Secrets to the Grave ok-2

by Tami Hoag

  He was jumping around the room practicing karate moves when Anne walked in. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but pretended not to know she was there, continuing to leap and shout and kick and chop.

  Anne took her seat at the table and set her tote bag and purse on the floor.

  “That’s pretty impressive Dennis,” she said. “Did you take lessons?”

  “I’m a black belt,” he said, crouching and chopping with his arms as he moved around the table.

  That was almost certainly a lie, Anne thought, though she had to admit she knew nothing about martial arts. On the other hand, she supposed if Frank Farman had thought to sign his son up for something it would be something macho like karate. The violent aspect would have appealed to him.

  “Good for you,” she said. “But that’s enough for today. Have a seat.”

  “I don’t have to,” he said belligerently.

  “You do if you want me to stay,” Anne said calmly. “If you’re just going to goof off and be obnoxious to me, I’ll leave.”

  He jumped up in the air, shouted, and kicked out with one foot. Anne pushed her chair back from the table, gathered her things, and stood up.

  “See ya,” she said, turning for the door.

  Dennis’s angry expression fell away. He didn’t ask her not to go, but he sat down at the table.

  Anne waited for a moment, letting him think she was still considering walking out. He had to realize there were consequences to his behavior—consequences that didn’t involve him getting a beating. He needed to learn to take the feelings of others into consideration when he acted out.

  He was pouting now as she returned to her seat, staring down with his nose inches from the tabletop.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come yesterday, Dennis,” Anne said. “I was tied up in an important meeting.”

  “More important than me,” Dennis said.

  She didn’t take the bait. “Meetings have to happen when they have to happen. Judges have very busy schedules.”

  At the mention of a judge, he looked up at her. “Was it about me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the fuck should I care?”

  “No reason,” she said, ignoring his language. “What did you do yesterday?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing to do here but watch the crazy people. That one weird guy with the dreadlocks pulled his pants down and shit on the floor in the activities room,” he said, laughing. “That was pretty funny!”

  Oh my God, I have to get him out of here, she thought. She would look into group homes herself. There had to be one somewhere that would be appropriate for him.

  “Did you do your reading assignment?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You didn’t come.”

  “You should have read it Tuesday. You didn’t know I wouldn’t come yesterday.”

  “But you didn’t,” he argued. “How was I to know if you’d ever come back again? You could have been dead for all I knew. You could have been murdered and stabbed a hundred times and your head cut off.”

  “I could have flown to the moon,” Anne said. “But that wasn’t likely. And it wasn’t likely that I had been murdered either. That’s no excuse not to do your homework, anyway.”

  “Dr. Crane tried to murder you,” he pointed out. “Why wouldn’t somebody else?”

  “Let’s talk about you,” Anne said pointedly. “I know you had a session with Dr. Falk yesterday. How did that go?”

  “Somebody killed that other lady,” Dennis said. His small eyes gleamed with excitement. “They stabbed her a million times and cut her head off.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I know stuff,” he said evasively.

  “Did you see it on television?”

  “No.” She could see him contemplating whether or not to tell her the truth. Finally he said, “I read it in the newspaper.”

  “Really?” Anne said, brows lifting in surprise. At least he was reading something. She would have preferred the subject matter wasn’t murder, but she wasn’t going to be choosy at this point. “I’m impressed. Do you enjoy reading the newspaper?”

  “No,” he said, frowning, knowing he had gotten himself caught in something now. “Just about murders and rapes and stuff like that.”

  “Reading is reading,” Anne said, determined not to react to his supposed interest in the macabre. He only said those things to rattle her. She hoped. “So you can write me a report about this murder. I want to see two pages tomorrow.”

  His jaw dropped. “The fuck!”

  “Yeah, life’s a bitch, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m a teacher. I can take anything and turn it into an assignment. I want you to write two pages about the murder. And no copying from the newspaper. I read it too.”

  “That sucks!”

  Anne shrugged. “You’ve got nothing better to do. You said so yourself.”

  He hated it when she turned his own words around on him. The rims of his ears turned red and his freckles stood out like polka dots on his cheeks. He made two fists and hit the tabletop in frustration.

  “I’ll bring you something special tomorrow,” she promised.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not telling,” Anne said, thinking she would make a trip to the bookstore on the Plaza downtown and see if they had something Dennis might channel his reading interest toward. Some comic books, maybe. Superheroes fighting crime instead of committing crime. “But you have to have your pages written. Deal?”

  He looked suspicious. “No. What if what you bring me is something stupid like sugar-free gum or some stupid toy or something?”

  “What if it isn’t something stupid?” Anne challenged. “What if it’s something you’ll really like?”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  Behind the frustration Anne thought she could see a little glimmer of excitement. Dennis had had a rotten childhood. She was willing to bet neither of his parents had ever surprised him with any kind of gift. Half the time he had come to school in dirty clothes. Not even his basic needs had been taken care of adequately.

