met in Tribeca. He owned the restaurant she was eating in and they struck up a conversation, which was when Megan decided to play matchmaker. Right now Clarice was seeing the restaurant owner, a doctor on the verge of retiring—a plastic surgeon, no less—and a professor of African-American studies who had a faint resemblance to Sidney Poitier, handsome as hell.

  “Clarice, how do you do it? Juggle all these men?” Megan asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Doesn’t it get confusing after a while?”

  She looked at Megan like she was crazy. “Sweetie, listen, learn, live it: men do this all the time. They juggle women—hey, once in a while they throw a man in the mix, too! I’m just enjoying my piece of the pie before I don’t have teeth anymore to chew with.”

  “You are one in a million, Clarice. One in a million.”

  “I know it. By the way, when are you coming over for Sunday dinner again? Your scrawny pale body could use some food.”

  “Everyone wants to feed me these days. I could get used to it.”

  Six months earlier Megan went to Sunday service with Clarice and her family when they came for a visit. Megan had the spirit move her and she must have gained five pounds from the dinner Clarice’s mother cooked that day: Southern-fried chicken smothered with gravy, ribs, potato salad, greens, corn bread, peach cobbler, and the best iced tea she’d ever drank in her life.

  “Oh, how I remember those ribs to this day. The meat just fell right off the bone. That meal was better than sex,” Megan said wistfully.

  Clarice lifted her glasses. “Darlin’, you’re dating the wrong men. Talk to me. You didn’t come over to listen to me gossip about my men.”

  “No, I came over to check out your new Coach bag.” Megan noticed the new camel-skin tote on the chair next to Clarice’s desk. She lifted it up with two fingers.

  “Some women go for younger men … I go for older and richer.”

  Clarice’s men doted on her, and she was worth every penny.

  “Damn, you should teach seminars. Unfortunately, I can’t stay long. My partner is picking me up in a while. We have to head out to Connecticut on business. I promise, next time a longer visit.”

  “I’ll start on this and let you know what I find. Before you go, do I need to ask about a subpoena? Or are we …?”

  “Yes, we’re fast-tracking this. Keep it on the down-low. If you find anything of relevance, I’ll go back and get the paperwork.”

  “That’s all I needed to know.”

  “Thank you. Seriously, I really appreciate this.” Megan got up to leave, but not before Clarice got one more question in.

  “Hey, sister. How are you holding up?”

  Clarice lost her father a year earlier to lung cancer. She understood Megan’s loss quite well.

  “One day at a time. One motherfucking day at a time.”

  Clarice nodded solemnly. “Stay strong, sweets.”

  _____

  Megan got back to her apartment before Nappa arrived, and was able to kick back a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast before he called to say he was downstairs waiting for her. “I’ll be down in a minute.” She ran into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and popped her daily birth control pill. Given she was up most of the night, it hadn’t felt like a new day and she’d nearly forgotten to take it. She threw back the small white pill and her mind went instantly to Shannon.

  Nappa was waiting on the corner of Lexington. Megan jumped in the passenger side of the car, but before shutting the door, she asked, “Can I drive?”

  He peeled out into the street before laying into Megan. “I have one pretty fucking interesting question to ask you.”

  Megan furled her eyebrows and gave Nappa back the same amount of attitude. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Just the fact that my partner doesn’t trust me enough to tell me that she received a phone call from the victim’s cell phone.”

  Megan cringed at her faux pas, remembering that call would be listed on Shannon’s phone records. She held her palms up. “Wait a minute. Just wait a minute. I was going to tell you the—”

  “You were going to tell me? Bullshit!”

  Megan was more accustomed to using expletives than hearing them from Nappa. “First of all, yes. Yes, I was going to tell you when you were over at my house, but then you gave me the whole are-you-up-for-this-case-or-not ball-of-shit discussion. If I’d told you I was worried, you’d have pussyfooted it back to Walker and had me taken off the case.”

  Nappa ran a red light. “Have I ever—have I ever—shown you that that is the kind of cop, or for that matter the kind of man, I am? Have I? Answer the goddamn question!”

  Megan held on to the dashboard. “Slow the fucking car down. We’re going to Connecticut, not the fucking moon.” Megan took a deep breath. “No. That was wrong. I didn’t think it through. I was a little rattled for one thing.”

  It was time for Nappa to gain back his composure. “Rattled. Why? What happened?”

