“I’ll do that,” Molly said, making the mistake of watching Leslie walk from the room. The rear view was almost as good as the front.
Randy was suddenly in her ear, whispering, “When you least expect it.”
Molly elbowed him in the ribs so hard, she heard his breath rush from his chest in a gasp.
He coughed and grabbed his side. “Damn, Molly.”
Molly turned to him with a smile and said, “Sorry, I didn’t expect you to be standing there.” She did not wait for his retort and moved back to the parlor. “Let’s start scanning these files into the computer.”
Brad looked up from a laptop on the table. “You’re on my network and behind several firewalls. Joey helped me set it up. He said it was, and I quote, ‘as secure as the CIA, but they are hacked frequently.’ Since the only person I know with skills like that is in jail, I think we’re pretty safe. Not that he would ever hack anything. If there’s a rule that says he shouldn’t, Joey won’t.”
The last part was added for Molly’s benefit, she was sure. “You don’t have to convince me Joey’s a good kid, Brad. I believe him.”
“That’s good to know,” Brad said, with a sigh of relief.
They set about hooking up three scanners. Randy brought one from the office and Brad had two, one of which he removed from his oldest son’s room, saying, “He’ll have to actually type the answers from the book, instead of cut and paste. It’ll be good for him.”
The large wireless scanner from the office went on a small table in the corner. The other two were small and had to be hard wired to a laptop on the center table. Once all three were working, Randy, Brad, and Molly began scanning every picture and scrap of paper in Joey’s case file. Randy made several copies of the DVD and then uploaded it to Molly’s secure webserver at the office. Rainey would be able to access it there with her password. She could probably get in it without a password, since she helped Molly upgrade the security last summer. In addition to being a former behavioral analyst and current owner of a bail bond/private investigation business, Rainey had a degree in Computer Forensics.
Molly knew Rainey’s soon to be wife, Katie, through the socialite scene in the Triangle, so called because it connected the three cities Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill that made up Research Triangle Park. Molly supported several battered women’s shelters including Katie’s foundation, which ran a safe place for women and children to go for shelter, education, legal assistance, therapy, and anything else an abused woman could need. Molly was as surprised as everyone else when the former Representative’s wife fell in love with a female FBI agent on medical leave, hired to protect her. She was even more surprised when she realized the beautiful Katie Meyers had fallen for the very agent Molly used a few times as a consultant. Rainey became Molly’s primary investigator last spring. She had proven to be an asset to the firm in many ways, and had become the closest thing Molly had to a real friend locally. Her only other close friend, Lizbeth, was now living on Ocracoke Island with her new love. It seemed all of Molly’s single acquaintances were falling in love and getting married, settling down now that they were closing in on or just passing forty.
Molly was glad to have Joey’s file to occupy her mind. There was so much going on in her head, being able to focus on one thing was a relief. She read the lead investigator’s report on Cheryl’s murder, while she stood beside the scanner in the corner, mechanically sliding one sheet after another under the cover. Randy sat at the table, scanning and labeling documents as they were processed. Brad scanned and cursed under his breath occasionally. Molly understood why. Even without Rainey’s training, Molly could tell Cheryl’s crime was different from the other three. The crime scene pictures alone depicted a much more frenzied attack in Cheryl’s case. The pictures were difficult to view, but Molly studied them carefully. Something was definitely off, but she needed an expert like Rainey to verify her suspicions.
When she reached the bottom of the stack Randy assigned her, he having assumed the responsibility for organizing this massive task, Molly reached for the file concerning the death of Evan Branch. Brad was scanning in Joe’s file on Sarah Harris’s death and her records from Berryhill Hospital. Molly also gave him the file from Zebediah. She had not looked in that file. She knew it was mostly pictures and a few notes Zebediah had written. After seeing her mother’s dead body hanging on a fence, Molly was not ready to view pictures of her on a mortuary table. She wanted Rainey to see them, but Molly would wait until a time she felt more grounded, if that day ever came. The image of her dead mother had popped into her head without warning throughout the day. Molly did not need to compound that problem by giving her mind more images to randomly present to her in vivid color.
