You Will Never Know

by You Will Never Know (retail) (epub)

  That simple. Not a killer in business, or real estate, or finance. No. The real deal, the type of killer who ended the day or night with the blood of his enemies upon him.

  And here Ted was, banging the guy’s wife.

  Ted shuddered. He had glossed over it in the past, but now, in his quiet bedroom, with Jessica sleeping near him and the two kids safely in bed, he was scared out of his wits at what might happen if Paula’s husband came back and found out what he had been doing. And what if he came home early, like on leave or something?

  Ted shook his head. Nope, time to break it off, slowly and gradually. It wasn’t worth it. A good hump and cum—to destroy his marriage. Hell, to put himself at risk from a combat soldier. Definitely not worth it.

  He reached his hand over, gently stroked Jessica’s hair. “You awake, Jess?”

  Again no reply.

  He shifted, reached over, kissed her hair, and whispered, “I love you, and I’m so sorry.”

  And then he rolled over and nearly instantly fell asleep.

  In her bedroom Emma was curled over, iPhone in her hand, chatting with one of her friends from the track team, Kate Romer.

  Kate: u know Percy Prescott

  Emma: think so

  Kate: u shld he works with yr mom

  Emma: oh yeah

  Kate: got arrested today

  Emma: wht for???

  Kate: dunno

  Kate: bet it has to do w/ Sam’s party

  Emma: rly?

  Kate: makes sense. u heard he tried to punch Sam

  Kate: Sam kicked him in nuts

  Kate: maybe he’s a suspect?

  Kate: hey how r u feeling

  Emma: ok

  Kate: I hear cops trying to track down who went

  Kate: haven’t talked to me yet

  Emma: good

  Kate: they talk to you?

  Kate: Emma

  Kate: Emma

  Emma: wht?

  Kate: the cops talk to u about the party?

  Emma breathed in, breathed out. Just like she always did to calm things down before going out at a track meet, knowing in her heart of hearts that no one could pass her, no one could beat her, and most of all, no one could ever, ever catch her.

  Emma: no

  Emma: ttyl

  Then she turned off her iPhone and rolled over and slowly curved herself in a tight ball, just thinking, remembering.

  Jessica had been awake the entire time when Ted had come in. She had pleaded being tired—after the day she had had, that was the truth—and Ted had wanted to stay up to watch some financial show on CNBC.

  Before going to bed, though, she had spent a few minutes on the computer in the living room, checking out the website of the Warner Daily News to see if anything had been reported about Percy Prescott’s arrest, but there had been nothing. So what was going on?

  Jessica thought maybe she could talk to Percy during a break at work tomorrow if he showed up, but then she remembered that she had made other plans for tomorrow. Instead of being scared, she had an almost giddy sense of going into some kind of battle.

  She would take care of the business with her nutty ex-sister-in-law. Jessica had no idea what kind of scheme or obsession Grace had with her over Bobby’s death, but she would find out from that PI from Portland and take care of it.

  Jessica listened in the dark as Ted got undressed. There was a pang of memory, thinking about the early years of their relationship, when she’d been so eager to have him climb in next to her and would roll over and kiss his chest, and how often that had led to some sweet lovemaking.

  But Ted had changed. He stayed out later, worked harder during the week and weekends, until it seemed like five or six of her attempts at seduction had failed, with him whispering excuses like, “Not tonight. hon, I’m bushed. Hey, I just played eighteen holes with the planning board chairman, and my back is killing me. Next time, hon, I promise.”

  She had withdrawn. Hadn’t tried again. And had waited.

  Ted climbed into bed, and a sharp, insistent urge came to her to roll over right now and confront him with what she knew, what she suspected.

  Are you fucking your office manager?

  But she couldn’t do it. Not now.

  Tomorrow was going to be one hell of a day, and she had only so much courage to spare.

  Jessica nearly jumped when Ted brushed her hair and whispered, “You awake, Jess?”

  She stayed still.

  He kissed her hair, and then whispered, “I love you, and I’m so sorry.”

