“I think there’s some confusion, Ms. Saunders. We got a call on this Honda Accord, that it was involved in an accident tonight. Registration led us here. What matter are you referring to?” The tall one was taking the lead.
“I was just in Philadelphia talking to—it doesn’t matter. The car belongs to my niece, Ava Saunders. But no one’s been driving it.”
He walked over and put his hand on the hood. “It’s warm.” Then he went to the driver’s-side window and peered inside.
She was starting to panic. “Look. You don’t have my permission to look in that car. I need you to leave now.” Marie was trying to stand her ground, hands on her hips, but she was ready to sob, and the officers seemed to hear it in her voice.
“Ma’am. There’s something dark smeared on the passenger’s-side seat. From here it looks like blood.” The two officers climbed the steps to the porch, where she was standing. “Are you okay?” They seemed to be scanning her from head to foot, looking for an injury. “Something happened with this car. The fender bender at Haddon and Cuthbert that was called in is the least of it. So you come in and talk, or I call this in and we take you to the station.” She started to open her mouth but he put his hand up. “And yes, if you want, call your lawyer—that might be a good idea.”
Marie pushed the front door open and motioned them inside. Though she felt dizzy and was desperately trying to put the pieces together, none of them fit. No one had the keys to that car. The night it showed up in the driveway, she had taken the keys from the ignition—the ones that had belonged to Ava—and put them in her purse. Claire was the only one with the spare set. In one quick survey, she saw the bottle of whiskey on the dining-room table. She couldn’t tell, but was pretty sure it hadn’t been there before, and also pretty sure it was empty. The clean, ready-for-show house had been dirtied by someone.
The shorter officer took a seat on the sofa and started. “Haddon Township Police, by the way. I’m Officer Jeffers, this is Officer Diorio. We got a call about an accident at the northeast corner of Haddon and Cuthbert—you know, near the Wawa. No major damage to the other car. But the silver Honda Accord, with those plates, took off.”
Marie peeled off the leather jacket and hung it on the doorknob of the closet. She pushed wet strands of hair from her face. “I need a towel. Excuse me for a minute.”
She started up the stairs and stopped. A bloody handprint on the wall—the bottom of a handprint, anyway—smeared, as if someone was using it to brace themselves going up the steps. And a few more spots farther up toward the landing. She turned slightly and looked behind her. Drops of blood were spattered on the floor near the front door. She froze in place and turned around. “Never mind. I don’t need a towel. This won’t take long.”
But the officers saw it too. Jeffers put a hand out. “Don’t move. When’s the last time you were here?” he asked. “In this house?”
Marie shook her head. The tears were starting, and as much as she wanted to stop them, she couldn’t. She had no answer for any of this. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “A week, maybe. I was in Philadelphia, at the Sofitel. The Philadelphia police were there questioning me about something else. They can vouch for me.”
“We’re going to look around. Make sure no one is hurt. Okay? You stay here.” Diorio climbed the steps slowly.
Marie was frozen in place. There was something terrible upstairs. Another dead body. She knew it. And there was absolutely nothing she could do but stand here with the short cop and wait for what was coming. Though her mind kept playing over and over: Claire, please do not let this happen. Claire, please do not let this happen.
“Jeffers,” the cop finally called down, “call for an ambulance and backup. Possible homicide. There’s a white male up here on the bathroom floor. Looks like he was stabbed in the abdomen. Blood is congealing. Might have been dead for a while.”
Marie just closed her eyes. “White male. Stabbed,” she whispered. She dropped onto the couch. Probably wearing a black hoodie with a red hood. Red sneakers—the man she’d stabbed earlier had been magically transported to the upstairs bathroom. Fuck. She almost said it out loud, but she didn’t. From this moment forward she was keeping her mouth shut. This was all a setup.
