Shattered

by Allison Brennan

  “Other than you and Blair,” Max asked, “did they find any fingerprints in the room?”

  “Jordan, our babysitter. Jane, our housekeeper. She comes in once a week.”

  “What day does Jane come?”

  “Fridays. But not anymore.”

  “You fired her? She quit?”

  “She quit. She came in after—after the police said we could go into Peter’s room. She came in to clean up and started crying. Told me she couldn’t, that she was heartbroken.”

  “Was that before or after Blair was arrested?”

  “Why is that important?”

  “It could factor into why she quit.”

  “After,” he whispered.

  She would get Jane’s contact information and add her to the list of people to talk to.

  “You can leave,” she said when they reached Peter’s door.

  “I’m okay.” He stood at the threshold.

  Peter’s room was spacious and airy like the rest of the house, only this was a room designed with a little boy in mind. Baseball everything—signed balls, photos, a trading card collection that filled a bookshelf. He had a signed poster of some guy from the Arizona Diamondbacks framed over his bed, and a poster of a young Derek Jeter from the Yankees—being a New Yorker for more than a decade, Max would have to be living under a rock not to have recognized him, even though her knowledge of baseball was limited.

  The top shelf of Peter’s bookshelf held classic children’s books like Tom Sawyer and The Swiss Family Robinson—Max had read many of them, but it was clear these copies had never been touched. On a lower shelf were a collection of worn choose-your-own-adventure and Goosebumps books and an extensive collection of equally worn Marvel comics. Peter had a preference for Captain America and Spider-Man. Polar opposites in many ways, Max thought, one handsome and strong and patriotic, the other a quiet geek who wore a mask and kept his identity secret.

  From the press reports, Peter had been kidnapped from his bedroom between midnight and 2:00 A.M. The family had an alarm system, but only used it when they weren’t home. The monitoring company had confirmed the pattern of use. John and Blair had gone to a party at the clubhouse and the teenage daughter of a neighbor who was also at the party came over to babysit Peter. Jordan Fellows was their regular babysitter and had known the family since they moved in five years before.

  According to the public statement, the Caldwells had left the house just after 8:00 P.M. on a Saturday night at the end of April. Because it was the weekend, Peter was allowed to stay up and watch a movie with Jordan. She put him into bed at ten fifteen, and said she’d checked on him just before midnight because she’d heard him use the bathroom, which adjoined his bedroom. She saw him climbing back into his bed half-asleep, so she shut the door and went back to the kitchen where she was studying. John and Blair came home at two in the morning. They’d walked from the clubhouse. Blair had gone to check on Peter and he wasn’t in his bed. They searched the house, the backyard, the pool, and called 911.

  Jordan had been a high school senior at the time. She was now a freshman at the University of Arizona. Max had reached out to her, but she hadn’t returned Max’s calls.

  Peter had a bathroom off his room. It was functional and the only kid accents were a bath mat shaped as a dinosaur and a matching dinosaur toothbrush holder and cup.

  Two large windows connected at the corner and looked out into the side yard as well as a grassy area behind the house. Each was screened and locked from the inside. Jordan had said she hadn’t checked the windows and didn’t remember if they were cracked open or closed. There was no direct line of sight to the neighbors, and while the golf course backed up to the Caldwell house, the course had closed at sunset.

  There was also a sliding-glass door that went out to the patio. Why had the reports said the killer went in through the window? Evidence outside? The door would have been easier, though perhaps harder to get open.

  Max crossed the room, unlocked the door, and opened it. A beep-beep sounded throughout the house.

  “Child safety beeps—even when the alarm is off, the doors that go out to the pool beep.” John’s voice cracked. Max looked over at him and saw silent tears.

  Max had seen enough. She walked out, leading John down the hall. “The public reports said Peter had been taken out of one of the windows, but there was no indication if it was forced or open.”

  “We live in a safe neighborhood—Scottsdale is one of the safest communities in Arizona. Affluent. We have a gated community. Gated. Safe.” He shook his head, as if realizing he was repeating himself. “Peter liked to sleep with his window open.”

  “Your babysitter couldn’t remember if it was open or closed—if it was wide open, wouldn’t she have noticed it?”

  “Probably, I don’t know.”

  Maybe, maybe not. Especially on a mildly warm night like the night in April when Peter was killed. Max had checked the weather report—the temperature at midnight was seventy-one degrees. The low was at 5:00 A.M., a “crisp” sixty-six degrees.

  Max didn’t have access to the coroner’s report, but the news reports indicated that Peter’s body had been found buried in a sand pit on the edge of the golf course. Max had mapped it out based on the written report and the crime scene photos that had been available through both print and television media. The killer would had to have taken Peter—subdued or unconscious or already dead—across the golf course. That suggested they knew the area, at least marginally. But anyone who might have been outside in their backyard could have seen them, and even though it was late, there had been the annual golf membership party at the clubhouse and more people than residents had been in the community.

