Don't Tell

by Karen Rose

  Max looked down at her smiling face and felt his heart do another one of those tuck and roll maneuvers. “Hey, you can’t choose your family. You’ve met my brother and you’re still willing to have dinner with me again.” He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering to slide along the curve of her jaw. Her eyes widened abruptly, her dimple disappearing, her lips parting ever so slightly. It was an invitation. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

  Impulsively he dropped his head, this time placing the very brief, very chaste peck directly on her lips. “Good night, Caroline.”

  She made no move to walk him to the door, continuing to stand where she was, staring up at him, her eyes now wide and shocked. Instinctively he knew it had been a first for her.

  He also knew he was going to have one devil of a time waiting for Thursday night.

  Chapter Eight

  Boone, North Carolina

  Wednesday, March 7

  10:30 A.M.

  Lennie Farrell’s father had retired to a large cabin in the mountains, complete with a paved driveway that held a shiny new bass boat. Steven’s mouth practically watered as he walked past it. He’d be fishing in one of these babies this weekend, thanks to Helen’s blind date. Her name was Suzanna Mendelson, and she was oh-so-excited to go out with a real police detective. She sounded very sweet and very young. And very unfisherperson-like. Turned out her daddy had a bass boat with a two hundred horse–motor and a GPS. Suzanna Mendelson wasn’t sure what the GPS was used for, but her daddy seemed to enjoy having it. He had the feeling his blind date on Saturday would fall in the vast majority of blind dates and be a total and complete disaster. A damn shame because Suzanna’s daddy’s boat sounded like a dream come true.

  He was still staring longingly at the boat from the front porch when the door was opened by a short plump woman with a sweet smile. An incredible aroma met his nose.

  The little lady smiled broadly. “Good morning, Special Agent Thatcher. I’m Sharlene Farrell. Please come in. My husband’s expecting you.” She led him to her husband who was sitting in an ancient Barcolounger, his legs elevated. “Gabe, Special Agent Thatcher is here. Please have a seat.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t stand,” Gabe Farrell thundered from across the room. “A day of fishing with a pack of ten-year-old boys left me pretty sore. I might stand sometime next week.” Sharlene bustled to cover his legs with an afghan and Steven bit back a smile when Gabe Farrell ripped the afghan off with an irritable frown. “I’m sore, Sharlene, not infirm.”

  Sharlene shook the afghan out flat and replaced it over Farrell’s legs without missing a beat, then bustled from the room. “I’ll go get coffee and crumbcake and leave you all to your work.”

  “Damnation,” Farrell grumbled, ripping the afghan away again. “Woman drives me utterly insane.” He settled himself again. “So talk, Thatcher. What brings you up to Boone on a pretty spring day besides the promise of my lovely wife’s crumbcake?”

  Steven leaned back in his chair, feeling the starched doily on the back of the chair tickle the back of his neck. “Seven years ago. Mary Grace Winters.”

  Snow white brows shot upwards. “I seem to recall the case,” he responded dryly.

  Steven smiled. “So I hear. The boys down in Sevier County pulled her car out of Douglas Lake Sunday morning,” he continued. “Her purse with license and Robbie’s baby pictures was under the seat with Robbie’s school backpack in the back.”

  Farrell’s bushy brows bunched. “But no bodies?”

  “Not a one, sir.”

  “I always knew that poor woman had met with some violent end.” Farrell narrowed his eyes. “I always suspected the husband had a hand in it.”

  “He was never charged.”

  Farrell sighed. “No, he wasn’t. I found quite a bit of evidence indicating Winters had abused his wife, but nothing to indicate he had any part in her disappearance. It was damn frustrating.”

  Steven straightened in his chair. “You found evidence that Winters abused his wife? Such as?”

  Farrell rubbed his hand across his neck, massaging. “You have all the photos?”

  Steven brought out the two photos and held them up for Farrell’s inspection. “Just these.”