CHAPTER 66
Marie picked up her phone and dialed the number, but it went to voicemail. The entire front yard was filled with cars now. An ambulance was parked behind the Honda Accord. She’d been sitting on the couch for over an hour, still in damp clothes. The police had allowed her to use the bathroom twice. And she’d made coffee. But the rest of the time she’d been confined to one spot on the sofa so as not to contaminate evidence.
She started to push the buttons on her phone again when the officer glanced at her. “Who are you calling?”
“I need to call my lawyer. I have that right,” she said. He stood three feet away, directing traffic to the second floor.
“You need one, I’ll say that. Go ahead, but stay right here on the couch where I can see you. Or I’ll cuff you.”
She dialed the number, fully expecting it to go to voicemail again. She moved the phone slightly from her ear when she heard a voice. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Marie hissed. “I’m at the house. With a dead body and a house crawling with cops. What did you do? Where the fuck are you?”
“I actually saw them pull up. As I was leaving. I watched from down the block. Sorry, Sister. I didn’t plan it this way, but you stabbed my forgery man.”
Marie leaned forward and put her hand to her head. “Forgery man?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the officer. “You sent him to kill me.”
She heard a laugh on the other end of the phone. “You’re out of your mind. He was getting me a fake passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, so I could leave the country. Not cheap, you know. I sent him to you to see if you needed one too and so you could give him the rest of the money. But did that happen? No. You stabbed him. And”—she hesitated—“I’m beginning to think you’ve gotten crazier. Like I-need-to-go-back-to-the-loony-bin crazy, or just more aggressive. Really aggressive.” Marie heard the distinctive sound of her pulling on a cigarette. “You cut him up and left him on the street, Marie. To die.”
“So you brought him here?” She looked up to see paramedics bringing the forgery man down on a gurney. His face was a shade of pale gray that only death knows.
“He called me. I wanted to save him, actually. To save you and me. To patch him up and fix this nightmare you created. Where else could I take him but my house? Think about it.”
Marie stood up, and the officer came closer to her and motioned for her to sit back down. “So you had an accident on the way here, hit someone with a dying man in the car, just took off, and parked the car in this driveway anyway? And then just left him here?”
“Are you recording this?”
“No,” Marie whispered. They were putting him in a body bag. The zipper starting at his feet, going up to his abdomen, where he’d been stabbed, all the way up over his face, erasing a life.
“Swear to God?” And then a chuckle.
“This isn’t funny. It’s not the time to be making stupid jokes.”
“The situation got out of hand, is what happened. I had him all bandaged up, lying on the bathroom floor, but he recovered a little too much and he was pissed you stabbed him. I don’t think he was going to let it go. So I killed him for you. Finished what you started. You see now? There was no other choice.”
“Where are you? Where’s Anais?” Marie demanded.
“She’s meeting me in Paris tomorrow morning, if I can actually get out of this shit town. I’m in a hotel, waiting for my passport to be delivered.”
Marie saw the forensics team in their white suits going in and out of the front door. “So . . . he forged enough for you to get a passport? And you’re leaving to fly to Paris. Meeting Maman? And me—what am I doing?”
There was a hesitation. “He got me a driver’s lic
ense before you killed him, so it was hard, but yeah, I got enough to get a passport. You’re on your own.”
Marie leaned forward, rocking slightly on the edge of the sofa. Forensics went by, talking about hair and fibers, partial prints. “You won’t make it out of the country. They’re combing the upstairs bathroom now. You left some hair and fingerprints, I think. So they’ll know you’re not dead.”
There was nothing on the other end of the phone for some seconds. “Did I? Or were they your hairs from your brush? Guess we’ll have to see.”
She dropped her head to her hand. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Her voice was angry. “You left me in an impossible position, Marie. I spent months putting all this together, to finally make things right and get out. I finally got Anais to agree to help me, and that wasn’t easy.”
“I don’t believe that,” Marie spat. She glanced up. The officers had their backs turned, not paying any attention. “Not after Ross. She won’t let you do this to me.”
There was a sigh. “Look, I really am sorry, but if they blame you, they won’t come looking for me. I’ll handle Anais. Bye, Sister.”
