It would require the same resolve they’d used to get money from high-school boys. Delilah asked Lacey, “Can you do it again?”
“Oh, yeah. I can do that. There isn’t anything as bad as the abuse I’ve endured from Uncle Timothy and his pals.”
And that was what the two girls did. Lacey assumed it must have been evening by the time she heard Timothy’s steps on the stairs. He was coming for her. Both girls were ready.
Timothy flipped the light switch at the top of the stairwell. The bulb hanging on the electrical cord from the ceiling didn’t light. How could it? Delilah had unscrewed the bulb. Timothy continued down the darkened stairs. The ancient wood squeaked as he descended into the girls’ domain. He called Lacey’s name, but both girls stayed still, hiding beneath the stairway.
“Lacey, you can’t hide from me. Come on, child. Mrs. Haggerty prepared your dinner before she left for the night. It’s upstairs. You’ve been punished long enough. It’s time to eat. Come out now.”
Although Lacey’s eyes had adapted to the darkness, Timothy’s hadn’t. She watched as he moved about, his hands out in front like the blind man he had become. Timothy found the desk chair and moved it to the center of the room, underneath the light bulb. He stepped onto the chair and reached up, finding the bulb loose in the socket. He screwed it home. As the bulb came on, he was blinded momentarily. That’s when Delilah darted from their hiding place. In one swift move, she grabbed the chair and yanked it with the strength of two young women. Timothy reached for support, but there was nothing but air to grab. He fell hard, face first. He was unconscious as soon as his forehead had tried to break through the thick cement slab.
The rest of Delilah’s plan was easy enough. She used the roll of duct tape from the workbench to bind his feet and hands. Timothy remained facedown and unconscious. Lacey went upstairs to the kitchen and took a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, put them in a bowl, and refilled the tray. Then she handed the bowl to her alter ego. Delilah bent next to the unconscious abuser and rolled him onto his back, his hands securely bound beneath him. The fall had left a few scratches on his nose and a big bleeding bump on his forehead. Delilah pried his mouth open wide and inserted an ice cube, pushing it down with a finger into his throat. She followed that with a second then a third cube. With his throat and mouth filled with frozen water, she again taped his mouth shut. Delilah packed pieces of cloth into each nostril and taped his nose closed. Lacey didn’t know how long it would take for him to die of suffocation, but she could wait.
Uncle Timothy had said dinner was ready, so Lacey ran back up to the kitchen to devour the housekeeper’s now-cold meatloaf and mashed potatoes, the first food she’d eaten in twenty hours.
The phone rang loudly in the otherwise-silent house. It frightened her. The answering machine—something quite rare and expensive in those days, but Timothy could afford it—picked up on the fourth ring. She’d never forget that message. It was from one of the regulars. The one with the name her uncle had mentioned that morning. Carson Starr was calling Uncle Timothy and asked if Timothy had located Lacey. He was eager to renew his acquaintance. That’s what he said: renew his acquaintance. His voice was filled with glee. Renew! Oh, God, what a pervert! When the recording finished, so was Lacey. She couldn’t eat. She’d lost her appetite.
The next morning, when Mrs. Haggerty came to work, she found Timothy O’Mannely’s body in the basement and called the police. One of Boston’s Brahmin was in need. O’Mannely might not be a Cabot, a Lowell or a Forbes, but a Brahmin is a Brahmin in Boston. When the detective arrived, Mr. O’Mannely was lying face down, his arms spread to break his fall—one leg straight, the other bent at the knee. It was surprising the bump on his head was enough to kill him, but stranger things had happened on Beacon Hill. Of course, there would be a coroner’s inquest.
The detective deduced what had happened from the evidence at the scene. After eating part of his evening meal, Mr. O’Mannely had gone to his cellar, maybe for a tool. The overturned chair indicated he had used it to change a light bulb. That was the singular reason to have a chair in the middle of a basement, underneath a bulb. Mr. O’Mannely then had taken a bad fall, hitting his head on the cement floor. As it was a busy week in the coroner’s office, the inquest didn’t go any farther than that.
