by K. L. Murphy
“Good try. But you didn’t leave anything, Sarah. You were never even there.”
“He offered me a beer and I thought he was a nice guy, you know. He was your friend. So I took it and then he gave me another.” She took a breath and pushed the dark hair off her face. “He sat a little closer to me on the bed and we started talking. I think I had another beer. Next thing I knew he pulled me onto his lap.”
George’s face flamed. He and Gordon had been roommates for three years. Gordon never had a steady girlfriend, preferring to drift from affair to affair. “The more the merrier” was his slogan. It occurred to George that Gordon had made comments about Sarah on more than one occasion.
“I made a joke about it and pushed him away. But he pulled me back, rubbing my arms and shoulders.”
Every tendon in his neck pulsed. He balled his hands into fists. Gordon had come on to Sarah behind his back?
“He told me he wanted me and he knew I wanted him, too.”
The vision of his roommate pawing Sarah sent waves of fury through the young man. He wanted to scream, to cry out, to throw something. “Are you trying to tell me,” he said, his jaw clenched, “that while I was with my dad, Gordon attacked you?” Another, more horrendous thought, flooded his mind. “Oh my God, did he rape you?”
Chapter Forty-Two
MARTIN STOMPED AROUND the precinct, yelling at anyone and everyone, spit and toothpicks flying from his mouth. The news that Vandenberg was lying in a hospital, in no condition to be served with an arrest warrant for murder, had sent the captain into a tirade. As Cancini had suspected, Martin had used the analysis prepared by the precinct shrink to convince the D.A.’s office to issue the warrant in spite of a mostly circumstantial case. The pressure from the brass and the widow’s lawyer had made him want the case solved yesterday. Cancini didn’t like the decision, but the captain, not too subtly, reminded him he didn’t make the call. His superior did. Still, it wasn’t just the circumstantial evidence that didn’t sit well with Cancini. It was the tapes, the timeline, and the unanswered questions. He’d lain awake half the night, ideas popping in and out of his head, some too far-fetched to be possible and others pure speculation. None of it proved anything and Martin wasn’t the type to listen to theories, especially when he had an arrest warrant in hand. The warrant might be delayed a couple of days, but it would be served.
Heads down, Cancini and Smitty rechecked every piece of information. They pored over bank statements, receipts, insurance documents, and transcripts of interviews. Late in the day, Smitty tossed a phone log onto Cancini’s desk.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“That girl, Lauren Temple. What was your impression?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a sigh. His eyes itched, he was tired, and the knot between his shoulders had grown to the size of a baseball. “She was a smart-mouth, bratty.”
“So, not the type to pay condolences.”
Cancini snorted. “No, but we’ve been over this. Other than seeing her leave the Michael house, there’s no connection between the two women. The maid had never seen the girl before. No one at Mrs. Michael’s office recognized her, and Mrs. Michael didn’t visit her husband’s office so she couldn’t have run into her there. We have no evidence they knew each other.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve highlighted three calls made from the Michael house to the Stratford Grill in the last three months.”
Cancini looked up. “Lauren Temple’s restaurant.” He scanned the phone record. The calls were made on weekdays between the hours of five and six P.M. when Dr. Michael would still have been at the office. He tapped his fingers against his desk. “Takeout?”
“Too far from the house and not convenient to either of the Michaels’ offices.”
“But not impossible?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let’s assume they did know each other before Dr. Michael died. That by itself is not suspicious and both women have alibis.”
“Damn. I forgot.” Smitty picked up another folder. “Funny though. Did you know Lauren Temple grew up in Boston?”
Cancini’s fingers stopped moving. “You don’t say?”
“I do say. Her boyfriend mentioned it. Said she only moved here a year ago, maybe less.”
“Now that is funny.” Cancini flipped through his notes until he found her interview. He had an address, work information, and age. She’d visited the doctor occasionally, but not regularly. The dates and times were listed in his notes. “A year ago?”
“Looks like it.”
He scowled down at the pages in his hands. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Had Mrs. Michael met the girl at the restaurant? Did they know they both hailed from Boston? He tossed the papers aside. Even if the women knew each other, it meant nothing. It didn’t prove motive or opportunity. But that didn’t stop him from wondering.
