“No, I did not.”
“Any bruises on her body?”
“No.”
“Any defensive wounds?”
“No.”
“She told you he threw a rock at her. Did she appear to suffer any injuries from that alleged attack?”
“No.”
Jessie walked back to the prosecution table, picked up a sheet of paper, and approached the witness stand again. “I’d like to introduce this document into evidence, Your Honor.”
They went through the process of admitting the evidence, and Jessie placed the sheet of paper in front of Fulco. “Do you recognize this document, Detective Fulco?”
“Yes. It’s Ms. Raines’s intake form, from the police department. From the night of the shooting.”
“Were you present for Ms. Raines’s intake process?”
“Yes. I walked her through it.”
“And you participated in completing the form?”
“Yes.”
“As part of the intake process, was Ms. Raines photographed?”
“Yes, a mug shot was taken. It’s right here.” He pointed to the paper.
“Do you see any signs of bruising or other injuries in that photograph?”
“No.”
“Was Ms. Raines examined for identifying marks such as tattoos, scars, birthmarks, etc.?”
“Yes, that’s a routine part of the process. Marks are noted here.” He pointed.
“What does it say?” Jessie said.
“It says, ‘None.’”
“You wrote that, correct?”
“Yes, I wrote that.”
“So, during this process, you saw no bruises or other injuries on Ms. Raines?”
“No.”
“Did you check the police records to see if Brooke Raines had previously filed a complaint against Mr. Keeley for assault or any other charge?”
“I checked that, and she never did.”
“Thank you, Detective Fulco. That’s very helpful. I have no further questions.”
Judge Armstrong looked to Hughes. “Redirect, counsel?”
Hughes jumped up and straightened his tie as he approached the stand. “Just a few questions, Detective, and then we’ll let you go. Based on your experience, would you agree that it is not uncommon for women who are victims of abuse from husbands or boyfriends to suffer that abuse in silence rather than reporting their abusers?”
Fulco seemed to hesitate for a second, then sighed. “It’s not uncommon, no.”
“Would you agree that many victims of abuse never reach out to the police?”
“I would agree with that. It’s unfortunate, but true in my experience.”
Hughes nodded. “Thank you, Detective.”
Fulco was excused. He stepped down from the witness stand looking shaken, but when he walked past Jessie, his gaze was clear. He tilted his face close to hers, and under his breath, he said, “Thanks for nothing.”
Jessie’s mouth felt dry. She forced herself to smile at Fulco, for the benefit of the jury and the spectators.
18
For Mark Leary, tracking down Lydia Wax, the suspect from his three-year-old case, had been an exercise in pure detective work. Or social engineering, he supposed, depending on how you looked at it. On the phone with Wax’s alma mater, he’d posed as a lawyer trying to reach Wax about a bequest granted to her in a will. It wasn’t the most sophisticated subterfuge—he doubted it would have impressed Reggie Tuck, the only actual con artist he knew—and it was definitely a move that would have landed him in serious trouble had he still been an officer of the PPD. But it had been effective. The helpful folks at the school had fallen for it and provided him with her unlisted address.
From there, some quick internet searching had given him even more information. Google Street View gave him a curbside visual of a massive, brick-fronted house set back on a large tract of property on a quiet-looking residential street. Zillow’s database estimated the property’s value at just over a million dollars. Pretty interesting for a woman who, as of three years ago, had barely any savings, had never married, and had been able to leverage her community college degree only as far as sporadic bartending jobs.
Obviously, something had changed between then and now. It could be innocent—she could have married a rich guy, or started a hugely successful YouTube channel. Or she could have been compensated for eliminating Terry Resta. It was a mystery that Leary fully intended to solve.
The drive from Philly to Mendham, a town in northern New Jersey, took two hours. Leary enjoyed every minute of it. He could feel a surge of energy in his body and in his brain that no other feeling could match. He was on the hunt again.
He didn’t warn her he was coming. He parked in her long, circular driveway, walked up to the front door, and hit the doorbell. The door opened. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. She froze in her doorway, speechless.
“Um, Detective,” she said. Her look of surprise changed to a friendly smile as she recovered. “Nice to see you again. What…. Is there something I can help you with?”
“May I come in?”
She hesitated. “I guess so. I need to run in about a half hour, though. I have a yoga class.” She didn’t move from the doorway. “Is this about what happened with Terry?”
“Please. I’ve come a long way to talk to you.”
“You could have just called. I’ve always cooperated fully with the police. You know that.”
During the ride to her house, Leary had debated whether to disclose that he was no longer with the police. He had decided not to. If she was a killer, he would need all the leverage he could get to coax information out of her.
“It is about Terry. I’m following up. Routine procedure, but I like to do it in person, make sure you’re okay, all of that.”
“I’m fine. Really.” Judging by the square footage of her house, that was an understatement.
Leary waited. After a few seconds of silence, Wax backed into her house and gestured for him to follow her inside. He smiled and came in, taking off his coat as he walked, signaling that he planned to be here for a while. He saw what might have been a flash of panic in her eyes as she led him through a foyer to a family room.