Molly saw no need to send her adoption records. There was nothing pertinent there. She hesitated a moment before beginning to scan Evan’s file. If Rainey was going to help her, she needed to know everything Molly did. Molly thought it best to send the file with no explanation. Rainey would view it as a separate crime, wonder about the connection, but evaluate the evidence as given to her. She would then wait for Molly to fill in the blanks. That was how they functioned together up to now and it worked well, why change? Molly sent the first page through the scanner to Randy. He raised an eyebrow in her direction when he saw it. She nodded to him, a silent signal that she knew what she was doing.
Leslie and Tammy entered the room bearing iced tea and fresh cut broccoli, cauliflower, and baby carrots to go along with a vegetable dip that Molly found exceedingly delicious. Randy did too.
He exclaimed, “That dip is amazing.”
Leslie sat in the chair next to Randy, as she said, “That’s Tammy’s secret recipe. She’s the hit at all the parties.”
“It’s delicious, Tammy. Thank you,” Molly added.
Tammy blushed with pride. “Well, don’t eat too much. When the boys get home from baseball practice at five, we’re having pot roast.”
The aroma of slow cooking onions and beef had been wafting from the kitchen for the last hour. If it tasted as good as it smelled, Molly was going to eat her fill. Barely having eaten since yesterday afternoon, no matter what Swoop would say about the high content of fat and sodium in the pot roast, Molly needed sustenance.
“I’ll help with the scanning,” Leslie said, and reached for the only folder left on the table, Molly’s adoption records. Leslie opened the file before Molly realized what she was doing and began to read. Molly watched her over the top of the report she pretended to examine. Leslie surveyed the document in front of her for a moment. Molly could tell by the expression on Leslie’s face, she read enough. When Leslie closed the file, she looked up at Molly. Their eyes met, but Molly did not look away this time. Pity, she saw it on Leslie’s face and old hurts rose to the surface. “Good,” Molly thought, “keep that look and I’ll be a lot less interested.”
“I don’t think this is part of the case,” Leslie said, handing the file to Molly.
Two stapled sheets of paper fell out on the table. Molly picked them up. The one on top was a total shock to Molly. It was a photocopy of a marriage license for Sarah Jane Harris and Evan Richard Branch. In North Carolina, couples wanting to be married must seek a license from the state. That was what this document was. It was dated February 12, 1973, a month before Molly was born. In order for the document to have any legal standing, the marriage must have been solemnized in a ceremony officiated by clergy or civil official, and then the license completed and filed with the state. The official presiding over her parents’ union was none other than Judge Whitehall, himself. At the time, he was apparently serving as a magistrate, before being elected to the bench.
Molly had assumed her parents were not married. Sarah never used Evan’s last name and Molly’s birth certificate said Harris, even though Evan’s name was there as her father. Molly and her mother were not allowed to live with Evan. Evidently, Sarah was not to use his name either. The second page was just as perplexing. It was the cover sh
eet for a divorce decree, granting Evan an unconditional divorce from Sarah Harris, dated January 10, 1983, just months before the fire. The presiding judge was again Whitehall. The judge’s name kept appearing. He was involved in Molly’s life before she was born and had a ringside seat to Sarah’s dance with the devil. She needed to talk to him. He might be able to fill in the parts Molly always wondered about.
Molly put the papers back in the folder about the time her cellphone rang. She looked at the caller ID.
“I need to take this. It’s Rainey. If I don’t answer, she’ll send a SWAT team after me.”
Molly walked from the room and out on the front porch before she answered the phone. “Hey, did you get those babies back to sleep?”
“Yes, thank God,” Rainey said, sounding less frazzled than before. “They only go crazy like that when Katie leaves them alone with me. Weather is the troublemaker. Mac and Timothy seem to follow her lead and if she isn’t happy, nobody’s happy.”
