by Lisa Aurello
Nodding absently, Mason muttered, “Mm-hmm. Have you seen Jane recently?”
“Me? No. Not since high school. Why?”
He couldn’t help a smirk. Some things never changed, and Todd was still an asshole. Good football player, though. “She’s become… well, let’s just say a lot more attractive. And I hear she makes bank.”
“No shit? Why do it then? If all is going so well for her?”
Mason just shook his head. “No clue. I’m not even sure she did it.”
“Whaddya mean, bro?”
“Uhhh.” His grunt landed on the tail end of a freighted sigh. “The police do sloppy work, real sloppy. I guess we’ll learn more at the trial. Oh, we’re up,” he said as the pretty dark-skinned barista waved him over and he stepped up to the counter to place his order.
After the rain let up a few hours later, he went for a run—he despised running, but it was a necessary evil—and stopped at the local market for fresh fruit on the way back. He had just finished paying for it when he heard his name called.
“Mason, it’s great to see you, man. How’ve you been?” An awkward pause ensued when Tom Henley realized his gaffe. “Oh shit, sorry. I’d forgotten what’s going on with you. God, I’m so sorry about your wife.”
“Thanks. It’s been really tough. A nightmare.”
“I can only imagine.” He dropped his voice to a lower volume. “Do you really think Jane Jensen did it? What the police say she did?”
Screwing his pursed lips to one side, Mason shook his head. “No idea. It’s hard to wrap my head around anyone doing such a horrible thing…”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “especially Jane. She was such a sweetheart. I got to know her a little in our senior year when we had an AP chem class together. She was just so nice and…”
“And?”
Tom hesitated, but his dark eyes never left Mason’s. “…well, pretty. I spent some time talking with her, you know, and noticed that she was actually very pretty once you looked beyond the extra weight and ugly clothes. Smart too. She let me cheat off her test when Braden wasn’t hawking us.”
“Pfft. Fucking Braden. What a dick he was.” Mason shrugged. “I don’t know. The police are saying she was stalking me, which is too weird.”
“It is weird because she’s really fucking hot now. Saw a recent photo of her online. Wouldn’t mind her stalking me.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, grimacing. “Wow, I can’t believe I just said that to you. Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I mean, it’s hard, you know, but it’s nothing I haven’t been thinking myself.”
“And I read in one of the articles that she’s wealthy. Is that true, do you know?”
Mace rolled his neck, stiff from falling asleep on the sofa during the storm. He had to get into better shape. “So they say, but who knows if it’s true? Apparently, she’s sought after in her field, but that doesn’t make her loaded.” He stopped, looking down at his shoes as he kicked an errant penny around on the floor. “She is kind of beautiful, isn’t she? Wonder why no one noticed back in high school.”
“I think people were just so brutal to her that she sort of withdrew, you know. Made herself inconspicuous in order to survive. It happens.” He hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “But it’s funny to think how someone like Kendra Ortalano, who was smokin’ in high school is such a used-up slut now, and Jane, who was practically invisible, is a total babe—that is, if she’s not guilty,” he added quickly.
Mace nodded and barked a laugh. “Yeah, my gut tells me she’s not, but what do I know. The police and the DA are so certain. So what’s up with Kendra? You’ve seen her?”
“Yeah, about a month ago, I guess. Oh, man, it’s all been downhill for ol’ Kendra. I heard she was prostituting herself… became a two-bit porn actress… into drugs… just a total skank. I take it you haven’t kept in touch?”
“Nah, we lost touch after high school. I wondered what she was up to. Drugs and prostitution? Wow. I can’t imagine why she’d go that route.” He grinned. “Then again, she did, like, the whole football team junior year. Everyone but me and Bondi, who liked dudes.”
Tom chuckled and scratched his barely-there beard. “I’m guessing it was all about money. Some people try every which way to get big money without working for it. Not that anyone can get rich by just slogging away at a shitty job day after day. But still… it’s got to be better than prostitution and porn.” He laughed. "Oh, and remember gorgeous Shannon Graham?”
