After all, suspicion of child molestation and even grievous bodily harm both pale into insignificance beside the real thing.
Murder.
Holly digs her fingers into her bruised breast again.
A prosecutor could cite jealousy as a motive for Nick killing the nanny. Jealousy of the outsider who had constant, loving access to his daughter, his wife, his home, when he did not. Even if the timing is out, even if Nick has gone with Nina to Arizona, it could have happened before they went . . .
Except that Nina must have seen Vasquez alive before they left.
Damn Nina.
Another dig into her inflamed flesh to keep her brain working, keep the thoughts clear and flowing.
She thinks back to all the comings and goings that morning. To their final departure in the cab. Who was the last to leave the house?
Nick.
Holly shuts her eyes and goes back, making sure. Sees it all again. The two of them coming out of the house together, Nick handing their bags to the driver, helping Nina into the back of the cab.
And going back inside.
Okay.
Anything could have happened in those few minutes, couldn’t it? Vasquez complaining about being left alone again – Vasquez was always bitching about that, wasn’t she? Nick might have grown angry, telling her how lucky she was to be there with his baby, in his house, while he had been in exile. Or maybe Teresa might have been careless with Zoë, and Nick might have seen that, might have exploded, lost it . . .
Anything could have happened.
Holly’s mind is fogging up again, but some things seem very clear. She’s going to have to work this out carefully, methodically, take her time – be a lawyer again – think about precedents, calculate every shred of evidence. If Vasquez’s murder is the one that’s going to bring Nick crawling to her, it’s going to have to be perfectly manufactured to achieve a solid case, as near cast iron as she can make it.
And in the meantime, she is going to have to get the body out, together with every sign that Vasquez was ever inside her house – Barbara Rowe’s house.
If Nick killed her in his own home, he would probably have found somewhere to dump her temporarily until he could move her at a later time.
But what about the blood?
If Nick had stabbed Vasquez, there’d be a lot of blood, just as there is here. On the floor, maybe on the walls. Holly looks down at herself, at her naked, red-splattered breasts and arms and thighs, at her bloody hands. Nick would have had blood on his clothes. There would have been no time for him to clean up, hide the body and get back out to the other woman waiting for him in a cab outside.
Oh, God. Oh, God. It’s not working out.
Something is wrong with Holly’s thought processes – they’re not razor-sharp, not logical, the way they used to be, the way she needs them to be now, of all times.
Okay, okay. Calm down. It’s all right.
Nick would have worked it out. He would have known he barely had time at most to quick-change his clothes and dump the body someplace safe for the short-term, and then he would have had to find a reason to come back alone from Arizona, so that he could clean up and lose Vasquez for good.
All Holly has to do now, therefore, is move the nanny from Barbara Rowe’s house to the Millers’.
She thinks about her neighbours’ home. It is, in many ways, almost identically constructed to this one. She thinks about places where Nick might hide Teresa. There’s an area beneath her own house – more of a crawlspace than a true basement. More than big enough to be useful for storage. She’d wager on the underside of 1315 being built the same way.
She stands up.
Her legs are half numb, and she has to support herself for a moment against the bottom of the banisters.
She’s cold, too.
Time to get moving.
She’s thinking of this as a kind of military operation. There are procedures to be followed now. The Murderer’s Practical Guide to Body Disposal, by Holly Bourne aka Charlotte Taylor aka Barbara Rowe.
Check and lock all exits and windows. (This would not be a good time to be burglarized.) Go upstairs to third floor. Pick up framed photograph from where Vasquez dropped it, return it to nursery, wipe with cloth. Wipe every item, every surface Vasquez might have touched. (Better to do these thing now, while she remembers.) Leave nothing to chance. Don’t forget the banister rails – or the door handles.
Take another shower, hard and hot, another brisk, painful rubdown with a rough towel. Go down to the next floor, into the bedroom, get dressed. Practical, tough clothes. Denims, sneakers and a sweater.
Now for the body.