  Yet maybe that was why no one noticed anything suspicious. Because there were more people out that evening in the neighborhood.

  Max was pretty certain that the police would have done due diligence and gone through the security logs at the gate. But were there other ways to get onto the property? Did they log all individuals in the car, or just the driver? Could someone have been hiding in a vehicle? Why would a stranger kill Peter? If he’d been abducted from a park or public place, Max could see a stranger abduction. But there was no sexual assault—and that was doubly odd. Most children who were abducted by strangers were sexually assaulted. Not Peter.

  And not the other three young male victims.

  That connection alone made John’s research compelling.

  The gated community, however, made it much more difficult for a stranger to sneak in. Not impossible, she’d already had her assistant David talk to the security firm who handled the community. They had surveillance cameras at the two entrances—one was manned 24/7, the other was for residents only and accessed by a card key. There were cameras on the clubhouse, the first and eighteenth holes, the community swimming pools, gym, and playground. Essentially, the public areas.

  Individuals could be a member of the golf club with access to the course from 6:00 A.M. through sunset, or the clubhouse during regular hours—6:00 A.M. to 10:00 P.M. The could only come in through the main gate and had to check in.

  Golf club membership was expensive, which expanded the suspect pool beyond residents, but it was still a known list.

  Or the killer could have stolen the card key and used it to access the back entrance. Highly unlikely, as that would have come out during the investigation. It would also show premeditation, and yet Max couldn’t discern a motive for Peter’s murder using that theory.

  Someone who lived or worked in the community or who had checked in at the gate for the party at the clubhouse had specifically targeted Peter Caldwell. They knew enough to know which bedroom was his, that his window would be open, and that his parents were gone.

  How long would it have taken? The walk from the house to the sand pit where he had been buried would have taken approximately ten minutes. He hadn’t been discovered until search dogs had been brought in at noon the following day, ten to twelve hours after he
went missing. They’d closed the golf course because of the search … otherwise he may have been found earlier.

  Reports indicated Peter had been suffocated, wrapped in a blanket from his bed, then buried in the sand. No physical evidence had been found on the body—that detail Max had picked up from both John and Blair’s lawyer, though neither flat-out said as much. If there was physical evidence, Blair and her attorney wouldn’t be so confident they could win.

  Why did the police suspect Blair? The only logical explanation was either she’d gone missing from the party and no witness could state that she was there during the window of death, or they had a witness who saw her not at the party. If there was a witness, Blair would have taken the plea deal—unless the witness was somehow unreliable.

  Why didn’t the police suspect John? Did he have a firm alibi? What about someone with a grudge against one or both of the Caldwells?

  “Sit, John, I have a few questions.”

  Max led John to the kitchen, where he sat down at the breakfast table. They were surrounded on three sides by windows.

  Max wished she didn’t have to do this.

  “Did the police interrogate you before or after they found Peter?”

  John nodded slowly. “I don’t think they ever looked at anyone else. I mean, I don’t know. Do you know how it is when you remember some things so vividly, and other things are all fuzzy? I remember the party, and walking home with Blair—it was a beautiful night. And coming home. I walked Jordan home—she told me not to bother, but there were a lot of drunk people coming from the party and I didn’t want her to have to deal with someone being rude or reckless. People think that golf carts aren’t cars, but you can still hurt someone, you know?”

  She nodded, because she wanted him to continue. She wished she could steer him better, but she didn’t want to interrupt his train of thought.

  “She only lives three blocks away. I watched her go inside, then I walked back home.”

  “How long did that take?”

  “Less than ten minutes. Ten minutes at most.” He paused. “That’s exactly what the police asked me.”

  “They just need to establish a timeline.” Timelines were crucial. Max lived and breathed her cases on timelines.

  “As soon as I walked in, Blair told me she couldn’t find Peter. That he wasn’t in his bed, he wasn’t in the house. I searched the house again. Called for him. I … I looked in the pool. Peter is a great—was a great—swimmer, but even good swimmers…” His voice trailed off. “He wasn’t anywhere. Blair called nine-one-one and I called Jordan. She came back with her dad, and we all looked for him.”

  “All of you together?”

  “Bob and I looked together. Blair and Jordan stayed in the house to wait for the police. Jordan looked everywhere a second time, under beds, closets, cabinets. She was so upset. I wasn’t—not then. I was certain there was a logical explanation.”

  That was so much like John. He was a numbers guy. Everything was orderly. Math had rules. Finance had rules. He would think linearly.

  “Peter was always a curious kid—he was a good kid, he didn’t get into trouble much, but there were times he’d do kid stuff, you know? Like once he was pretending to drive the golf cart when he was six and accidentally turned it on and it started moving. I was right there watching him but I was listening to music while working on my laptop, and I didn’t hear it start. And then he once climbed into the attic—I didn’t even know he knew how to pull the ladder down, that he was strong enough—he was only five. But he’d watched me bring in the stepladder, and I used to bring him up there with me and we’d go through old toys and he’d pick what to give to charity. Sometimes, when he did something he knew was wrong—like coloring on the walls—he would hide, not wanting to get into trouble. H-h-he was such a great kid. A normal, wonderful kid.” He pinched his eyes.