Marie knew she’d been led right into a trap. “The whole world was better off when you were dead. Why’d you come back, anyway?” She didn’t wait for an answer before clicking off the line.
She watched from her perch on the couch. People coming and going, whispering. The body was gone to the morgue. The white-suits were finishing up. She saw two officers approach her and knew time was up. She barely flinched when they put the cuffs on.
CHAPTER 67
It was the shoes. Black leather flats. Slip-ons. Leather sole. Nondescript, for the most part, except they weren’t. Russell’d gone through the police reports at least seven times, reviewing the Jane Doe’s meager belongings, and he kept returning to the shoes. Maritan was the brand. Manufactured by a small company in Verona, Italy. The detective had followed through at the time of her death, calling the company, talking to the owner. They’d only been in business a year, and their sales were primarily local. Exports were minimal. And in 1996, no online store.
Where would she have gotten the shoes from? He pushed back in his chair. During the initial investigation they’d put the artist’s rendition of her face up everywhere and not one person responded. Well—that wasn’t true, but not one response led to anything. No one knew her. How she ended up in the church with those shoes on was a mystery.
“Makes no sense,” Juliette said. “A woman doesn’t walk around with nothing. No purse? Even if she were new to the area, she’d have something. A passport, a comb. Whoever killed her probably took it.”
“What advantages do we have now that Detective Bishop didn’t have when he investigated this in ninety-six?” Russell asked. He was thinking out loud.
Joanne sat up suddenly. “Marie knows her name, I bet ya anything.”
“More Internet connectivity. Better data banks and much more sophisticated DNA testing,” Juliette answered Russell’s question.
“The world is much more connected than it was twenty years ago. So let’s suppose this woman just got here, in this country, maybe a few days before. From Italy—”
“Why—” Joanne started.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Her shoes. It’s her shoes. So, at the time they contacted Maritan. They sent photographs of the woman, but nothing came of it. But maybe if we post her picture on every website we can think of—Italian websites, missing persons in Italy. We ask for help from the police there. Maybe we’ll get a hit. I can’t believe she has no family at all . . .”
Juliette leaned on the back of his chair. “Bad timing for turning this in. Or you’d have had a free pass to see Marie in jail before she makes bail. And I’m assuming she will, because rich people don’t sit there long.”
He put his chin in his hands. “I had no choice. Doug was going to turn it in anyway. But you’re right. Getting her in jail, angry and vulnerable and ready to talk, would have been great.”
“Figure out a way to get in there and see her. You’re smart.” She put a hand on his shoulder and shook it. “And let’s get posting. But I suggest we use the artist’s rendition. The actual dead photo is creepy.”
“Yeah, I’m stinking mad at you and Doug for turning this in. I found the camera.” Joanne jabbed at her chest. “Me. Not you. I should have never called to tell you about it.”
His eyes flickered irritation. “Even if you’d managed to get that camera out of the pawnshop, we have no way of running prints and matching it to a data bank without drawing attention. At least now I’m partially looped in and John’ll call me if they get anything. Are you working tomorrow?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Yeeess,” she said slowly. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“Can you go to the jail? Interview Marie? Talk to her?”
“I don’t have any reason to go into the jail. None. We call if Judge Simmons needs anything over there.”
Russell took her by her arms. “We left your name out of all of this. I can’t go. Only you. Make up a reason.”
She shook free. “You don’t think they’re going to find it odd that I’m all up on Marie after what happened with you? Give them credit for two brain cells.” She rubbed her arm where he’d grabbed her. “How about Juliette? They don’t know her at the jail. She can say she’s a lawyer. She’s pretty, they won’t question her too much.”
Juliette raised a hand without turning around. “I’m on call tonight. Then I have a meeting in the morning. Besides, I’m not a good liar.”
“Russell, the jail doesn’t know you’re on suspension. Just go in, act like everything is normal, and it will be,” Joanne offered.