It took two years to determine that his niece was his only heir. Young Lacey Kinkaid would inherit Timothy O’Mannely’s entire estate, valued at several million dollars. The state hired an attorney to represent the minor child. This provided council and protection and allowed Lacey to remain anonymous. The last thing she wanted as a minor living alone was notoriety. By the time the probate court finally ruled in her favor, Lacey had become a wealthy nineteen-year-old.
On her cot with decades-old memories flooding her mind, she focused on Delilah. Lacey smiled. That Delilah. What a smarty-pants she was. I wouldn’t have survived any of that without her. I wish she’d show up now. Delilah, where are you when I need you again after all these years?
But Delilah didn’t come this time. Lacey was on her own in Murtagh’s dungeon. What does this deviant want from me? she wondered. If he didn’t want something from me, I’d already be fish food.
Unknown to Lacey, her husband was attempting to answer that same question: why was Murtagh holding Lacey? Neither would come to the right answer anytime soon.
[]
TWELVE
TWO EVENTS TOOK PLACE in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts following Timothy O’Mannely demise. The probate and family court ruled that Miss Lacey Kinkaid was his heir. At nineteen, she was now a legal adult in Massachusetts and could control her inherited assets.
The second event was that Mrs. Pearl Haggerty was bequeathed $10,000. Following the coroner’s inquest, Mrs. Haggerty became utterly daft. Some already knew she was well down the senility road while she was working for Timothy. The court placed her in the care of her late husband’s younger brother’s oldest daughter, Collette.
When Collette had moved in to care for her aunt, she moved old Mrs. Haggerty to a small maid’s room on the third floor, pretty much out of her way. Collette took possession of the master bedroom next to the parlor and had no difficulty depositing the check from Timothy O’Mannely’s estate into her own account. She’d been endorsing Mrs. Haggerty’s social security checks and annuity checks ever since she moved in.
Mrs. Haggerty and her husband had purchased the large Victorian home in 1930 from a bankrupt stockbroker’s widow. During the years she had lived with her aunt after Timothy’s death, Collette had been rather content until one evening when she took the old woman some crackers and cheese for supper.
Mrs. Haggerty was in a talkative mood. “I don’t suppose you’ve cleaned his room yet, have ya, deary?”
“And whose room would you be speakin’ of?” Collette asked.
“Why, the Govna’s, Mr. Timothy, of course.”
“Auntie Pearl, he’s been dead and gone many years now. Yer daft, old girl, so don’t be botherin’ with that blather. Eat yer supper and go back to sleep, will you?”
“It’s a mortal sin he’s doin’, that it is. I fear his soul will burn in hell for eternity ’cause of it. His poor niece is to be pitied, that she is.”
Collette placed the tray on the nightstand and sat at the edge of the bed. The mention of Lacey got her attention. “Why, Auntie Pearl? Why should Lacey be pitied? She inherited her dead uncle’s estate, which is said to be a bunch. That old place up on Beacon Hill was worth millions itself!”
Collette was familiar with Lacey from their shared Southie neighborhood. Although she was a year older and didn’t run with Lacey’s crowd, she knew all about the bright, pretty girl who got straight A’s. Lacey was everything Collette wasn’t. That may have been why she’d been keeping a journal on Lacey for years.
“You cun see it, plain as the hat on yer head, what them men are doin’ to that wee lass,” Mrs. Haggerty said. “’Tis an abomination, that it is. They come to visit the Gov
’na, smokin’ his cigars and drinkin’ his whiskey. But what they be wantin’ is time with the lass.”
Collette raised an eyebrow then smoothed the blanket around her aunt. “And you’ve seen these men with her, have ya?”
“Well, no, girl. I wouldn’ta been watchin’ such sinnin’. ’Tis the camera pictures I seen. He be a hidin’ em in thar basement he calls the happy room, don’t ya know.”
“Auntie Pearl, where did you see these pictures?” Collette pressed.
“The drawer where Master Timothy keeps ’em. There’s some small ones, all dark an’ together on longish film. I found ’em while I was cleanin’ in there. I held ’em up to the winda and saw what was on ’em, plain as the spring dew on grass.”