Smitty leaned in, his voice low. “You’re not sold on Vandenberg?”
“Are you?”
“Well, Dr. Michael was pushing the guy pretty hard. He might’ve snapped.” Smitty paused, then added, “But it would be better if we had the murder weapon or something that placed him at the crime scene.”
“More evidence would be better.” He heard Vandenberg’s voice in his head, a sound he was having a harder and harder time forgetting. He didn’t want to think about the tapes. “Still nothing on the girl?”
Smitty shook his head. “I checked all three counties near Vandenberg’s river house. There were no death certificates or missing person reports listed with that name, but they’re still looking.”
Cancini frowned. It had been a long shot. Many of the rural counties hadn’t yet gotten around to putting old cases on the computer system. And even if the files were located, it was possible her body had gone unidentified, a Jane Doe. He stood and swept several files into a bag. “I’m gonna call it a day.”
For the second night in a row, the detective lay awake, tossing and turning. The king-sized bed he still slept in felt empty, his slight build stretched out on the large mattress. Hot, he threw off the covers and stared at the ceiling fan circling over his head, the whirling blades pushing the cool air down to his damp skin. His mind would not shut off and he couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Michael and what he was trying to accomplish with George. What if Vandenberg had confessed? What was in it for Michael? None of it made sense. What was he missing?
Sitting up, he flipped on a light. It wasn’t just Dr. Michael. He knew he wouldn’t rest until he found Sarah Winter. Vandenberg may have taken Sarah’s life, but he couldn’t have known she’d be erased from existence after she was gone. She deserved better than to end up a Jane Doe. His head ached. He got up and splashed cold water on his face. Staring into the mirror, his mind went back to Dr. Michael’s timeline. He saw every moment, every second sketched out in detail. He blinked. Every moment except one. George had no idea when Mary Helen arrived on the scene. A large question mark had been penciled over her name. How long had she been there? And why?
He spread the files across the living room floor, picking out pages and laying them in a line. Two hours later he sat down, spent but relieved. He’d told Smitty he didn’t believe in coincidences. He still didn’t. He grabbed the phone and dialed his partner. He had more than a hunch now, more than an idea. Cancini talked, knowing how insane it sounded, even to him. Hanging up, he felt better. Maybe he could sleep after all.
He boarded the early-morning flight to Boston with less confidence than he would have liked. In the light of day, he worried the trip was a wild-goose chase. He’d bypassed the captain. If it panned out, he wouldn’t get suspended. If it didn’t, well, he guessed he deserved what he got. Smitty’s buddy, Johnny, met him at Logan, two manila file folders in his hand.
Cancini scanned the first file, most of the information already in his notes. The second file was new, the primary re
ason he’d come to Boston. He read every word of the short report, some parts a second time, especially interested in the last few years of available information.
“That enough for ya?” Johnny asked.
It would do. “Yep. How’d you get it so fast?”
“I pulled a few strings.”
“Thanks. You’re a stand-up guy.”
“Sure. Any friend of Smitty’s is a friend of mine. D’ya need a ride?”
Cancini tossed the empty coffee cup in the trash and glanced around the airport. Men and women in suits hurried past the two cops, racing to catch their planes or collect their bags. Sighing, he thought about where he needed to go, and what he might need to do. For one brief moment he wished he were one of those people, stressed about some business meeting or spreadsheet or scheduled merger. But the image of a dead man lying on the floor popped into his head and the feeling passed. “I’m gonna grab a cab. Thanks anyway.” He shook hands with the Boston cop.
He dialed Smitty. “I’m here.”
“Did you get what you need?”
“Enough. Johnny’s a good guy. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Hey, I talked to the boyfriend. You were right.”
Cancini sighed. “Okay. See how far you can take it.”
In the taxi, he pulled two photos from his pocket and placed them in the second file. He watched the traffic crawl by, his hands on his knees. He didn’t know if he wanted to be right. Sometimes the truth hurt so much, wounded so deeply, some people never recovered. This could be one of those times. But he was a cop and no matter how gray life was, homicide was black and white. Dr. Michael was dead. Someone had to pay.