He scowled. “If I got caught, I’d have my badge pulled. Period.”
“I guess we could find a real lawyer to do it,” Joanne said. “I know plenty. If they get questioned, it’s no big deal. They can say they wanted to handle her case pro bono. It happens all the time.” She hesitated. “Just give me a list of questions they need to ask.”
Russell felt his phone vibrate and moved into the dining room to talk. “Okay, thanks, John. I appreciate it. No. I owe you. Bye.” He walked back into the living room. “Marie’s prints are all over the camera. The print on the button that snaps the picture belongs to Marie. There’s three other sets of partial prints on there, but they don’t have a match.”
“So Marie was the last one to touch it. Maybe she took that last photograph of Ava?” Joanne said.
“We can’t be certain. Maybe Marie took the camera out to photograph something else afterward. Not knowing?” Juliette offered.
Joanne shook her head. “Photograph what? The camera was pawned two days after Ava disappeared.”
He grabbed his coat. “Well, we’re going to the jail before Marie disappears. Juliette, post that drawing wherever you think you might get a hit. And thank you.”
Joanne glanced at her watch. “Offices are closed, so the usual crowd is gone. I’m going with you. If you’re putting your job on the line, so am I. Done. Let’s go.”
People were lined up outside the correctional facility, waiting to go in for visits. Joanne pushed the white buzzer on the front door and waited. Russell was behind her. Her hands were stuffed in her pockets, her head down. She’d pulled her hair back tight from her face and removed all traces of makeup and jewelry, then changed into a black shirt and pants. No sequins, no designs. Nothing to remember.
Officer Parker opened the door. “Hey, Russell, what’s going on?” He moved to let them into the cramped entryway. “Who’re you here to see?”
“Marie Saunders. She didn’t bail, did she?” he asked.
“Hell no. See the news vans on your way in? Lawyers and cops have been here all day. Which one is she?” He pointed at Joanne.
Russell forced himself to smile. “She wants to be both, actually. A newbie following me. Saunders up in Two North?”
Parker nodded. “On close wa
tch, suicide gown. High profile.” He pointed to Joanne again. “Might be easier for her to get in to see her, so they don’t have to get her dressed and all.”
He opened the door so the two could go through to the lobby. Russell didn’t recognize the officer at the front desk.
“Badges?” he asked.
“Crap, I left it in the car, but I’m with the Prosecutor’s Office. And she’s a paralegal, here to take notes for me.”
The officer nodded. “I’ve seen you”—he indicated Russell—“in here before. Just give me your identification, then.” They both obeyed. “And sign the book.”
Just then, Russell’s phone began to ring. He turned and pulled it from his pocket. He spoke for several minutes. “Go on up, Joanne. I need to take this—it’s Juliette. She has an idea. I’ll meet you upstairs. Second floor. Ask the center officer.”
Joanne took the visitor’s pass handed to her and went through the slider doors. She glanced back and caught Russell’s eager, frustrated expression before the door slammed shut behind her.
Joanne was seated in a locked room within the women’s unit, empty except for a few tables and two chairs. The walls were cream colored, dingy, and marred with the occasional dent. The results of some altercations could be seen in the various holes and cracks in the plaster. Marie finally appeared, her dark hair greasy, lank, plastered to her head; dark circles spread beneath her eyes. She was wearing a bulky, sleeveless quilted gown, held together with Velcro, and white sneakers—nothing else. She tried to balance on the plastic chair across from Joanne while keeping her legs closed to preserve her last bit of dignity. Joanne couldn’t help but notice that even in this state, Marie had an imperious air—back straight, placid expression.
“Marie, I’m Joanne. I worked with Ava over at the courthouse.”
Marie scanned her up and down.
“Ava’s been missing for well over a week now. We’ve been looking for her—me and Detective Bowers. You’re the last person that saw her alive. I know that for a fact. You might’ve even taken that death photo of her—your prints were all over the camera.” Marie’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes widened. “And I really need to know what happened.”
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