“Sounds like the typical woman to me,” Molly said, chuckling.
“Okay, I’m in my office with the door closed, so you have my undivided attention. What’s up?”
“I have a new case,” Molly began. “It’s kind of a long story, parts of which I need to tell you in person. I know you’re not taking work away from home yet, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to come see you tomorrow evening.”
“That’s fine,” Rainey answered, and then with her real concern evident, asked, “Molly, are you sure you’re okay? You sound stressed. Where are you that you are staying in a cop’s house, and why is the better question?”
“I’m in Waitesville. An old friend asked me for help. I was also warned by email not to come back here.”
“Back there? Did you have a case there before?” Rainey asked.
“Not exactly. That’s part of the long story. Anyway, I’m sending you electronic files of the police reports from several crimes. I just need you to review the documents before I get there, then I’ll tell you everything.”
“Did you try to trace the emails?” Rainey was already working the case.
“It’s a Gmail account. Hard for me to trace it beyond the obvious fake information provided by whoever set up [email protected].”
“Forward them to me. I have a friend that may be able to get more than that,” Rainey replied.
Molly smiled when she said, “I thought you might.”
Rainey’s voice grew somber. “Molly, don’t take these threats lightly. At least until we know what we’re dealing with. You ignored the threats. Whoever sent them is probably more agitated now that you’re there.”
“Believe me when I tell you I know exactly how much danger I’m in and I’m pretty sure I know from whom. I’ll see you tomorrow about seven. Is that a good time?”
“Who knows? It could be peacefully quiet or all hell could be breaking loose. I’ve given up trying to guess.” Rainey let out a sigh.
“Okay,” Molly said, chuckling. “I’ll send those files in a few minutes and hey, try to get some sleep.”
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” Rainey said, adding, “Be careful, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Molly hung up and stared off the porch, biting her lip while she thought. She respected Rainey and hoped coming clean about Evan’s death would not mar their relationship. She would need to call Lizbeth, too. Molly did not want her oldest friend hearing about this on the news. She was beginning to think Lizbeth had the right idea, moving to a small island on the coast. That might be Molly’s only option, if remaining with the firm became a problem for their clients. She would have to sell out to Randy and move on if that happened.
Molly had enough money to retire now, so that was not an issue. Not practicing law would be the end of her. Standing in a courtroom was Molly’s church, litigation her passion, and losing that would devastate her. Molly did not think she would lose her law license, but an attorney with a soiled reputation had a hard time finding clients and without clients, there was no need for the license. Even if she could find a client, Molly could picture some prosecutor standing in front of the jury box, pointing at her, saying, “The defendant’s own lawyer is a murderer and committed perjury to cover it up.” She would object. The judge would sustain the objection and admonish the prosecutor, but the jury cannot un-hear what has been said. Molly used similar tactics to get inadmissible statements before the jury. It was a risk, but they all did it, prosecutors and defense attorneys alike.
The storm door opened and Leslie stepped out on the porch. “Now, that’s a thousand yard stare if I ever saw one.”
Molly forced a smile. “Just trying to process the last twenty-four hours.”
“It’s a lot to process,” Leslie said. She hesitated for a moment, as if she was not sure she should continue, then decision made, she walked over to stand beside Molly at the porch railing. “We’re all concerned about Joey. We’re also mourning Joe and Cheryl. I know you were not a part of Joe’s life for a long time, but it’s apparent you cared deeply for each other. I also understand you’ve just discovered your mother was murdered. That’s an awfully big load to have dumped on you, out of the blue.”
Remembering the look of pity and seeing a hint of it still in Leslie’s eyes, Molly asked, “Are you analyzing me, doctor?” The implied “back off” in her tone was intended.
“I’m not a doctor, just well educated, and no, I’m not analyzing you,” Leslie said, with a touch of her own terseness. Leslie shifted her gaze to the dogwood tree, just beginning to bud in the front yard. Her next words lacked the curtness of her previous reply. “Do you know where that phrase comes from, thousand yard stare?”