The room was big, with a high ceiling and windows overlooking the expansive, heavily wooded back of the property. A comfortable-looking couch faced matching chairs and a loveseat. A large fireplace, dark at the moment, was built into one of the walls.
“This is a beautiful house,” Leary said, trying to strike a casual tone but watching her closely for a reaction. It was hard to tell because she was still walking, but he thought she might have flinched slightly. “Do you live here alone?”
“Yes. What did you want to ask me about? To be honest, I’ve tried to put the whole thing with Terry behind me. I don’t think about it much, except when I have a nightmare once in a while. I doubt I’ll remember anything now that I didn’t already tell you three years ago.” She closed her mouth abruptly, as if realizing she was rambling. Definitely nervous. But many people became nervous around cops—even innocent people.
“Why don’t we sit?” he said. Before she could respond, he took a seat in one of the chairs.
“Right. Sure.” She seemed to hesitate for a second, then lowered herself onto the loveseat. She perched on the edge, as if poised to jump.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Lydia, but how can you afford this house? Did you come into money since the last time we spoke?”
She stared at him. Her expression turned angry, but he sensed that she was faking the emotion. She wasn’t angry. She was scared.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Did you buy it? Do you rent it from someone?”
“I got … a loan. A mortgage. Just like anybody.”
“Banks don’t just hand out big mortgages anymore. They would have wanted to see your income, your savings, that sort of information.”
“Listen, Detective, if you want to as
k me about what happened with Terry, then ask me. I’ll be as helpful as I can. But I don’t want to talk about my house or my life or anything else that’s personal. Okay?”
Leary shrugged. “I’m not sure why you would have a problem talking about your house.”
“Well, that’s how I feel.”
“Okay.” Leary let out a breath. “Let’s talk about what happened three years ago, then.” He saw her start to relax. She leaned back against the cushion behind her. “Are you familiar with a company called CBL Capital Partners?” he said. Abruptly, her body came forward again and went rigid.
“No,” she said.
“Really? You never had any contact with anyone from that company?”
He could practically see her thoughts flashing rapidly behind her eyes as she tried to guess what he might already know. “I don’t remember for sure. Like I said, it was a while ago.”
“Are you saying you’re not familiar with CBL, or you don’t remember if you’re familiar with CBL?”
She hesitated. “Can you tell me why you’re asking? It might help jog my memory.”
“It’s a simple question, Lydia. Did you ever have any contact with a company called CBL Capital Partners? I don’t understand why that would be difficult for you to answer. I mean, unless you’re hiding something.”
She stared at him. A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“No. I’m just asking questions.”
“I want you to leave now.”
Leary sighed and nodded. He rose from the couch, then paused, as if just thinking of something. He reached into his pocket, where earlier he’d placed a slip of paper about the size of a business card. The paper had his name and phone number. He’d considered bringing one of his old Philadelphia PD cards, but giving her one of those would mean crossing a line he wasn’t ready to cross. He handed her the piece of paper instead. “If you change your mind and want to talk, give me a call.”
She took the paper, but her expression was dubious. “Why would I want to talk?”
“I don’t know.” Leary headed toward the door. “Maybe you’ll remember something about CBL. If you do, it would be better for you to give me a call and tell me yourself, than for me to figure it out on my own.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You should.” When they reached her front door, he stopped to meet her gaze again. “It was good catching up with you, Lydia. I’ll be in touch.”
19
Lydia Wax stood at the window, parted the curtains, and watched Leary march down the path from her front door to the driveway. The cop opened the door of his car and slid inside. Through the window, she could just barely hear the engine roar to life. She waited. The car backed out of her driveway and onto the street, then drove away. A moment later, the sound of the engine faded and the car was gone.
Lydia glanced at her watch, then stared at the street for a full ten minutes to make sure he didn’t come back.
One of her neighbors walked her poodle past Lydia’s property. Other than that, the street remained quiet. She took a step backward and let the curtain fall back into place.
Damn it.
During the first year or so after Terry’s death, she’d feared a visit from the Philadelphia police, but after moving to New Jersey and not hearing a word about the incident for three years, she’d eventually stopped worrying. She had assumed she was safe—assumed that the creepy fat man had been right about there not being any risk.
She should have known better. There was always risk.
She hurried upstairs—actually running through her house—to the master bedroom. She yanked open the drawer of her nightstand and shoved aside various odds and ends until she found what she was looking for. The phone. A burner, Goyle had called it. Purchased with prepaid minutes, as anonymous a means of communication as was possible in today’s world.
She pressed the button to power it on. Nothing happened. The screen remained blank.
It’s been sitting in a drawer for years. Of course it’s dead.
Where the hell was the charging cable?
She searched the drawer and found nothing. Had Goyle even given her one? She lifted the phone closer to her face and peered at the ports on its edge. It looked like a standard Micro-USB port, the same type used by a bunch of her other devices.