  “Were the windows open when you went into his bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t actually go into the bedroom when you got home.”

  He frowned. “No, but Blair said one window was open and the screen was off. That’s why we were looking outside. Not just our pool, but all the pools that he might be able to access from the golf course.”

  “When the police interrogated you, did they ask for an accounting of your time at the party?”

  “Yes—and that’s why this is so frustrating! We were there from eight thirty until nearly two in the morning. It’s the big annual ball after the spring tournament. A lot of my clients have a membership, I had to go, talk to people. But I talked to so many people. I don’t know if I talked to Kingston at ten thirty and Jim at eleven thirty and Don at midnight—I just know that I talked to them.”

  “And Blair was asked the same questions.”

  “Yes, we were both there, together. I don’t know why they think she could do something so horrific.”

  “John, Blair’s attorney believes the evidence is all circumstantial, but the prosecution must have a reason for filing these charges. They don’t prosecute unless they have something to hang their hat on.”

  “No—”

  She interrupted. “And my guess is that Blair was missing for a period of time at the party—that after they put together all the witness statements and created a timeline, they realized she was missing for a long enough duration to go home and return to the party without you noticing she was missing.”

  “Why are you doing this, Max? I thought you wanted to help.” His voice was anguished. Max had to stay resolute or she would be able to help no one.

  “I do, John. But I don’t have the information the police have. I can’t retrace their steps, interview their witnesses. I don’t have access to the coroner’s report or the trace evidence report or anything to prove or disprove their theory. I have to go by what people tell me.”

  John got up and left the kitchen. Max thought for a moment that he was expecting her to follow—or to leave. He returned a minute later with a thick folder. “This is a list of every resident in this community, and the names and ages of everyone living in their houses. It also includes everyone who signed in at the front gate the night of the party and their license plate numbers. I have many friends here, and while the police also have this information, there’s nothing prohibiting them from sharing with me—other than privacy laws. And I don’t give a damn about privacy laws at this point, not when my son is dead and my wife is being blamed for something she didn’t do.”

  Glancing at the thick file, this was one of the few times Max was grateful that they had a staff at NET who could follow up with all this in short order. She stuffed the folder into her bag.

  “This will help,” she said. It might only help to pound a nail into Blair’s coffin, if none of these people had the motive, means, or opportunity to kill Peter.

  “I hope so, but … what are you going to do with them?”

  “First thing is to run these names and find out if anyone lived near the locations of the three cold cases or is connected to any of those families.”

  Now for the hard question. The one thing she had uncovered that connected the three cold cases—the one fact that John didn’t know, or may not have considered when he read the press reports.

  “John, complete disclosure. Have you ever had an affair?”

  He stared at her as if he hadn’t heard her question.

  “John, were you having an affair last April when Peter was killed?”

  “How can you ask that? I love my wife.”

  “I need to know. It’s important.”

  “I’ve never had an affair. I’ve never cheated on Blair or any woman I dated.”

  She didn’t know if she believed him. She wanted to believe him, because the John Caldwell she had known in college had been honest. He was a good guy. But she hadn’t seen John in years and marriage changed people—sometimes for the better, sometimes for worse.

  “What about Blair? Was she having an affair?”

  “Bla
ir? No! This is ridiculous, Max. What are you doing?”

  “Covering all the bases.”

  She was more likely to believe that Blair was having an affair than John, but he could have changed. And it’s possible John didn’t know if his wife was cheating on him. Max didn’t want to explain to John why she needed to know—but she might not have a choice.

  “This was a mistake,” John said. “You really have changed, Max. I didn’t think you would come here and use me, use my son, for some exploitive show. Sex? Affairs? My son is dead! You want to drag us through the mud?”

  “Never, John,” she said, but she didn’t think he heard her.

  The door leading from the garage into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen opened. Blair walked in. She stared at Max. “What are you doing here? I said I didn’t want you in my house!”

  “Blair, honey,” John said, taking her hand. “Max is leaving.”

  “You let her in?”

  “She’s just trying to help.” But by his tone, Max sensed he’d shifted his faith away from her. He hadn’t liked her questions, now he was unsure how he felt.

  “No, she’s not! She can’t do anything except create problems with my case. I explained all this to you, John! Charles explained it to you!”

  “Someone needs to find out who really killed Peter.” John’s voice was a whisper as Blair’s grew in volume. Max had been around grieving families, and they drained her. This was much worse. John was a friend.

  “After the trial,” Blair said. “After I’m cleared. I just want to move on with our lives. The last nine months have been hell, John. For both of us.”

  “I’m leaving,” Max said. “I’ll call later.”

  Blair burst into tears and ran down the hall.

  Tears?