  Ted rolled over, and she was surprised at how quickly her eyes grew moist.

  Sorry? What was he sorry for?

  But she knew. Deep inside, she knew.

  He was sorry.

  Did that mean he was breaking it off? Had it just been a one-time fling? Was it over?

  Jessica wiped her eyes, listened to Ted’s slow breathing.

  All right. Maybe things could get back on track, things could work out. She’d handle that private investigator tomorrow. As for the bank scholarship, screw ’em. She would figure out a way to get that schooling, get a better job, be in a better position to support her family. All of her family, from Emma to Ted to, yes, even strange Craig.

  She took a deep, satisfying breath. And maybe the police detective would overlook what she had said earlier. Percy Prescott had been arrested, and she couldn’t imagine anything else that he could possibly be arrested for. So that meant he had to be a suspect in something. And the biggest something was Sam Warner’s murder, and it was no secret what Percy thought about Sam.

  So maybe the police wouldn’t look at Ted. Wouldn’t bother him. Would just leave them all alone.

  But the next day the police did come.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In the morning Emma and Craig had an early breakfast because even though it was a Saturday, they needed to get to the high school for some civic assembly that would give them both extra credit in their respective social studies classes. And the days of bankers’ hours, of Monday through Friday, nine to five, were long gone, and Jessica was due to work both today and Sunday.

  Jessica took a moment to watch Craig and Emma walk down to the sidewalk, where Craig’s friend Randy had pulled up again in his green Volkswagen Jetta. After her two kids climbed in, the Jetta pulled out, stalled, and had to be restarted.

  “God, now that’s a shitbox,” Ted said, standing next to her at the window, sipping from his second cup of coffee. “It’s amazing it can even get to school and back. Why do our kids insist on riding in that piece of crap?”

  Jessica said, “Did you ever take the bus to high school?”

  “No,” Ted said.

  “It wasn’t much fun. It always took too long, somebody was always fighting or throwing trash around. If somebody had a car and you could bum a ride, you took it.”

  “Well, I was lucky we lived close enough for me to walk,” Ted said. “It was nice when it was sunny and warm, but it sucked when it rained or snowed.”

  “You poor boy,” she said. “Did you walk a mile uphill both ways?”

  “You know it,” he said, giving her a quick kiss before walking back to the kitchen. He tasted of Ted, of coffee, and no, she thought, he didn’t taste of anyone else. He didn’t taste of Paula Fawkes.

  Maybe it was over. He had said “I’m sorry” last night, hadn’t he? So maybe it was over.

  Should she bring it up? Ask him the question? Confront him in some way? Or just let it slide? Let him keep his secret, his shame? A sharp feeling came to her of wanting him to suffer in silence in the fear of her someday finding out.

  Ted came out of the kitchen. “Off to work—got a possible showing in an hour. And I need to tell you something, Jess.”

  Something in her chest tightened up. Was this it?

  There was a heavy knock at the door.

  She and Ted both looked to the front. He looked at his watch.

  “Who can that be?” he asked, surprised. “I
t’s not even eight. Too early for Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  The knock repeated, just as heavy.

  Jessica started, and Ted, perhaps feeling noble or being manly, pushed past her and opened the door. It squeaked, squeaked, squeaked as he pulled it open, and the cold feeling in her chest avalanched right down her body to her feet.

  Detective Doug Rafferty was standing there, looking apologetic. A Warner police sergeant was standing behind him.

  “Mr. Donovan?” Rafferty asked.

  “Uh . . .” Ted was struck dumb. Something Jessica had never seen before.

  Rafferty reached into his coat pocket, took out a folded-over piece of blue cardboard with a form inside. “Mr. Donovan, I have a search warrant here, signed by Middlesex County judge Julia Tucci.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Excuse me,” Rafferty said, stepping forward. “This gives me the right to enter your home. Clark?”

  Rafferty stepped into the entryway, the sergeant following him. Jessica had never seen the sergeant before in her life.

