by Chris Taylor
She and Ben Fitzgerald. They’d been an item in the past and despite what they said, it was clear they still were. He’d seen them on her front porch, kissing like lovers, doing their best to delay the moment when they had to say good-bye. He was a fool to believe she felt something for him. To think he even thought they were both falling in love. What a joke! They were falling in love all right, just not with each other.
He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat and pounded harder than necessary on his keyboard. Franklin Cook had made bail. No surprises there. Until the murders, he’d been a fine, upstanding citizen, much admired among his peers and members of Sydney society. He and Sabrina had made a striking couple. It just went to show how much appearances could deceive.
And now he’d been deceived by none other than her sister. It was enough to turn his stomach.
Forcing the thoughts aside, he focused on the computer screen. During the long hours before dawn and in between bouts of anger and self-pity, he’d recalled the threatening letter Cook had received. It seemed so long ago and given what he now believed had happened, it was almost certain the letter was a hoax.
It had to have been written by Cook. With the man now headed for arraignment, Jett wanted to shore up the evidence against him. Another search warrant on the man’s condo was the first place to start and securing the warrant had engaged Jett’s attention since he’d arrived at work.
Adding the final details, he hit “print” and pushed away from his desk. Collecting the warrant off the printer, he strode to his superior’s office and knocked briefly on the door. Detective Superintendent Michael Collins looked up at Jett’s approach.
“Jett, good work on that Cook arrest. How are we looking?”
“Thanks, boss. We haven’t found the murder weapon yet or the original set of clothes, but we have quite a bit of other circumstantial evidence. I have a few more leads to follow up. There’s a threatening letter Cook allegedly received from an anti-Islamic group and a call he says he made to his mistress to conveniently explain a gap in his timeline. I think the letter is a hoax written by Cook to put us off the scent and I’d be surprised if the mistress exists. Don’t worry, I’m confident we’ll get the murder charges to stick.”
“Good. So, what can I do for you?” Collins asked.
“I’ve prepared another search warrant for Cook’s condominium. I need you to authorize it.”
Collins gave a brief nod of assent and Jett handed the document over. Collins scrawled his signature where it was needed and handed the warrant back. “What do you think was missed the first time, Detective?”
“A computer or laptop, for starters. One wasn’t found the first time we searched, but I’m convinced Cook must own one. If we don’t find it this time, the next warrant will be for his office.”
“That will be sure to raise the hackles of the fine and mighty lawyers of Harris & Birmingham. Keep me posted, Detective. This case has all the hallmarks of being a media circus. We want to make sure our actions are aboveboard. We don’t need any bad press.”
“Of course, boss. No problem. Lane and I have it under control.”
“Good.” Collins returned his attention to the paperwork spread over his desk and Jett took his leave.
* * *
Franklin poured two fingers of scotch into a cut crystal glass and threw the liquor back neat. The alcohol burned his throat and stole his breath, but within moments, the warmth of it steadied his nerves. It was strange, being back in the condo after being released on bail. He’d been arrested on suspicion of a double murder. The media camped outside his building were baying for his blood. How quickly things changed.
He wouldn’t have come back if he’d had a choice, but he had nowhere else to go. Though he owned a couple of investment properties in the eastern suburbs, both of them were tenanted. He could have gone to a hotel in the city, but with his face plastered all over the television, it was only a matter of time before he would be recognized. Someone would be sure to tip off the media and his hideout would be discovered. At least, at home he was surrounded by his things and he could spend his time hunkered down in comfort.
Of course, he had a lot more downtime now than he’d anticipated. Edward Birmingham had phoned him that morning. The other partners of his law firm had met. They’d taken a vote. By unanimous decision, they’d agreed it might be best for Franklin to take a leave of absence—at least until the pesky matter of his trial had been resolved. Of course, no one believed he was guilty and of course, the firm would help with the legal fees, but surely he understood? They were a firm with an enviable reputation, a reputation they simply couldn’t put at risk…
The bullshit had gone on a little longer and Birmingham had offered commiserations and words of support that sounded completely insincere. Franklin had thanked him politely before ending the call.
He poured another two fingers of scotch and threw himself down on his couch. The harbor sparkled in the morning sunlight. Usually the view lifted his spirits, but today, nothing could lighten his mood.
He still couldn’t believe his family was gone. His beautiful Sabrina and sweet baby Marnie—dead. Every time he thought about it, he was stunned all over again. He’d never meant for it to happen. None of it had been planned. After it was over, he’d stared at the carnage in shock.
His wife lay dead in the bath, the water stained bright crimson. More blood than he’d ever seen in his life was sprayed up the walls, the tiles; the door. It was like someone had come in with a garden hose filled with red paint and had turned it on full pelt. His clothes were soaked with it.
And it hadn’t stopped there… He’d been bleeding from a cut to his hand where the knife had slipped on one of the downward strokes. He’d applied pressure to it and stopped the flow and then had calmly stood and proceeded down the hall…
Now, memories of his little daughter made his stomach twist and heave. He raced down the corridor and only made it as far as the main bathroom, before bending over the toilet and losing his breakfast in the porcelain bowl.