Holly bends her knees, grasps Vasquez under her armpits and lifts her tentatively, experimentally, then quickly lowers her back down to the floor. She is – was – a small, light-boned woman, but it’s still the hardest physical work Holly has ever attempted. And even if she is able to manoeuvre her out of her house and next door, there’s a real risk that someone may see her doing so.
The effort of lifting sends fresh, sick agony through her. Holly wonders for a moment what damage the bitch may have done to her breast, but right now the pain is still serving its purpose, still helping to hone her mental processes.
She unlocks the back door, goes out into her backyard, to the shed at the side, drags the rusty wheelbarrow out, pushes it to the kitchen door, cleans off the centre wheel with a couple of cloths and pushes it through the door into Barbara Rowe’s house.
Into the hall.
Vasquez looks as if she might just about fit into the barrow, but she’s going to need covering. Holly remembers an old dustsheet in the shed. She goes back out again to fetch it, drops it on the floor beside the body.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Let’s do it.’
A sudden, irrelevant thought puts a small smile on her lips. If Eleanor could see her now. Or Jack, for that matter.
Then Richard comes into her mind, and the smile is gone.
She would not want her father to know about this.
The body is in the barrow, limbs dangling, head hanging back grossly, when it strikes her.
What is she doing?
What is the matter with her brain?
Nick didn’t kill Vasquez or anyone else, dumb-ass.
So he won’t be leaving the blonde in Arizona to come and clean up after stabbing his daughter’s nanny through the eye. He won’t be leaving his damned wife for any fucking reason. Which means he’ll have an alibi – which means every single thing she’s been doing, all the thinking and straining to heft this grotesque creature into the barrow, has all been a total waste of time.
What is wrong with her mind?
It used to function so crisply, so smoothly.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
Holly sinks down on the floor next to the barrow. Vasquez’s left arm, still scented with the Yardley cologne she’s always liked, is hanging close to her right cheek.
‘Sharpen up,’ Holly says out loud. ‘Think.’
A solution to every problem. Always.
Okay. Okay.
Nick will have to be gotten away from Arizona. Some kind of a phone call, something bringing him back – preferably without the blonde – please God, without her. Something that the prosecutors can say, later in court, was his own invention, just an excuse to get back home and clean up the evidence against him.
All right. All right.
Holly stands up again. She’s decided against the Millers’ crawl-space. If she dumps Vasquez there now, she’ll start stinking before long, and what Holly does not want is for Nick to come home and find the body, because then he’ll just call the cops, and the whole thing will be wrecked. This latest plan, being unpremeditated, is clearly going to take a lot more working out, a lot of fine detailing and careful, meticulous planting of evidence.
What she needs most right now is time. To suspend time.
There’s one simple way.
The chest freezer in the utility r
oom adjoining her kitchen – Barbara Rowe’s kitchen – is a big son-of-a-bitch and almost empty. Holly likes her produce fresh, not frozen, always has.
And Vasquez is a small woman.
It takes much longer than she expected it to. Three separate attempts until the body fits well enough to allow the lid to shut firmly. It drains Holly of strength, sends shafts of pain through her back, arms and legs, so intense that they dwarf the soreness in her breast.
But finally, it is done. Vasquez and Nick’s knife are in the freezer. The Miller’s house keys, retrieved by Holly from Vasquez’s pocket, are now in the back pocket of her own Levis. The freezer lid, perfectly sealed, has been secured with a padlock. The time she needs has been bought.
A new thought.
She can’t be certain that the Millers have gone to Arizona – she doesn’t know where they’ve gone, or for how long.
What if they come back tonight, or even tomorrow morning? Before she’s had a chance to work everything out? Before she’s had a chance to move Vasquez again to a better place?
If either one of the Millers does get back, they’re going to be looking for the nanny, and when she fails to show, they’re going to get concerned, maybe even call in the cops.