  The detective unfolded the cardboard and handed it over to Ted, who took it in both of his hands. Rafferty said, “This warrant also allows me to search the premises for a twelve-gauge Model 870 Remington pump-action shotgun, serial number 1920716W, and to take it into my possession. Mr. Donovan, according to the Office of Public Safety’s Firearms Records Bureau, you are the owner of said shotgun. Correct?”

  Ted was looking at the search warrant, and Jessica just stood there, not allowing herself to think, or to act. This was her fault. This had to be her fault. How else? The police sergeant looked at her and she looked away. Any other time she would offer these visitors coffee or tea or orange juice, but God, this was so not like any other time.

  “Yes,” Ted replied, his voice faint. “Yes, I am.”

  “Thank you,” Rafferty said. “Is this shotgun in your possession?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have exclusive control of this weapon?”

  “Ah . . . I guess so, yeah.”

  Silence for a moment. Traffic moved outside—regular traffic, people going on about their regular morning business, maybe just a handful of drivers spotting the unmarked police cruiser parked in front of their house, maybe those drivers wondering what might be going on at the Donovan house this morning.

  Good God.

  Rafferty broke the silence, his voice polite and level. “Mr. Donovan, there are two options available to us. One is that you don’t say a word and refuse to cooperate, and Sergeant Stanley and I will go throughout your house, looking for the shotgun. Or you can cooperate, tell us where it is, let us have it, and then we can be on our way. Your choice.”

  Her husband looked up from the warrant as if he had just woken up from sleepwalking through the entire morning so far. Jessica caught his eye and he handed the search warrant over to her, but she couldn’t read it.

  Ted said, “Yes, of course. I’ll give it to you. Hold on. It’s in the closet.”

  He stepped back and Rafferty snapped, “No, please, don’t move. Clark, open the closet, will you?”

  The sergeant came forward, opened the closet door, and Jessica felt that slightest bit of shame of seeing her coats and Ted’s coats and those of the kids hanging there, with shoes and boots tumbled on the floor. What a mess.

  The sergeant pushed aside the coats and said, “Doug, we have a locked gun cabinet here.”

  Rafferty peered in. “So we do. Mr. Donovan, may I have the key?”

  “Sure. Ah . . .” Ted reached into his left pants pocket and took out a jumble of keys, and his fingers shook as he went through them, desperately touching each key, as if by finding the right key in the right time, he’d earn the appreciation of the detective and the sergeant.

  Jessica felt like she was going to start crying.

  “Here,” he said. “This is the key.”

  “Thank you,” Rafferty said.

  The detective put the keys on the floor—a mess, the hardwood really needed to be vacuumed and mopped—and then reached into his pocket and removed a thin pair of blue latex gloves. The snapping sound of him pulling the gloves over his hands seemed quite loud in the entryway.

  Just like CSI, Jessica thought. Just like those Law & Order repeats.

  Ted stepped closer to her, seeking reassurance or comfort. Jessica stepped away.

  The detective ducked and unlocked the gun cabinet door, revealing what was inside: the shotgun and a hunting rifle with a scope and a leather sling. Bright cardboard boxes of ammunition were on the floor of the cabinet.

  Rafferty gingerly removed the shotgun from the gun cabinet and held it up. He said to the sergeant, “Clark, will you read me the serial number?”

  “Sure,” the sergeant said. He had a little notebook with him and read off the numbers and letters, and Rafferty nodded.

  “It’s a match,” he said. “Clark, will you write Mr. Donovan a receipt while I put this in the cruiser?”

  Jessica swallowed hard, watching the detective walk out the open door, outside to Warner. She could imagine the rumors starting within just a few minutes: Peggy saw the police take a shotgun from the Donovan house, the detective doing the Warner homicide investigation, oh, God, do you think, do you think, do you think . . .

  The sergeant wrote something in the notebook, tore out the sheet, handed it over to her husband. Ted folded it up and shoved it into his pocket.

  Rafferty came back into the house, pulling the latex gloves off.

  Ted cleared his throat. “Can you tell me what the hell this is all about?”