“Do you know the men in the pictures?” Collette asked. “Do you know their names an’ all?”
“Sure, and they’s the ones who come every week. One is now the district attorney—I read about him in the paper. He’s a bad one, that one is. And the other is his brother-in-law, a lawyer name o’ Starr. I knowed ’em on sight. Always a comin’ round when I was a goin’ home.”
“So, dear Auntie Pearl, tell me, where did you see these pictures again?”
Collette had never finished high school. There was that unfortunate arrest for possession of a controlled substance. But “undereducated” doesn’t mean “stupid.” She excelled as a researcher and had demonstrated those skills for years at the library and the newspaper morgue for new entries for her Lacey journal. There was plenty of Lacey research material to find too—Collette had tracked the activities and accomplishments of Lacey Kinkaid over the years in this journal. Inclined to take what was offered, she believed an opportunity would one day appear to sell the journal and its stories. Instincts told her someone would pay for the information she’d been collecting. How much was this information worth? That, of course, would depend on how the buyer used it. Now Collette understood from her aunt that Lacey had been routinely sexually abused by some prominent men. Auntie Pearl had just added significant value to her journal.
It was blackmail, pure and simple. The more notable Lacey became, the more valuable Collette’s collection grew. Fate and the luck of the Irish would solve the riddle of who would buy the journal. And that was how Collette Haggerty had become acquainted with Marcos Murtagh. Collette had, at different times, dated several men in Murtagh’s mob. Well, she thought of those occasions as dates. The men, however, considered it trading drugs for sex. In any case, she was around the mob and their hangouts on numerous occasions. She first became aware of Murtagh’s interest in Lacey when Lacey was dating Fabio. Marcos Murtagh kept tabs on everything he owned.
When Mrs. Haggerty died, Collette inherited the house she’d been living in. Collette considered it a sign from above that her aunt died and she had gotten away with failing to report Aunt Pearl’s passing to the social security office. Those checks kept coming as regular as you please.
Always the gracious hostess, Collette threw the occasional party for her pals, including members of Murtagh’s mob. These thugs considered Collette one of them—at least, she was willingly passed around the gang as if she were community property. The word about pretty Collette was that she was ready to spread her legs for anyone with a joint of sensimilla.
For years, Collette’s hobby was Lacey Kinkaid. Collette’s journal had started when she, Lacey, and Stacy all lived in Southie and attended grade school together. She included anything and everything about Lacey. Stacy remained close to Lacey, while Collette stayed close to Stacy. Gossip from friends like Stacy Simpson was always a welcome addition to her journal. After Lacey and Stacy graduated from law school, they pursued different career paths. Collette’s journal tracked Lacey’s meteoric rise in the DA’s office, and now she knew why she had risen so quickly. She traced Lacey’s move into a partnership at one of the country’s largest white-shoe law firms. Collette had no question in her mind how that had happened. Her journal became evidence of the truth of Auntie Pearl’s recollections. She never saw photos or films of Grandy or Starr with adolescent Lacey, but she was sure Lacey had them hidden somewhere.
Collette had clipped an October ’78 newspaper account for her journal that stated that Lacey was leaving Boston. She would head the business sector at the Los Angeles office of JLS. The secret Collette had kept all these years hadn’t made her a dime. She knew, deep down in her black Irish heart, she had to get closer to Lacey if it was ever to pay off. Besides, she had outgrown her Boston bedmates and looked forward to the SoCal scene. So Collette sold the house she’d inherited from her aunt and moved to LA.
It was easy enough to get Lacey’s office phone number from Stacy. Collette explained she would be accompanying a new boyfriend to live in LA. Stacy encouraged her to look up Lacey so she’d know someone from the old neighborhood. She did exactly that. After getting an apartment in Inglewood and a part-time job at Walmart, Collette called Lacey at work, introduced herself, and accounted for how she had Lacey’s number. Collette said she did housekeeping for several people in LA and offered her services to Lacey and Wainwright. She closed the deal when she said she charged Southie prices.