When the retching was finally over, he sat back on his haunches and looked around. It was the first time he’d stepped inside the bathroom since it happened. Though it had been weeks since the murders and the room was once again sparkling clean, all he could see was the blood. He’d see it until the day he died.
Like the suit he’d been wearing. In fact, all of his clothes from that day had been stained beyond repair. After the stabbings, he’d gazed down at himself in disbelief. He realized he was in trouble and raced to his bedroom to shower and change. Later that night, he’d disposed of the stained clothes in the wood behind the complex. He’d stood over the pile for as long as he dared, careful to watch every last piece of them burn.
When the detective had requested the clothes he’d worn on the day of the murders, it had been a simple matter to retrieve the second set. He’d relied on the fact that the police wouldn’t know the difference. After all, he had plenty of suits and one looked much the same as the rest. But now, the clothing gave him pause. He hadn’t yet seen any of the evidence against him, but he was concerned he’d made a mistake.
The suit he’d been wearing the day of the murders was a navy-blue. He’d changed into a charcoal-gray number before he’d made the emergency call. He couldn’t believe such a little thing as the color of his suit might be the one thing that brought him down. And then, he dismissed the idea as nonsensical. It would take more than one piece of circumstantial evidence to prove his guilt.
The sound of a sharp knock on his door snagged his attention and he frowned. He’d stuck a sign on the front of his door requesting privacy and assuring the media he would call a press conference in the next few days.
But when did the media ever respect anyone’s privacy? He’d been kidding himself. Still, he could always sit on his couch and enjoy the view and wait for the unwelcome visitor to give up and go away. They couldn’t stay out there forever.
The knock came ag
ain and it was followed by the sound of a woman’s voice. “Franklin? Are you in there? It’s me. Danielle.”
Franklin’s frown deepened. Danielle? Why would she be here? She couldn’t possibly have missed the news of his arrest. Could she? A sudden surge of optimism rushed through his veins and his heart leaped in hope. Perhaps Dani was still ignorant of yesterday’s happenings. Perhaps she was still on his side.
All of a sudden, he wanted to spend whatever time he had left, with her, before she discovered the truth. He’d pretend nothing terrible had ever happened, that his wife and baby were still alive. He’d act like the Franklin of a few weeks ago, before he’d gone crazy with jealousy and hurt. He’d act like they were still part of a family who loved each other.
Pushing away from the couch, he set his glass on the coffee table and then walked a little unsteadily toward the door. He lurched and made a grab for the kitchen counter and took a moment to regain his balance. He wasn’t usually much of a drinker. The scotch had gone to his head. He blinked and tried hard to clear his vision and then continued to the door. Fumbling with the security lock, he eventually pulled it open and greeted his sister-in-law with a lop-sided smile.
“Dani! It’s good to see you! Come in.” Standing back to allow her to enter, he closed the door after her.
“Cut the bullshit, Franklin. This isn’t a social call.”
The iciness of her tone pulled him up short. His heart skipped a beat. Perhaps she’d heard about his arrest, after all? He hurried to assure her of his innocence.
“I’m not sure what you’ve heard, Dani, but I can tell you, it wasn’t me. I loved your sister and my daughter with everything that I was. I would never have harmed them and I won’t rest until I find the bastard who did. The police are pinning this on me because it’s easy. It’s always the husband, right? They can put this case to bed and claim another victory. It’s always about their statistics, making their conviction rates look good. They—”
“Shut up, Franklin. Just shut up!”
The sharp command startled him, almost as much as the cold fury in Dani’s eyes. “B-but—” he stammered.
She strode back toward him, her eyes narrowed dangerously. She got up close and personal, crowding his space. He could see the dark flecks in her eyes. He’d never noticed them before…
“For Christ’s sake, are you deaf?” she shouted. “I said, shut the fuck up!”
The blasphemy and cursing shocked him to the core. He’d never heard Dani speak like that before. Of course, he knew her history, about the slut she used to be and he assumed she’d picked up some bad habits while she was fraternizing with the bottom dwellers of her town, but in the past he’d never seen any hint of the poor white trash she’d been.
She waved something in front of his face and for the first time, he noticed the piece of paper. He frowned in confusion, at a loss as to what it could be.
“Do you know what this is?” she growled.
He shook his head and attempted a smile. “Of course not. How could I?”
“Do you remember the paternity test?”
Once again, he wondered where this conversation was going. “Yes, of course.”
“You received the results the day of the murders, remember? You told the detective and I that they’d arrived at your work and you’d brought them home, unopened. Right?”
Her tone remained icy and her eyes were hard.
“Yes, I remember,” he replied more cautiously.
“But you lied, didn’t you Franklin?”
He feigned confusion. “Excuse me? I don’t understand.”
Her smile was feral. “Oh, you understand, all right. Let me tell you what really happened.”
She spun on her heel and stalked away, coming to a halt halfway across the room. Behind her, was the plate glass window, framing the perfect view.
“You received those results at work, like you said, only you did open them and you read their contents. You discovered you weren’t Marnie’s biological father and immediately thought of Sabrina’s ex-boyfriend and the love letters you’d found.”