  “Remember I told you that I’d gone to the gym bef
ore you came over? I tried to get a swim in.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “When I got home, my phone beeped. It wasn’t a call; it was a text.”

  “From our victim’s phone.”

  “Yeah.” Megan’s voice quieted. “The text read, ‘How was your swim?’”

  Nappa pulled the car over. Any anger rifling through his body moments before now turned to deep concern. “Jesus, Megan.”

  Nappa never called her by her first name. It felt odd for her to hear it now. “Yeah, I know.” She pointed toward the road. “C’mon, start driving. We don’t want to hit traffic.” He did as she requested, and they both sat in silence for the next few minutes. “Nappa, I know I fought being on this case, but I don’t want off it now.”

  Nappa stared up at the red traffic light. “I know. I know.” He started shaking his head. “McGinn, this takes things up to a whole different level. You keep everything straight with me, and we’ll both watch your back. Got it?”

  “Got it.” She stared out the window, thinking of the wrong turn she’d made by not telling Nappa. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

  He released a heavy sigh. “Yeah, no shit.”

  Megan dialed Rasmussen. “Anything on the ring, any hits?” She motioned Nappa to drive faster. “As soon as you get anything, call me.” She was about to hang up, not realizing Rasmussen was about to give her other information, but it turned out to be no information at all. “I wasn’t expecting anything to be found, but thanks anyway. Have Palumbo put some pressure on the lab regarding the cross.” She ran her hands through her hair. “No prints on the sewing kit.”

  After a while the vibe in the car between the two detectives returned to normal. Megan remembered what she was going to ask Nappa before their argument began. “Nappa, do you remember if any birth control was found in McAllister’s apartment?”

  “Birth control?”

  “Yeah. Anything—pills, condoms, a diaphragm?”

  Nappa needed a moment to think about Megan’s question. “There were two expired prescription bottles in the trash, and I think a bottle of ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet.”

  Megan stared out onto the Manhattan streets. They were finally making some headway moving crosstown.

  “Why do you ask?” he asked.

  “Most women keep their birth control in their bathroom or bedroom. She didn’t have any. Her medicine cabinet looked as though it had been gone through.”

  “How can you tell? There was barely anything in it.”

  “Exactly. What human being has a nearly empty medicine cabinet? What if the killer took her birth control?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Shannon M. You’ve Been Returned. He didn’t give her a one-way ticket to the Bahamas. He killed her. He sent her to heaven—at least that’s where I’m assuming she ended up, not to get all philosophical or anything.”

  “Please, it’s going to be a long drive if you get philosophical.”

  “Seriously, think about it. We knew she was having sex. I don’t know many women, well, at least in their thirties, who don’t use some kind of birth control. She wasn’t using a diaphragm. Sutherland would have found it.”

  “Unless the killer removed it before doing everything else he did to her.”

  “I’m going to call Palumbo and have him get McAllister’s gynecologist’s records,” Megan said.

  “Why, how will that help?”

  “The memorial in The Catholic Times. Sewing her snatch up. Maybe it’s some holy thing. Catholics are supposed to be anti-birth control.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re going with it, but at least you’ve told me what your plans are.”

  Megan glanced over. “Done and dusted, Nappa. Move on.”

  It should have been a one-hour drive from Manhattan to the McAllisters’ home, but the delay leaving the city and construction on the highway pushed their arrival in Westport closer to lunchtime.

  Bold autumn colors highlighted the wooded road leading into town. The surroundings quickly changed when they drove down the main street in Westport. A chauffeured limo pulled up next to the NYPD department’s seven-year-old Toyota Camry. Cars such as Jaguars, Bentleys, and Aston Martins were parked at the street meters. Quaint shops that could go head-to-head with any store on Madison or Park Avenue occupied the main street. The bistros were closer to five-star dining in New York, despite referred to as charming luncheonettes in the small Connecticut town.

  “This is so Norman Rockwell,” Megan said.

  “Yeah, on antidepressants and Viagra.”

  “Ouch. What’s wrong, Nappa? Are you feeling insecure driving the Camry amongst these swanky automobiles?”

  “Next time we’re getting a nicer car. Maybe something confiscated from a drug dealer.”

  “On our department’s budget, we’re lucky we aren’t coming up here on mopeds.”