  Rafferty said, “Mr. Donovan, does anybody besides you have access to that shotgun?”

  “No, it’s just me,” Ted said. “What’s going on?”

  “Are there other keys to that cabinet?”

  “No, I have the only one,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  What’s going on? Jessica thought. Dear God, what is going on?

  “Mr. Donovan, have you used that shotgun recently?”

  “Christ no, not for months, and that’s it! Tell me why the hell you’re here!”

  Rafferty took the used gloves, glanced down at them for a moment, and put them in his pocket. “Mr. Donovan, we’ve seized your shotgun as part of our ongoing investigation into the murder of Sam Warner,” he said. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Jessica said, desperately wanting to know more. “Are you saying that Sam Warner was killed by a shotgun? Is that it?”

  Rafferty said, “I’m sorry, I can’t say anything more.”

  “But why me?” Ted asked. “Why did you come here? Did somebody give you a tip or some bullshit piece of information?”

  Jessica felt like she was standing on the edge of a very tall cliff, with Detective Rafferty’s hands on her shoulders, ready to shove.

  But there was no shove.

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential,” Rafferty said.

  Ted clenched his fists. “Screw that! You’ll be hearing from my lawyer within the hour!”

  Rafferty nodded. “I look forward to it. In the meantime, Mr. Donovan, as a favor to me and the Warner Police Department, do stay in the area over the next few days, all right?”

  Jessica’s mouth was so dry she was surprised she could speak. “Why?” she asked. “Why should Ted do that?”

  Rafferty started to the door. “Because, Mrs. Thornton, contrary to what your husband just said, based on what I just smelled and what I’m sure our forensics team will confirm, that shotgun has recently been fired.”

  The next twenty minutes or so were occupied by Ted pacing, Ted cursing, and Ted finally getting on the phone with his attorney, George Kahn. Ted spoke rapidly to George, and Jessica stood by, a hand on her husband’s shoulder, while Ted went on and on, and then slowed down, and then said, “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh, okay, I appreciate it. Okay. Talk to you later.”

  Ted hung up the landline, went to the kitchen sink, ran some cold water, and splashed it and
rubbed it on his face.

  “What a goddamn mess,” he said.

  Jessica looked at the kitchen clock. She was due to be at work in ten minutes. Even though she had no intention of going to work.

  “What did George say?” she asked.

  “He said what I thought he’d say,” Ted replied, voice still loud, full of anger and surprise. He tore off a sheet of paper towel, wiped his hands and face. “George is good at title work. At reviewing closing documents. At making presentations to the planning board.”

  Ted crumpled up the paper towel and threw it into the sink. Jessica hated it when he did that, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “I need a criminal defense lawyer. Christ, what the hell do you think is going to happen to my business when that bit gets leaked out?”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Yeah, some gal named Helen Wray. Has a practice over in Concord. George recommended her pretty highly, but damn—I can just imagine the billable hours. He’s going to call her and set it all up. If I’m lucky, maybe I can see her today.”

  Jessica looked at the clock again. Just seven minutes left.

  “Maybe it will all be wrapped up sooner than we think,” she said. “There must be some mistake. I mean, you told him that you hadn’t fired the shotgun in months. Months!”

  Ted shook his head. “That’s right. That doesn’t make sense. And . . . shit.” He had spotted the clock as well. “Can you believe it? I have an appointment in five minutes with some guy moving in from Ohio who wants to look at some houses, here and in Carlisle. Jesus fucking Christ, I can barely think straight, and now I’m supposed to show off a property, put in some enthusiasm, be upbeat. How the hell can I do that after what just happened?”

  “Could you reschedule?”

  “No,” Ted said, walking out of the kitchen, heading to the front door. “No, I can’t. Guy just flew into Boston yesterday, is staying at a motel out on Route 2. No way I’m going to dump him. I’ll just have to plow through.”

  He shrugged his coat on and Jessica said, “Ted?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I . . . just so you know, having the cops stop by really upset me. I don’t feel too good. I think I’m going to call in sick.”