  Farrell winced. “There were more, about fifteen photos. X-rays, too. Showed several, several,” he repeated, enunciating slowly, “healed breaks. I can’t remember them all. I do remember a number of radial forearm fractures and a break on her leg right here.” Farrell pointed to his middle thigh, then added sarcastically, “Gee, I wonder where those pictures and X-rays could have gone.”

  Steven slipped the folder into his briefcase. “Why was Rob Winters never formally charged?”

  Farrell sighed. “You ever met the man?”

  Steven shook his head. “No.”

  “He cried. Big, huge man cried like a baby. Made TV commercials—at first pleading for the return of his wife and child, then later pleading for any information on where their bodies could be found. He was so utterly … convincing. My own Sharlene was convinced he was innocent. He cooperated in every way to find them. Let us search the house, his bank accounts. Everything.”

  “Tell me about the house,” Steven said, pulling his own notepad from his breast pocket.

  Farrell nodded his approval of the question. “Not a stick of furniture out of place. A speck of dust would have been too lonely to stay on Mary Grace’s floor. It was literally clean enough to eat off of. The spices were alphabetized and the newspaper was folded into precise thirds. Laundry detergent boxes were precisely one half inch from the edge of the shelf in the laundry room. The pantry was organized by food group. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before.”

  “Textbook abusive spouse.”

  “Yep. That and those photos were enough to convince me.”

  “Where was Rob Winters the night they disappeared?”

  “He was working second shift. He would have gotten home by one-thirty or so to find them missing. He didn’t report them gone until morning though—maybe seven, seven-thirty. It’s all in the file. Or at least it was.” He paused when Sharlene entered with a tray of coffee and the aromatic crumbcake. “Thank you, darlin’,” Farrell said to his wife.

  “You’re welcome.” Her eyes simply twinkled, conjuring the image of Mrs. Claus.

  “I hear you’re famous for your sweet potato pie,” Steven commented, taking the plate she offered. “I’d hoped I might try it to see if your son is as truthful as he’s always appeared to be.”

  Sharlene giggled, a youthful sound. “Oh, my. I can’t serve sweet potato pie before noon. No, sir, it just wouldn’t be proper. If you want to try my pie, you’ll just have to come on back, won’t you?” On the afghan went and just as quickly it was yanked away. “Y’all talk all you want and just call if you need anything.” She turned at the door, caught Steven’s eye and winked.

  “She does the afghan thing just to annoy you,” Steven observed.

  “Of course.” Farrell smiled fondly at the doorway she’d just vacated. “I’ve been with that woman for fifty years this past December. Never once raised my hand to her.” His smile dimmed. “Never once cheated on her either.”

  Steven settled back in his chair, fork poised to spear cake. “But Rob Winters cheated.”

  Farrell’s old face hardened. “Made me sick. Not so much the fact that he had the neighbor on the side—men screw up. It happens. Happens far too often. No, what made me absolutely sick was the attitude of the men on the force. His wife was a ‘gimp.’ She couldn’t ‘satisfy his needs.’” He punctuated the words in the air. “That made his affair acceptable. Acceptable.” He shook his white head in clear disbelief. “That’s why he said he didn’t get home until seven that next morning to find them missing. He was with that hussy next door.”

  “Holly Rupert. Her name was in the file.”

  Farrell’s eyes rolled. “Yeah. What kind of woman could sleep with a man not fifty feet from his wife? But she backed up
his alibi.” He snorted his derision. “Like she’d lie. Like she wanted the imprint of his fist on her face, too.”

  Steven raised his brows. “He hit the floozy, too?”

  Farrell shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Miss Rupert never admitted it.”

  Farrell snorted. “Like she would.”

  Steven pushed forward. “What about Robbie? Did he ever show up to school with bruises?”

  “I never found a teacher who’d seen any. But they described him as a big-eyed, withdrawn little boy who never played with the others. Smart as a whip, though. Mary Grace never let that boy miss school. He always showed up clean and well kept. Never a spot on his clothes when he got to school and never a spot when he got back on the bus.”

  “Afraid to get his clothes dirty?”