  Maybe she could show him the world could be a better place for him—not just for the Wendy Morgans or Tommy Cranes of the world. If she could show him that people could take an interest in him and care about what happened to him, maybe he could turn around. It certainly wasn’t going to hurt to show him a little kindness.

  Or so she hoped ...

  48

  Vince smiled as he watched Haley watching Big Bird on Sesame Street. The joy and keen interest in her eyes, the unselfconscious quality of her spontaneous dancing along with the character, her singing—decidedly off-key—all spoke of pure innocence and a wonder at the world around her.

  He had missed this with his girls. Working long hours and traveling for the Bureau had carved him out a legendary career, but he had missed this. He would be a lucky man to get a second shot at being a father.

  Not that he had written himself out of the lives of his daughters. Since his shooting they all had made an effort to stay in touch and to strengthen their relationships.

  Anne had accompanied him to Virginia the past winter to meet the girls. Vince had been more than a little nervous about that. Anne was slightly closer to their ages than to his. He worried they would think he had gone off some midlife crisis deep end, taking up with a younger woman, moving to California, leaving the Bureau.

  And they had at first. Amy, just sixteen, who had fewer memories of the tensions between her parents when they had been together, harbored more resentment toward him than had Emily, two years older. They still had things to work on, all three of them, but both girls had flown out for the wedding. He felt that was a good start to acceptance of his new life.

  He stretched out in his big leather recliner—the Man Chair, Anne called it—in their cozy family room with its warm tan walls and cream-colored carpet. He was exhausted
and still disturbed from his encounter with Zander Zahn. All that and he was going to have a nasty bruise on his cheekbone too.

  Popped by a professor. The boys in the cop shop would have fun with that. Not that Zahn’s meltdown was anything to joke about.

  Sighing, he closed his eyes for a few minutes in an attempt to relax his brain.

  He had a lot of thoughts and theories turning over up there, and it had physically been a long day. But miraculously the pain in his head receded as he rested and used some of the breathing techniques he had learned from a chronic pain specialist. It rarely completely left him, but rather lurked in there somewhere at its lowest level, keeping him aware it could come out and nail him whenever it wanted to.

  Gradually Vince came up out of the restful place his mind had been, and he became aware of the sense of being watched. When he opened his eyes he was looking into Haley’s. She stood beside the chair with her rabbit tucked under her arm.

  “Hey,” Vince said.

  “You were sleeping,” Haley said in her hoarse little voice.

  He wondered if she would ever be rid of that reminder of being choked. At least the bruising on the exterior of her throat would eventually fade away, if not the memory.

  “Do you have to take naps?” she asked.

  “I like to take naps.”

  “I don’t.”

  “No? Why not?”

  Her expression was very sober as she shook her head. “Babies take naps.”

  “I’m not a baby,” Vince pointed out.

  “No.” Her little mouth twisted up on one side in a funny smile. “You’re the daddy. Why don’t you have any kids?”

  “Well, because Anne and I just got married. We haven’t had time to have kids yet.”

  She thought about that, deciding it must be a reasonable explanation.

  “Where’s Anne?”

  “She had to go have a meeting with someone. She’ll be back in a little while.”

  “I like Anne. She plays with me,” she said, as if she and Anne were longtime friends.

  She seemed to have no reticence with strangers. But then her mother had been a very social person with a lot of friends who had come into Haley’s life on a regular basis. She had probably never had a reason to fear adults—until now. Vince wondered if that would change for her once the memories of what had happened came back to her. Probably.

  “Will you play with me?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Vince said. “What are we playing?”

  “We’re playing you’re the daddy and I’m the little girl.”

  “Okay. What do I have to do?”

  “Read me and Honey-Bunny a story.”

  “All right. You go pick out a book.”

  She went to a basket full of toys and books Franny had brought over on loan and pulled one out, then came back and scrambled up in the chair with him, settling herself comfortably into the crook of his arm.

  “Do you like to read stories?” Vince asked.

  “I can’t read,” she told him. “I’m just little.”

  “Does your real daddy read you stories?” He winced a little at the mental image of Anne kicking him in the shins for that.

  Haley paid no attention to him as she opened the cover of the story-book.

  “What about Zander?” he asked. “Does Zander ever read you stories?”

  “Zander is weird,” she said without looking up.

  “Weird how?”

  She shrugged. “Just weird. He doesn’t like to touch anything. Isn’t that funny? Mommy says he’s fraggle.”

  “What does fraggle mean?”

  “I don’t know. Why does your shirt have a horse on it?” she asked, scratching at the purple Ralph Lauren logo on the black polo shirt.

  “That’s a symbol for the company that made it,” he said. Fraggle? What the heck was fraggle?

  “I like horses,” Haley said. “I’m gonna get a pony when I’m five.” She held up her small hand, fingers splayed wide to show him she knew how much five was.

  Fraggle? Fragile?

  “Did your mommy say fragile?”

  Haley nodded. “Fraggle. What does that mean?”

  “When someone is fragile it’s easy to upset them or hurt their feelings.”

  Haley had already lost interest in the subject and was turning the pages of the book.