Which means that now Holly is going to have to go next door, let herself in with Vasquez’s keys, pack up all her belongings and get rid of them. Make it look as if the woman just upped and left while they were out of town. After all, however great the Mexican may have seemed to them, she wouldn’t be the first nanny to run off without notice.
The planning starts flowing easily again, smooth as butter.
She’ll pack up Vasquez’s things, drive to Emeryville Station, stash them in a locker and toss the keys in a trashcan. Though perhaps it might be an idea to hold onto the locker keys for the purposes of incriminating Nick when the time comes.
And that time has to come, Holly thinks (her blood is humming again, almost singing now, the way it does when things are going well, really well) as she walks next door to Nick’s house and lets herself in. Because then the original master strategy that Holly first began to plan back in July, on Catherine Street, will finally start unfolding far more effectively, and with greater poetic justice than it could have at that time. Now the DA’s office really will have more than enough just cause to accuse and indict Nick Miller of a major-league crime.
Of murder, Holly thinks, standing in Nick’s entrance hall.
And because Holly Bourne will have been the one to create the prosecutorial evidence, she will also be the only one capable of finding its loopholes.
The only lawyer – she rejoices, opening Nick’s living room door – able to get him acquitted.
And then she finds Zoë in her playpen. And seeing her blows all Holly’s thoughts and plans – like suddenly inconsequential wisps of smoke – clean out of what is left of her mind.
Gone.
Gone.
Picking her up, holding this child – Nick’s child – in her arms, alters everything. She has held her before, as Barbara Rowe. But never as Holly Bourne.
‘You change everything,’ she says to the baby.
Everything.
Vasquez’s belongings no longer matter. It’s too late for that. Later than she realized. Earlier than she realized.
The baby is crying.
Holly holds her close.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ she hushes her. ‘Everything’s okay now.’
She brushes the top of her head with her lips.
‘Mommy’s got you now,’ she says.
Chapter Eighty-six
At a little after five that afternoon, Nina, William and I are in Phoebe’s room at the Waterson Clinic, listening to Phoebe talking. Her voice, newly restored by some kind of a miracle, sounds a little husky and slurred, but otherwise it’s just Phoebe’s voice, almost normal, the way Mary Chen predicted it might be.
However much effort it may be costing her, she’s busy giving William a hard time.
Music to my ears.
‘Dad, I still don’t understand how you could even have dreamt that Nick could do any of those terrible things.’
‘Phoebe, darling, you don’t understand.’
‘Damn right, I don’t understand. Nick’s always been like a real brother to me – almost from the day he met Nina. You know that, Dad – you must have known that.’
‘The police seemed to think otherwise.’
Despite the joy of having his younger daughter fully restored to him, William is looking gaunt and drained. Phoebe, on the other hand – sitting on top of her bed, both arms still in slings but her green eyes brighter than I’ve seen them since July – seems suddenly packed with the energy of a warrior.
‘The police don’t know Nick,’ she says. ‘We do.’
I don’t say a word. I keep my mouth shut and sit quietly beside my wife, enjoying letting Phoebe fight my battle for me.
‘You might know him,’ William points out, ‘but how often had I really met him properly, spent significant time with him, until your fall? A handful of special occasions – you don’t really get to know a man on occasions.’
‘But I did get to know him,’ Phoebe insists. ‘I got to know him very well indeed.’
‘But you couldn’t speak, my darling.’
‘Nina could speak,’ Phoebe says.
‘Dad thought I was biased,’ Nina says, gently.
‘And so you were,’ William says.
I go on watching and listening, still saying nothing. My time will come. I’m in no hurry.
‘I can speak now,’ Phoebe says.
‘Thank God,’ Nina says.
Amen.
‘Which means I can tell you, and the cops – though, from what Nina said, they’re going to need more than just me telling them anything – that all the accusations are bullshit – outrageous, insane bullshit.’ She stops, a little out of breath.
‘Take it easy, sweetheart.’ At last, I intervene.