To Mason’s nod, he continued. “Duh, of course you do. How could you forget, right? You dated her for a long time. Have you seen her lately?”
“No, I haven’t seen anyone lately. I don’t live around here anymore. What’s up with her?”
“She married Joe Riley… remember him? He was valedictorian the year before we graduated? He’s doing really well for himself with some online start-up he co-founded, and Shannon married him before she even finished her degree at Sarah Lawrence. Her parents were massively pissed but it was shotgun. Anyway… she got huge when she was pregnant with her twins, hasn’t lost the baby weight. It’s hard to believe she’s the same girl as that Baywatch babe we used to know.” He surreptitiously checked his watch. “Well, I don’t want to keep you, Mace. It’s great seeing you and if you need anything… just let me know. I’m really sorry about your pretty wife. So damn tragic.”
“Yeah, thanks, Tom,” Mason replied but he wasn’t really listening anymore; his attention span was always limited and for the last few minutes his mind was traveling, his thoughts drifting through the aspects of the murder case. The tide had to start turning soon. But as long as Jane was the suspect, the pressure was off Mason. If things changed, that could bring the heat back onto him. He didn’t want that, but he could sense something was coming. He just didn’t know what it was or how to be ready for it.
Chapter 36
Jane bolted upright, her pajamas drenched in sticky sweat. A dream jolted her awake from a deep slumber. Or was it a memory?
Yes. It was a memory… the memory. It had infiltrated her subconscious, a dream she knew had its roots in reality. As soon as she regained consciousness, it all came hurtling back. Her hands flew up to her head, holding both temples to keep them from exploding.
One moment there was no other car in sight on the parkway and despite the ominous clouds growing pregnant with the coming storm, she found the late-afternoon drive soothing. She took her eyes off the road for one moment when something off the shoulder caught her eye.
It stood out on the green swath of lawn and brush: a bald eagle. Was it even possible? She’d never seen one in New York, never seen one anywhere but photographs. But there it was—unmistakable with its black body and snowy white head and shoulders. Forcing her eyes back to the road there was barely enough time for the event to register in her brain before it was already in the past. The split second of horror as a car intentionally swerved in front of her, cutting her off so severely she had no choice but to veer violently, sending her car over the narrow grass median. The momentum of the car—she usually drove between 65 and 70—jettisoned her into oncoming traffic. Bluish-white headlights bore down on her, and then the horrid, terrifying, unforgettable screech of metal twisting was all she’d had time to process as her body flooded with adrenaline.
Her memory shut down there as if a black curtain dropped over her brain. The last image she had was a face in the other car, a man’s face, dark-skinned yet pale, reflecting her own horror back at her. But there was one thing she did clearly remember, one thing she never should have forgotten.
Someone had forced her off the road.
It wasn’t that a car just badly cut her off as the police had led her to believe. That car, that black SUV, had dogged her for miles. She’d been trying to evade it when she came upon a slow-moving vehicle and shifted into the left lane to pass it. That’s when the SUV bore down on her, intentionally causing her accident.
It was definitely personal.
She couldn’t get back to sleep. Battling with the bedcovers and unable to get comfortable, she finally ripped them off her and got up. One in the morning. She went downstairs and curling up on her new sofa, she turned on the television and found an old movie. Jane figured she should indulge in this kind of thing as much as possible. Her autonomy might be taken away from her soon—and forever—her daily schedule determined by other people.
Why would someone intentionally run her off the road? What was she involved in before her accident that may have pushed someone to attempt to kill her? Or that she may have wanted to kill someone else? And why couldn’t she fucking remember?
It was easier for her to accept that someone hated her enough to do her in than it was to think she could be a killer. Moreover, the accepted theory as to her motive was downright stupid. Why would killing Mason’s wife get her any closer to Mason? He’d have to be in on it with her… an astoundingly unlikely scenario and judging by the interactions they’d had since Mrs. Caldwell’s death, there was nothing there between them.