Surprise shot through him and disquiet stirred in his gut. He had no idea Sabrina had told her sister about their argument over Scott. He forced his expression to remain neutral, unwilling to let her know how much she’d rattled him. There was something about the unnatural look in her eyes that unnerved him.
He laughed in an effort to disarm her, but the sound of it was strained. He didn’t want to listen to any more. It was time to see her out.
“Look, Dani,” he said, “this is all very fascinating, but I think it’s time you left. I have a few things to attend to and I’d rather do it alone.”
“Like the way you murdered Sabrina and innocent baby Marnie?” she threw at him, her lip curled up in disgust.
He chuckled again and shook his head. “My, my, my, Dani. You have such an imagination. I see you’ve been watching too much television.”
Instead of pacifying her, his words only raised her fury. She came at him like a banshee, screaming at him about murdering her sister and how it was all for nothing.
“The lab made a mistake!” she shouted. “Sabrina was never unfaithful to you! I redid the test, you worthless bastard! You were Marnie’s father, after all!”
Her words stunned him. He stared at her in shock, gaping, speechless, his mind whirring out of control. What was she saying? The lab results were wrong? He was Marnie’s father? That meant Sabrina hadn’t…
“Nooo!” The howl of pain was torn from the very bottom of his soul. Horror filled his every nerve and blood cell. He’d stabbed his wife and baby to death…for nothing. She hadn’t been unfaithful at all. She’d loved him and only him, like she’d said. And now it was too late…
A rush of helpless anger, so hot and vivid, momentarily blinded him. He’d murdered his wife and daughter based on information that was wrong. The lab had made a mistake so huge, so momentous, it was incomprehensible. The consequences of their error consumed him, the pain of it so great he gasped and wheezed and tears burned a path down his cheeks.
He glared at Sabrina’s sister. Her mouth was still moving, her face was contorted with anger, but he could no longer hear what she said. He stumbled toward the kitchen. The only thought in his mind was to inflict pain like it had just been inflicted on him. He spied the knife block where it stood in its usual place. One slot remained empty. Of course it did. He’d taken the missing knife with his bloodstained clothing and burned them in the woods until there was nothing left.
Without conscious thought, his fingers closed around yet another black handle and he tugged the vicious-looking blade free. With a yelp of triumph that almost deafened him, he spun on his heel and brandished the knife in Dani’s direction. He couldn’t stand to hear another word she said or think for another moment about his despair. The lab test had been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
With a bloodcurdling howl, he lifted the knife high above his head and charged at the woman in front of him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jett glanced across at his colleague and then stepped forward and pressed the call button for the elevator that would take them to the Cook family penthouse.
“What are we looking for?” Lane asked.
Jett shrugged. “I’m looking for the murder weapon, which is probably removed already, and a computer. A desktop or laptop—maybe both. The first team that searched didn’t find one. I want to make certain. It’s either here or at his workplace. It’ll be much easier to prove he was behind the threatening letter if it was written from a home computer.”
“You think Cook wrote it?”
Jett nodded grimly. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Yeah. When you mentioned the letter to Barber, he didn’t have a clue what you were talking about and if it had originated from someone in his faction, you would have thought he’d know.”
“Coupled with what we already have against Cook, my money’s on finding something on hi
s computer that links him to it.”
“How did things go with the mistress?” Lane asked. “Any luck tracking her down?”
“Oh, yeah, I tracked her down all right,” Jett said. “I traced the phone number back to a prepaid Telstra account.”
Lane’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “So, she did exist after all. I must admit, I had my doubts.”
Jett laughed without humor. “Oh, yes, she existed. The only thing was, her name wasn’t Angel Lockhart.”
“Really? Why would Cook lie about something like that?”
“The phone account was held in the name of Sabrina Cook. That’s why the bastard lied. He gave us his wife’s phone number.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Lane cursed, incredulous. “What kind of sick fuck does something like that?”
Jett glanced at his partner. “I think he panicked. He knew we’d found a discrepancy in his story. The timeline didn’t fit. He gave us the first number that came to mind. Besides, he knew darn well Sabrina wouldn’t be answering it. It was a pretty smart move, when you think about it.”
Lane was still shaking his head back and forth when the elevator arrived. Both men stepped in and Jett reached over to press the button for the top floor. The search warrant was in his top pocket. He wasn’t sure if Franklin was home, but judging by the number of reporters and cameramen camped out on the doorstep of the building, the likelihood was fairly high.
The elevator came to a stop and the steel doors slid silently open on well-oiled hydraulics. The corridor was bare. Jett strode over to the door that led to the only residence on the top floor. Lane followed closely behind him.
Jett lifted his hand to knock on the door in order to announce their presence. Cook wasn’t legally entitled to refuse them entry, but it was a courtesy extended just the same. The sound of shouting from behind the door stayed his hand. He motioned to Lane to come closer and to keep quiet.
The two of them put their ears to the door and this time, there was no doubt. A woman and a man were arguing. They couldn’t catch the words, but the conflict was clear. Anger reverberated behind the closed panel.