  “Does Zander ever scare you, honey?” Vince asked.

  She frowned but didn’t answer. “Do you know Zander?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Isn’t he weird?”

  “Yeah, I’d have to say so,” Vince admitted.

  “Read the story!” Haley said impatiently.

  “Does your mommy read you stories?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes she makes up stories. She makes me books sometimes and paints the pictures in them.”

  “That’s very special,” Vince said. “Are you missing your mommy?”

  A faraway look came into her eyes and she said nothing for a moment. Finally, she said quietly, “My mommy fell down and got hurt.”

  “I know,” Vince said softly. Anne was going to kill him. “Were you there when your mommy got hurt, sweetheart?”

  Tears welled up. Vince held his breath.

  “You’re not playing right!” Haley insisted, lower lip quivering. “You’re the daddy! You have to read the story!”

  “Okay. All right, honey. Don’t cry.”

  He could only imagine the consequences if Anne came home and Haley told her he had made her cry.

  She settled in against him as Vince turned to the first page of the book, her body tense at first, as if she were still trying to ward off the bad feelings he had stirred up with his questions. But as he began to read the story about a princess who wanted to be a fairy, he felt her let go. Before he had read three pages she was asleep, dreaming of a place where bad things couldn’t happen, he hoped.

  49

  “There’s no sign of Gina Kemmer, no sign of her car,” Hicks said. “One neighbor said she saw her leave her house sometime between five and six o’clock last night. She was alone. She didn’t have a suitcase. Everything looked normal.”

  Back in the war room for the end of the day, someone had ordered pizza and sodas. Chicago-style pizza. That meant Vince had put the call in. Mendez was glad. He was starving. He couldn’t remember the last meal he’d had—or decent night’s sleep for that matter.

  They sat on all sides of the long table eating like they would never see food again. The room was filled with the aroma of herbs and tomato sauce—almost, but not quite drowning out the smell of frustration.

  “If she left town of her own accord, she did it without taking so much as a change of clothes or a makeup bag,” he said. “What woman does that?”

  “None,” Dixon said. “If she was snatched from the supermarket parking lot, her car would still be there. If she went to stay with a friend, her car would be parked on the street or in a driveway.”

  “She could have gone off the road into a canyon,” Hamilton suggested. “Or just plain got out of town. Maybe she has a friend in Santa Barbara or someplace else.”

  “Or somebody has her,” Trammell said.

  “Or she’s dead,” Mendez said. “To me this strengthens the blackmail angle.”

  “Even if there was no blackmail,” Hicks said, “Gina probably knows something someone doesn’t want her to.”

  “What do her bank records look like?” Dixon asked, swiping a napkin across his chin to catch a dribble of tomato sauce.

  “She has her accounts at Wells Fargo, same as Marissa Fordham,” Hamilton said. “The only odd thing is every month she deposits a check for a grand from Marissa Fordham.”

  “Payoff?” Dixon said. “Or was Marissa just a generous friend sharing her good fortune?”

  “A payoff could give Kemmer a motive,” Campbell said. “If the generous friend tried to cut her off.”

  Mendez shook his head. “You had to see this girl yesterday. She was a n
ervous wreck. She’d never have the cojones to stab anyone, let alone do what was done to her best friend. And then put those breasts in a box and send them to Milo Bordain? She couldn’t even look at a crime-scene photo without puking.”

  “Do we have her phone records?” Dixon asked.

  Hamilton shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “What have we found out about Marissa Fordham’s alias?” Mendez asked.

  “Melissa Fabriano?” Hamilton shook his head as he consulted his notes. “Nothing. No criminal record in the state of California. I went back to the authorities in Rhode Island—on the off chance she really was from there. They didn’t have anything on that name.”

  “So the vic had no criminal record on either of her names,” Trammell said.

  “Not that I’ve found so far.”

  “Why would a person with no criminal record need an alias?”

  “She had to be hiding from somebody,” Mendez said. “If not the baby’s father, who?”

  Nobody had an answer for that.

  “Damn, this job’s a lot harder than it looks,” Campbell complained, breaking the tension with a laugh.

  “What about Gina Kemmer?” Trammell asked. “Is that her real name? Does she have a record somewhere? If the two of them go back some years, maybe that’s how we find out about our vic.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Hamilton said. He looked to Dixon. “When are we going to get computers?”

  “When they become necessary and free,” Dixon said. “There’s nothing wrong with your ear and your finger. Use the damn phone.”

  “Speaking of phones,” Vince said. “Any hot tips on the reward line?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Campbell said. “There are at least five women in the county who believe the killer was their ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, ex- married lover.”

  “A psychic called to say she would find Marissa’s killer for us if we would only pay her the reward up front,” Trammell said.

  “If she was really psychic, she would have known better than to call,” Dixon said.

  “It’s a big waste of time, but Mrs. Bordain got one of her civic groups to man the phones,” Hamilton said. “It’s not costing us anything in man hours—unless we get a lead that’s worth chasing down.”