  A horseshoe-shaped driveway led up to the McAllisters’ Mediterranean-style home. It was hidden behind weeping willows and overgrown spruce trees on a hill. The outside of the house looked as though it had been deserted. Life had stopped for the McAllisters. Autumn leaves raked into piles sat in pockets overshadowing the lawn, each with a brown bag next to it, while newspapers in clear plastic bags multiplied at the bottom of the driveway.

  They both got out of the car, taking in the scent of a wood-burning fireplace. “You don’t find a smell like this often on the Upper East Side,” Nappa said.

  “Nope.” Megan was hesitant to say anything more. The atmosphere was intensely quiet. She guessed the inside of the McAllister home wasn’t much different.

  A short white gate opened into the backyard of the house. They could see Mrs. McAllister was seated at a table, alone and obviously unaware of her visitors. Nappa rapped on the gate, but it went unnoticed, so they let themselves in.

  The backyard patio had been ignored lately as much as the front yard. In the corner was a grill the size of a Jacuzzi. It was closed and had been bombarded by fallen autumn leaves. The swimming pool faced a similar fate. The water was dark, nearing a moss green color. Leaves and bits of shrubbery floated on the surface. Amazing what just a few days’ neglect could do.

  Shannon’s mother sat at a white iron table, staring into a large black leather book. She held it with reverence as she slowly moved her hands over each page.

  Megan felt she was intruding on a private moment. “Mrs. McAllister?”

  Shannon’s mother jolted in Megan’s direction, trying to hold back her surprise. “Detectives, hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you drive up.” She placed the photo album on the table and adjusted the tan wrap draped around her shoulders.

  They couldn’t help but notice the setting on the table: two glasses of wine poured—only one had been drunk from—and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres in the middle. The tray held an arrangement of cheese, crackers, Greek olives, and marinated red peppers accompanied by a French baguette; the food looked as though it hadn’t been touched.

  “We’re sorry to interrupt,” Nappa offered.

  “No, no, not at all.” She looked up at the detectives, who were obviously curious, and then back down to the table. “Oh, this? I know it’s silly without Shannon here. This was our bonding time together. She’d come home for a visit and we’d have an outdoor lunch together. More like a gossip session for just the girls. It became a tradition for us whenever she was able to make it home for a weekend.”

  “I don’t think it’s silly at all,” Megan assured her.

  “Please have a seat.”

  Nappa pointed toward the photo album. “May I?”

  “Of course, that’s just one of the many family albums we have. This is mainly of Shannon when she was a baby.”

  Nappa glanced through it. Pictures of Shannon spanned from the first few hours of her life to when she appeared t
o be three or four years old. Shannon’s first bath, first steps, first words, all dated under each photograph in the album.

  “Is Mr. McAllister here as well?” Megan asked.

  “Yes, John is inside. It’s getting a bit chilly out here. We should probably go in.”

  “It might be easier to speak with the both of you at the same time.” Nappa closed the photo album.

  They followed Mrs. McAllister through a set of French doors into the main living room. The room, painted a cool blue, had an airy feel to it. White columned bookshelves lined much of the room, while the blond wooden floors were covered with earth-toned area rugs.

  Instead of the countless flower arrangements that were dispersed throughout the room, Megan smelled cigarettes. John, Shannon’s father, sat chain-smoking as the phone rang continually.

  “John? John? Are you going to get that?” Mrs. McAllister excused herself. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

  Mr. McAllister sat in a chair, drink in hand, staring aimlessly into the fireplace. He looked as though he’d aged ten years since Megan and Nappa had met him in the morgue. His drink was full and the look on his face was hard, a man consumed with more anger than sorrow. His tall frame slouched to one side. He swirled the glass, the ice cubes clanking against whatever alcohol it was; Megan assumed it was vodka and not mineral water, given the flushed look on his face. Crackling noises from the fire filled the silence.

  “Mr. McAllister?” Nappa needed to say it twice to get his attention.

  John McAllister looked up, surprised by their presence. “I’m sorry, Detectives, I didn’t hear you come in. Please take a seat. Can I fix you a drink?” He got up to refresh his own, which was already three-quarters full.

  They both declined a midday cocktail.

  “So, what brings you all the way up to Westport from Manhattan?” Mr. McAllister asked.

  Mrs. McAllister had returned to the living room while her husband was pouring himself a second round—or possibly a third, it was hard to tell.