Molly followed Leslie’s gaze to a bird carrying a twig to his nest in the top of the dogwood. She dropped her own edge and answered, “I believe it has something to do with war.”
“It was originally used to describe the shell-shocked look of a battle-weary soldier. We see it in acute reactions to traumatic stress. It’s a symptom of a mind succumbing to the shock of the trauma and an attempt to dissociate from it.”
“Do you think that’s what I was doing when you came out here, dissociating myself from my traumas?”
“No, I believe you were processing, as you say. From what I’ve been told about you, you seem to roll with the punches.”
Molly turned to face Leslie. “And what have you been told about me, may I ask?”
Leslie remained looking at the tree. “All I knew about you was what I read on your website. Smart, attractive, inhumanly successful at a young age, which leads one to believe you don’t let things stand in your way. After you took Joey’s case, I asked Brad about you. He told me about your childhood, both your parents dying tragically, and I just saw your court ordered adoption records.” She finally turned and made eye contact with Molly. “You’re either a text book case of over-compensation or an incredibly strong woman.”
Molly was inches from Leslie’s face. The deep violet-blue of her irises was much more intense up close. Molly felt herself searching those eyes for something, but she did not know what she wanted to find — a friend, a lover, or an invitation for a quick romp in the hay? She knew she was in dire need of all three. What she did not want or need was a therapist. Molly took a nonchalant step closer to the railing, distancing herself from Leslie, and not responding to her spontaneous analysis. Molly fully understood the right to remain silent and she was taking advantage of it now. If she opened her mouth, she might very well unleash a flood of pent up emotions. The look in Leslie’s eyes invited Molly to tell her deepest secrets. A trick of the trade, Molly surmised. She turned away before she gave in to it.
Leslie proved to be keen at interpreting body language. She retreated, by saying, “I just wanted you to know, your pain isn’t a side note here, and I hope you have plans to deal with it in due time. I understand the need to put it aside right now, but you can’t walk around with it forever. One day, you’ll have to talk to somebody.”
“Thank you for that professional evaluation. I’ll take that under advisement.” Molly had no intentions of seeking therapy. She had not up to now and things went just fine, or so she thought.
Leslie did not react to Molly’s coolness. Instead, she reached out and touched Molly’s arm, saying, “Thanks again, for the kindness you’ve shown Joey. You’re a good person, Molly Kincaid.” And with that, she turned and went back inside.
Molly could still feel Leslie’s fingertips on her arm. She watched the little bird fly away from his nest. “We’ll see what you think about me when you know the whole story,” she said under her breath and then walked slowly back into the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Molly spent the next hour with Randy, blacking out all references to Joey in the scanned files. Molly did not want to interact with Leslie right now. She needed to build up a resistance to her, and as tired as Molly was, from lack of sleep and stress, she did not have the strength to handle Leslie. To avoid talking to her, Molly asked Leslie to spend the time gathering information Molly could read later that would help her understand how to communicate with Joey. Molly researched Asperger’s when she had the first client with the disorder. She knew what the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, DSM-IV-TR, said about the diagnosis, but each case had its unique facets. Molly wanted to know how the disorder affected Joey specifically.
Randy hit send on the files just as Tammy called everyone to dinner. The baseball-playing boys arrived, dropped off by the team carpool. Brad Jr. or BJ, lived up to his name in stature and looks, with the same dark hair and muscular build. His younger brother, Nick, looked more like the scrawny Brad from fourth grade, all arms and legs, with his mother’s blue eyes and sandy-blond hair. Both boys were polite and courteous, with impeccable manners, no doubt honed at the table with the constant flow of dinner guests. Once the introductions were made, Tammy prepared plates for the boys, and telling them it was a treat, allowed them to eat in the TV room at the back of the house. Molly thought Tammy did not want the boys to hear any of the conversation, should it shift to murder over the pot roast.
Molly: House on Fire Page 14