Clutching the burner phone, she rushed down the hallway to the fourth bedroom, which she used as a home office. On her desk, her Kindle tablet was plugged in and charging. She pulled the Micro-USB cable out of the tablet and plugged it into the phone, then tried to power it on again. This time, the phone came to life, displaying a charging icon.
When the phone had enough juice to operate, she opened the saved numbers. There was only one, and it would connect her to one of Goyle’s burner phones—assuming he still used that phone.
Holding her breath, she called him.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Lydia was about to give up when the call finally connected.
A voice said, “Who is this?”
At the sound of the voice, fear swam in Lydia’s stomach. She swallowed hard. “It’s Lydia.”
“Sorry, you have the wrong number.”
Panic surged through her. “I mean Penelope,” she said, practically shouting the code they’d agreed on so many years ago. “Penelope.”
Silence. She looked at the phone, afraid he might have already hung up, but then the voice returned: “You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A cop was just here. One of the detectives who investigated Terry’s death. He came to my house.”
“What is his name?”
“Leary. Mark Leary. I always felt like he didn’t believe me, even back then….”
“What did he want?”
“He was asking questions. He asked me how I could afford this house. He asked me—”
She heard Goyle exhale into his side of the line. “I told you, the money can’t be traced. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“But he’s suspicious!”
“Let him be. Let his suspicion give him ulcers. He’ll never find a link between the money and Terry's death.”
Lydia wished she could believe Goyle, but his assurances, which had seemed so convincing three years ago, sounded hollow now. “You’re wrong. He found a link.”
“If that were true, you’d be in a jail cell right now. He fooled you—that’s what cops do. He made you think he has information, but all he was doing was trying to get you to talk—”
“He asked me about CBL Capital Partners,” Lydia said.
She heard Goyle’s sharp intake of breath. The sound made her fingers tighten around the phone as the fat man’s surprise added a new layer of panic. “What did you tell him?” Goyle said.
“I didn’t tell him anything. I told him to leave and he did. But he’ll be back. He’s obviously figured out what really happened, and he’ll be back. What do I do?”
Goyle was quiet for a few seconds. “Stay in your house. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even check Facebook. I’m sending two of my people to get you. They’ll bring you to my office and we’ll figure this out together. Okay?”
Lydia licked her lips, which felt as dry as dust.
“Lydia?” Goyle said.
“Okay,” she said. “Yes. I’ll be here.”
“Good.”
Goyle disconnected the call. She stood at her desk with her phone in her hand, feeling paralyzed.
Goyle’s words echoed in her head: I’m sending two of my people to get you.
Her stomach churned with nausea.
He was going to kill her. She knew it with a certainty she could not explain. It was how he solved problems— she remembered vividly the cold, businesslike manner in which he’d proposed Terry’s murder to her. He had no respect for human life, and no moral compunctions about killing.
She shouldn’t have called him. Now,
people were coming. How much time did she have? Hours? Minutes? There was no way to know.
She reached into her pocket and withdrew the small piece of paper she’d stuffed in there earlier. Mark Leary’s number. If she called him, he might turn around and race back here in time to save her. But then what? A trial? Life in prison? That was almost as bad as being killed. She would never survive in prison. She’d seen Orange Is The New Black.
As if in a trance, she walked back to her bedroom and entered the master bathroom. Averting her gaze from her own eyes in the mirrored medicine cabinet, she opened the cabinet door. Inside, among the bottles and cosmetics, she found a bottle of Vicodin. Her doctor had prescribed it after some minor surgery. She’d never taken the pills—the pain had not been that bad—but she’d saved them.
Better to do it myself, on my own terms, than to be taken to some deserted place by two strange men and suffer God knows what at their hands.
How many pills would it take?
She moved through her house, retracing her steps to the home office. This time, she powered on her PC and brought up Google. Goyle had warned her not to use Facebook, but he hadn’t said anything about Googling the number of Vicodin pills necessary for suicide.
Her search returned a surprising number of results. She sat down and read.
Leary returned to Philadelphia with a smile on his face. He might not have acquired any hard evidence or specific information from Lydia Wax, but he’d observed enough from her voice and mannerisms to convince himself that she was hiding something. Not to mention the mini-mansion.
The stabbing of Terry Resta three years ago had not been the clear-cut act of self-defense the evidence had made it appear. Leary was starting to believe that there had been a conspiracy to murder Resta. Resta had stood in the way of CBL’s plan to acquire the Resta brothers’ business, and, more specifically, the land they owned on which their business was located. They had arranged to remove Terry Resta, and Lydia Wax had been the tool they’d used. Apparently, she’d been well-compensated.
The best part was that proving all of this shouldn’t be too difficult. If Lydia Wax had been smarter, or possessed of more self-restraint, she would have hidden her payout. Instead, she’d splurged on a big house. If, as Leary suspected, the money trail that ended at her Mendham address started at a bank account connected to CBL Capital Partners, then the police could start building a solid case against both CBL and Wax. Three years after the fact, Resta’s murderers would be brought to justice. All because of one former detective’s hard work.
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