The Walmart job was as good a cover as Collette needed to account for having income. As long as those monthly social security checks kept coming, part-time work at Walmart was all Collette needed, especially since she also had the profits from the sale of her aunt’s house. As a housekeeper, she was exclusive to the Wainwrights every Thursday, although they knew nothing of her schedule beyond that one day. Collette was now a part of the Wainwright household. She felt sure her journal would expand, and her journey with Lacey would come to a happy, lucrative conclusion.
PANICKING AFTER READING the second Lacey Kinkaid installment in the LA Times, Starr dialed Grandy’s home number. The phone rang a second time; Starr waited. Jesus, if Lacey tells Murtagh what we did, he’ll own us, and then there’ll be some serious blackmail. If she tells anyone else, we’ll be disbarred and our reputations and families will be destroyed.
When she had demanded a partnership in JLS, she had said the photos were secure. No one but Lacey had access. But this Times piece implied that the reporter knew something about them. The first Times feature was about the well-known lady lawyer surviving a horrific car crash and going missing, assumed to be a hostage of Murtagh. This next installment dealt with her childhood sexual abuse in Boston. The informant said some prominent citizens had repeatedly raped the teenage ward of her uncle. Although the source wasn’t identified, the writer had to be getting inside information, Starr reasoned.
Fortunately, the article didn’t name Lacey’s uncle, only the city where he lived. But that was close enough. Anyone who knew Lacey knew she had lived with Timothy O’Mannely. How hard would it be to identify Grandy and Starr as his pals? From there, it would be a straight line to a catastrophe for them. They couldn’t take the chance that Murtagh or the reporter might get their hands on the photos.
I have to kill that blackmailing bitch! Three prominent citizens? Who’s the other guy? There were several regulars at O’Mannely’s. It wasn’t like a frat thing. We didn’t hang out together...Zack and I did that.
Zack Grandy picked up the phone before the fourth ring.
“Hello.”
“It’s me. We have a major problem here. They ran another installment about Lacey in the LA Times. Zack, they’re getting way too close. I want you on a plane today. We’ve got to plug this situation. I don’t want to talk about this on the phone. How soon can you get to LA?”
“Jesus, Carson, I can’t just pick up and leave—”
“The hell you can’t! Listen, if this gets any closer to you and me, you won’t have an office to look after. You won’t have anything to look after, you idiot. No career, no family, no friends. Now get your ass out here.”
“Listen to me for a second. This isn’t just another Carson Starr production, you egotistical prick. I’ll come to LA, but I’ve got to set some things up here before I can leave
. I’ll call you later with my flight information. Pick me up at LAX.”
LACEY WAS HUNGRY. SHE didn’t know how long she’d been in this new cell, but her stomach told her she hadn’t had food for a long time. That was what woke her from the latest round of boredom-induced naps. She heard the door opening, but this time it wasn’t Carlos, the guy who’d been bringing her meals.
“Hello, my dear.”
She recognized the three-piece suit, the swagger-like waddle, the belly hanging over the fat bastard’s belt. Now...now I’ll learn why I’m his captive.
“Murtagh. What an unpleasant surprise.”
“Seein’ you ain’t no surprise, and havin’ you as my guest ain’t pleasant, so can the attitude. You’ve caused me years of pain. You’ve only had a little justified taste of payback.”
His crooked, yellow-toothed smile went well with the threat.
Lacey looked at this monster, Murtagh. He’d always worn a three-piece suit, as he did now. She’d never seen him in anything else, except his orange prison jumpsuit. She found the jumpsuit more attractive.
“I brought you somethin’ to eat. You hungry?” Murtagh unconsciously adjusted his diamond pinky ring, which he somehow had wedged onto his fat finger.
His delivery of the tray of food was unexpected. Lacey’s first inclination was to refuse it. She wanted nothing from this king of goons. But the growling in her stomach decided for her.
“Thanks. I’m starving.”
“We can talk while you eat. I told the cook to fix somethin’ special. Beef and noodles, but he calls it a Russki name, Romanov, something like that. I had some. Pretty good. You’ll like it, I bet.” He reached for the tray he’d set on the small table, pushed it onto Lacey’s lap, and took a seat in the chair. “Have at it, girl.”
Inside Moves Page 20