  “That was my take. There was a student teacher who thought he needed the counselor’s care. She’d seen big bruises on Robbie’s back.” Farrell frowned. “She told me this when the boy and his mother first disappeared, but changed her story when I visited her again a few weeks later.”

  “You think Winters threatened her?”

  “She denied it.” Farrell shrugged again. “The head nurse at the hospital didn’t like Winters. Nancy Desmond cared for Mary Grace through her entire three months at General. She was very willing to testify to her opinions, but he never was charged.”

  “I’ll go talk with her.”

  “Can’t. She ran her car off the road about six months after Mary Grace disappeared. Died.”

  “Well that’s a shame.”

  “She gave me the pictures.” Farrell nodded briskly at Steven’s briefcase. “Told me she’d suggested safehouses to Mary Grace. Gave her names, addresses. But she said that Mary Grace just stared at her with those big blue eyes and never said a word.”

  “Is it possible Mary Grace ran away with the boy?”

  “I suppose anything’s possible. But after that last fall—I don’t think she could lift an empty coffee cup, much less escape an abusive husband.” Farrell smiled, a gleam lighting his sharp eyes. “What have you planned next, Detective?”

  “To check into Mary Grace’s movements at the time of her disappearance and Winters’s alibi.”

  Farrell nodded, pleased. “And then?”

  “And then I’ll check all the women’s clinics within an hour or two drive to see if I can find one that can identify Mary Grace as a patient. I want to establish that there was other abuse—continual and significant. I also want to establish he had opportunity to kill his wife and pitch her car in Douglas Lake.”

  “Check over the border in Tennessee for women’s clinics,” Farrell advised. “It was going to be my next step.”

  “What happened? Why did you close the case?”

  “I was overruled. Dixon, the lieutenant before Ross, believed Winters. Hell, there were days I almost believed Winters. He was either a grieving husband and father or the best actor I’ve ever seen.” He sighed. “Then I had to retire shortly thereafter. Anyway, Dix closed the case after a few months. Time went on and most people simply forgot.”

  “You didn’t,” Steven said softly.

  Farrell turned his hard gaze full on Steven’s face. “No, I never forgot any of them, especially the missing children. I can still see the face of every missing child I ever investigated. You have any kids, Thatcher?”

  “Yes.” Steven closed his eyes and saw their faces. “Three boys. Six, thirteen and sixteen.”

  “And you’d gladly lay down your life for them.”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “Sharlene and I lost our first child when she was a baby. They called it crib death then. We had others after that, but never forgot the one we lost. I always considered it something of a personal insult when bastards abused children.”

  “That I can understand.” Steven checked his watch. “I need to be going. I want to check out the car they pulled up in Sevier County.”

  Steven stood and walked to the door, turning when Farrell called his name. “Yes?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask about the restraining order.”

  Steven stopped in his tracks, turned, walked back and took his seat once again. He cleared his throat. “Restraining order?”

  “Yes. Mary Grace took out a restraining order the day before she ‘fell’ down the stairs.”

  “That wasn’t in the file,” Steven muttered.

  Farrell raised his white brows. “Interesting.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Steven demanded.

  “Mary Grace visited a young Legal Aid attorney, took out a restraining order on Rob the day before she fell down the stairs nine years ago. It was never filed. The Legal Aid attorney took it to the judge on a Wednesday afternoon, the judge took it under advisement and early Thursday morning little Robbie calls 911 because his mother’s unconscious with a pinched spinal cord laying in a congealed pool of her own blood at the bottom of the cellar stairs.”

  Steven shook his head in disbelief. “And nobody thought this was the least bit irregular?”

  “I did. But Rob Winters had painted his wife as depressed and melancholy for years—she’d lost a baby a few years before and he said she’d never been the same. Hinted that she drank sometimes. There was alcohol in the house, but never any indication of any in her system. The doctors said she’d been lying on the cellar floor too long to conclusively say whether she had or hadn’t been drinking.” Farrell shrugged. “Again, you’d had to have seen him then. He was devastated over her injury. Visited her in the hospital every day.”