It was all just so fucking stupid and it made Jane want to scream. Unable to keep her attention on the movie, she got up and made herself a cup of tea. Mason followed her into the kitchen. He shadowed her as she made the tea and came back into the living room with her. She couldn’t wipe her mind clean of the man and it was driving her insane. If nothing else could cure her of her adoration for him, maybe this would. She laughed bitterly. Maybe it took being accused of his wife’s murder for her to get over her childhood crush.
The real question facing her now was how this would ever be resolved if she didn’t recover all of her missing memories. She didn’t like the answer—she hated the answer.
Chapter 37
Jane’s Journal, January
I’ve been home for over a week now. I came home to a mess, though Melanie, bless her kind heart, did her best to clean the driveway of the spray-painted slurs. A professional cleaning crew got rid of the rest.
Since all my new furniture is here, I can at least distract myself by arranging and rearranging it. My boss is coming to see me tomorrow and I want the house to look good. He and the number-two at the company want to speak with me, and I’m hoping and praying they’ll stand by me no matter how bad things look.
Though my father got me my attorney through a friend, my parents have been less than supportive. My mother was especially horrified when I called her from the holding cell.
“Jane, I simply cannot believe you got yourself into this situation. Do you realize how grave your circumstances are?”
“Yes, Mom, I do. Why do you assume I ‘got myself’ into these circumstances? Is it so difficult for you to believe I’m innocent?”
“If you are, then why have you been arrested, Jane? Usually the police don’t go around just arresting innocent people.”
“Do you think I’m capable of orchestrating a murder-for-hire scenario? Tell me the truth. Do you?”
I could hear the stutter of hesitation across the line before my Betty Crocker mother began speaking again. “I wouldn’t think so, Jane. You were never the sweetest child, but I never saw any real venom come out of you.”
I’d closed my eyes, somewhat relieved. “Well, thank you for that atomic particle of confidence. I don’t have my full memory back and likely never will, but I’m pretty damn certain that I am not a killer. The big problem I face is proving it.”
“Thank goodness we’re not in New York anymore. The trial would be sheer hell and such a public disgrace. Just complete mortification.”
“Are you saying you’re not coming to support me?”
“I’ll try, dear. Your father will be coming for certain.”
“It’s good to know I have backup.” She didn’t even notice my sarcasm or if she did, she chose to ignore it.
My mother couldn’t wait to get off the phone and back to her drought-resistant garden or her turquoise-and-sterling jewelry. Yeah, Tammy Jensen was never the most original person, and most aptly fit the definition of a sheeple—only the pretentious bourgeoisie kind.
I have no illusions about my parents and their love for me. It’s basically zilch. Harold and Tamara Jensen are the kind of shallow social climbers who have no business whatsoever procreating. As their only child, I have suffered such benign neglect that I’d almost rather have been actually maltreated. At least that’s the more honest way of abusing a child.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be lucky enough to fall in love with someone and have children with him but if I am, I know everything not to do—courtesy of the Jensens of Sedona, Arizona.
I hope they both drop dead.
Chapter 38
“Captain Branson? This is Mason Caldwell. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s been difficult. How are you? My parents are well, thank you. Yes, thank you, sir, it’s been hellish, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
He stopped to listen to the long response.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling, sir. I need to report a possible miscarriage of justice…” He began to explain to the police captain.
“That’s correct, sir. Her name? It’s Kendra, K-E-N-D-R-A Ortalano, O-R-T like Tom-A-L-A-N like Nancy-O. Yes, sir. Someone phoned me… a woman, I’m pretty sure it was. I honestly don’t remember exactly when, sir. I haven’t been sleeping well. Yes, sir. I guess someone from high school… gosh, I can’t remember who it was. I didn’t pay it much attention right away... I’ve gotten so many calls.