‘No chance.’ Phoebe throws me one of her sweet smiles. ‘And you shouldn’t try shutting up a person when they’re saying good things about you.’ She turns back to her father. ‘So,’ she demands, ‘don’t you think you owe Nick an apology, at the very least?’
William looks at me. ‘It appears I might.’
‘That’s not good enough, Dad, not nearly good enough.’ Phoebe has no intention of letting him off the hook. ‘Nina told me the reason Nick was never alone with me was because you wouldn’t let him visit me unless you or a dozen armed guards were around.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Phoebe.’ Nina smiles.
‘But it’s true – I realize that now.’ She’s still outraged.
‘Your father was only trying to protect you,’ I say, feeling happy enough right now to be generous even to Ford. ‘If it were Zoë, I guess I’d probably do the same.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Phoebe disagrees.
I give a small shrug. ‘Don’t count on it. Fatherhood does strange things to a man.’
William has rounded off his apology with a firm handshake. For Nina’s and Phoebe’s sake, I hope I’ve been gracious enough about it – though it’s not the easiest thing in the world to give absolution to a man who thinks you could try to murder his daughter. Mind, everyone in the room still knows – as Phoebe said – that there’s no guarantee her affirmation of my almost blameless character is going to be enough to satisfy either the SFPD or the insurance investigators.
Still, one blessing at a time is enough for me.
‘You two should go home now,’ Phoebe says to us shortly before six.
‘We’ve only just come,’ Nina says.
‘To hear me talk, and I have, and Dad’s told you he’s sorry, and now you guys need to go home to my niece and start over.’ Phoebe grins at William. ‘It’s not as if I’m going to be on my own.’ She pauses. ‘And as soon as Zoë’s over her cold, I want you to bring her on a visit.’
‘You may be home first,’ I tell her.
>
‘The minute I can do at least a few damn things for myself,’ Phoebe says, looking down at her twin slings.
‘Won’t be long now,’ William says, softly.
‘Touch wood.’ Nina smiles and gets to her feet. ‘I’ll call home then, tell Teresa we may fly back tomorrow.’
‘What’s wrong with today?’ Phoebe asks.
‘It’s already evening,’ Nina reminds her, making the call.
‘You trying to get rid of us?’ I lean towards Phoebe and ruffle her red hair. It feels good to be able to touch my sister-in-law without William thinking I’m about to strangle her.
‘No answer,’ Nina says, still waiting for Teresa to pick up.
‘Maybe they’ve gone for a walk,’ William suggests.
‘It’s too late for a walk,’ I say.
Nina puts down the receiver. ‘Teresa’s probably bathing Zoë. She knows better than to leave her to come to the phone.’
‘Isn’t it a little late for bath time too?’ I ask.
‘I do it earlier,’ Nina agrees with me.
‘Are you worried?’ Phoebe asks.
‘I’d rather there was an answer,’ Nina says.
An hour later, there’s still no reply from our house, and we’ve already called Clare Hawkins to ask her to go over to Antonia Street, and she’s reported back that no one’s answering the door either. And Nina and I are alternating between being mad at Teresa and afraid that Zoë’s cold has turned into something much worse. Except that if that were the case, William pointed out a few minutes ago, surely Teresa would have called us here. Maybe not, Nina said, if things are happening too fast and Teresa’s sitting with our little girl in the emergency room.
One thing is certain. We need to get home.
‘Something really is wrong, isn’t it?’ Nina says to me when we’re in the cab on the road to Phoenix.
‘I don’t know,’ I answer softly, staring out of the window.
Don’t think it.
I’m doing my best not to let Nina know where my mind is heading or how fast my blood is chilling. Doing my best to slap those nasty (way beyond nasty) thoughts down, down where they belong, with worms and slime and ghouls (and Holly Bourne). Doing my best to keep some slender line open to the Almighty (please, God, let me be wrong about this), but the struggle is getting harder the closer we get to the airport, to the flight and whatever awaits us at home.
Too Close Page 33