  “Who was the Legal Aid?”

  “Young man named Smith.” Farrell grimaced. “John Smith, believe it or not. Go try to find him, if you’re into self-abuse. He skipped town.”

  “Convenient,” Steven said dryly. “And the judge?”

  “The judge wanted to get more information before he signed the order. Then when she took her fall, there was no evidence Rob had been anywhere near her and Mary Grace had fallen before.”

  “Winters was on duty?”

  “Yes. But the restraining order and her fall happened about two years before she disappeared. No one questioned his alibi for that night later.”

  “I will,” Steven muttered.

  “Good.” Farrell waited until Steven was at the doorway before calling him again. “Thatcher?”

  “Yes?” Steven asked.

  “Put the bugger away for a long time.”

  Sevier County, Tennessee

  Wednesday, March 7

  3:30 P.M.

  Steven handled the cracked pottery statue as if it were a Ming vase. The statue had not been listed in the original report, mechanic Russell Vandalia explaining that he’d found it later when cleaning the silt from the floorboards. Vandalia stood close by, spitting in a coffee can. Steven was sure the man considered himself discreet. Deputy Tyler McCoy stood next to Vandalia, a look of general distrust on his face.

  “She looks like the Virgin Mary,” Vandalia offered. “But that’s not the name on the plaque.”

  Steven turned the statue over and squinted. “St. Rita of Cascia,” he read.

  “Who is she?” McCoy asked. “I’m not Catholic.”

  “St. Rita is the patron saint of impossible cases,” Steven answered. “It was the name of the parochial high school for the girls in my home town,” he added, his tone wry. He was Catholic. He had, in fact, been an altar boy and once even seriously considered becoming a priest. Of course, that was before Melissa Peterson, St. Rita’s most popular senior, showed him what he’d be missing in the back of his father’s brand-new Olds Cutlass. He’d said five Hail Mary’s after confessing that one a month later. He’d said “I do” two months after that. He couldn’t, wouldn’t regret it. His oldest son Brad was one of the three joys of his life. Matt and Nicky were the other two. Fishing came in at a distant fourth.

  “I wonder why it was in her car,” McCoy said thoughtfully, jerking Steven back from his mental wandering. He’d wo
ndered the same thing. It was overtly out of place.

  “Ask Detective Winters. He seemed to find it especially important,” Vandalia commented quietly.

  Steven whipped his head to stare at Vandalia, almost bobbling the statue, catching it against his chest. “Winters has been here?” he asked sharply.

  “Yessir. Monday afternoon. He stared at that statue a long time. It seemed to agitate him.”

  Steven took a deep breath and put the statue back on a little table next to the car. “You pulled up the car, Deputy McCoy?”

  McCoy nodded. “Yes, I did. We were dragging the lake for a victim of a jet ski wreck and pulled it up by accident.”

  “Where was it located? What part of the lake?” Steven had moved to a large area wall map.

  McCoy moved to his side and pointed to the southwest corner of the lake. “Right about here. Seven years ago this area was undeveloped. Hikers used it for camping, but overall it was pretty deserted. The car was about a hundred fifty feet from the shore.”

  “It wasn’t rolled in,” Steven mused. “It’s too far out for that.” He frowned, visualizing. “Depress the accelerator, get the motor revving, then let her fly. Is that statue heavy enough to hold down the accelerator?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Vandalia offered, just as quietly as before.

  “Her abductor had some kind of religious fixation?” McCoy thought out loud.

  “Perhaps,” said Steven. “But I’d like to know why Winters was upset by seeing it.” He took one last look at the statue of St. Rita on the table. “I think it’s time Detective Winters and I have a chat.”

  Chicago

  Wednesday, March 7

  5 P.M.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Dana observed, munching on buttered popcorn, watching Caroline stare at the basketball court, her expression distant. Tom had missed two on the rebound and Caroline hadn’t even noticed. “What gives?”

  Caroline blinked and glanced over from the corner of her eye. “Just thinking.”