“Anyway, someone claimed to have seen her in Poughkeepsie on the day the police say the killer was getting paid. She said she recognized Kendra. I should have told her right then to call the police directly. I was in such a fog of grief, and I dismissed it as another nut-job. I’ve gotten a lot of crank calls. Yes, sir.
“I do agree that it bears investigation. If Kendra was there, I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm it somehow, right? Of course, I understand.
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell my parents that you send your regards. Oh, and Captain B.? Much appreciate your discreet assistance.”
He reached into his pants pocket and took out the other phone, tapped in the only number the phone ever called. It rang and rang. Where was the stupid bitch? On the fifth or sixth ring the line clicked open… there was a loud noise—she dropped the damn phone. Must be high or drunk. He waited for her to speak.
“Hi, handsome. What’s up?”
“Listen to me carefully. I need you to destroy this prepaid phone you’re on. I’ll do the same to mine. We have to cut off contact for a couple of months. The cops are going to start leaning on everyone—they’ve already started. They’ll get to you soon.”
“How will I contact you?”
“You won’t. Not for a while. When things cool down, I’ll be in touch.”
“Tsk, I hate that. Is it really necessary?”
He took a deep breath through clenched teeth and spoke very slowly, enunciating every syllable. “Yes, it is necessary. That’s why I’m telling you to do it. Now, once we hand up, you have to crush the phone. Stomp on it—or use a hammer. Then take the broken pieces outside with you and throw each one into a different garbage can. Do exactly as I’m telling you. Unless you want to go to jail?”
“Of course, I don’t. I’ll do what you said, Mason.”
“Good. I’ll contact you as soon as it’s safe to do so. Take care in the meantime.”
“You too. Love you.”
He disconnected the phone and leaned back in his office chair. He almost moaned in contentment. The Aeron chairs were pricey but worth every dollar. He closed his eyes and smiled, finally having a reason to do so.
******
“She looks different,” James Pernod told the prosecutor’s assistant right after he left the courtroom. I don’t think that was the same woman who gave me the money.”
Jax Altamont, the ADA working as Harmon’s number-two rolled his eyes. Voir dire had been a monumental pain in the ass, trying to choose twelve supposedly impartial jurors out of
a pool of nearly three hundred. They did their utmost to save their peremptory challenges but had to use them up pretty quickly. It seemed as if every potential juror either was a jilted lover, a stalker of some kind, or had some agenda that would potentially invite bias. After nearly two interminable weeks, they finally seated a jury of twelve and two alternates, and the case was on track to move forward. He and Harmon believed they would get an easy conviction considering the plethora of evidence. Now Pernod was pissing him off with this bullshit spewing from his mouth.
With the exaggerated calm usually reserved for a child, he turned to him and explained. “If she looks different, it’s only because she lost a lot of weight after her car accident… then went out and bought new clothes, got a new haircut, etc. You know, like a makeover. That’s all it is.”
Pernod shook his head. “Still… I’m pretty sure it’s not the same woman. I’d swear to that in a court of law.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Jackson’s jaw tightened so hard he almost cracked his teeth. When Rhett got a whiff of Pernod’s doubt, she’d blow an artery on the spot. He had to try to talk him out of it before she returned.
Thing was he was a killer who was going away for a long time anyway, plea deal or no plea deal. Harmon would be damned if she’d let the bastard ruin their airtight case. His testimony was their ace in the hole, one that the defense didn’t know was coming for them. Anyway, it was almost a certainty that Pernod didn’t recognize Jensen because of the change in her appearance, not because she wasn’t the same woman who paid him for the hit. And why was this the first time he’d seen Jane Jensen? He knew for a fact they’d only had a grainy photo of her when they’d first arrested him and he’d provided a detailed description of the woman who hired him. But why hadn’t anyone done a photo line-up long before they got here today? Slipshod work on the part of NYPD. This kind of crap work had to stop.