Chapter Forty-Three
MARY HELEN STAYED by his side. The children came and went when their mother allowed it. She joked that he looked as though he’d been in a prizefight—on the losing end—keeping things light for Wills and Elizabeth Grace. They stood next to the bed, confused by the sight of their injured dad. Mary Helen had done her best to prepare them, but the bandages and purple welts were terrifying to the teenagers. It broke his heart.
The police took his statement and she stayed. The doctors and nurses poked and prodded. Still, she stayed. He drifted off, drowsy with medication and exhausted by the pain. When he woke, the room was dark. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there.
“Mary Helen?” he said through rubbery lips.
“Yes?” Her voice sounded soft and sweet in the cold hospital room.
He ached everywhere. The doctors had told him he’d cracked his ribs, broken his collarbone, and sprained his arm. His face had been badly bruised by the airbag. Even with the medication, the throbbing persisted, rising and falling with the timing of the doses. He took a deep breath, gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry.”
Mary Helen picked up her chair and moved it closer to the bed. She took his hand and stroked the skin with her delicate fingers. He could feel her trembling. “You could have died, George.” The fear in her voice stunned him. She began to weep and pressed his hand to her lips, kissing it over and over. “When I saw you, I was so scared.”
He rolled to face her. She smiled through swollen eyes and tears. He didn’t know what to say except to apologize again.
She shook her head and told him not to be silly. Slowly, awkwardly, they began to talk. They kept it simple, talking of the children, the house, nothing important. His fingers intertwined with hers and he didn’t want to let go, but it was late. “I’ll be back first thing, George. I promise,” she said.
The truth of her words hit him then. He could have died. It was ironic, he realized. Only one week earlier, before Dr. Michael had been murdered, he wouldn’t have cared whether he lived or died. He did now. Everything was different. He was different. All of it mattered now. Living, being with family, doing something with his life. Maybe Mary Helen wasn’t to blame for everything between them. Maybe they had both made mistakes. It was probably too late for them—too much had happened—but he was glad she’d been with him, glad she was coming back.
He tried to fight the memories, tired of living in the past, eager to get on with the future. But Sarah’s dark face, defiant and sad, forced its way into his mind.
“No, George, no one raped me. It wasn’t like that.”
Her tone irritated him. Was she saying she had slept with his roommate, gotten pregnant, and then told George the baby was his? Worse, she’d said it as calmly as though she were telling him his favorite TV show was on or the car needed gas. Where was her sense of decency? He could barely choke out the words. “How was it then, Sarah? Why don’t you tell me?”
“You’re mad.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m mad,” he said, his hands clenched into hard fists. “I don’t believe you.” He took a step forward and her eyes widened. Shame flooded him and his shoulders slumped, anger forgotten. “I don’t believe you,” he said again. “It doesn’t make sense.”
She looked over his shoulder again. “Do I have to give you details, George? Just accept it and let me go.”
He couldn’t, and in his heart, he knew it was no longer about her. It was the baby. For weeks, he’d believed the child growing inside her was his. He knew he should be relieved she was trying to absolve him of that responsibility. She was letting him walk away with no strings attached, severing his connection to her and the baby. It was exactly what Mary Helen wanted. It’s what his family would want if they knew. And it would be so easy. Too easy.
He took a deep breath. “I don’t believe you, Sarah. This is my baby, and even if you don’t want me anymore, too bad. I’m the father and I’m gonna be around, whether you like it or not.”
Her face and chest flushed. “You have no say here, George. You haven’t earned the right to tell me what I can and can’t do with my baby. You’re just a . . .” Her brows wrinkled as she searched for the words. “A spoiled, rich frat boy living on daddy’s dime, playing around with the cocktail waitress.” Her eyes blazed when he tried to interrupt. “Don’t you dare tell me whose baby this is. It’s mine. You got that? It’s mine!”
“What about Gordon?” He knew he had her now, his heart skipping a beat.
“He doesn’t know,” she shot back, hands on her hips. “Don’t act like you’re so smart, George. Just because I haven’t told him doesn’t mean he’s not the father. I just want to do this on my own.”
“Give it up, Sarah.”
“You asked for it, George. Just remember that someday. You asked for this.” The fire in her eyes faded. “Gordon said he’d been attracted to me for a while, had even told you, and you hadn’t said anything to him about it. He’s a handsome guy and when he stood close to me, started kissing me, I didn’t mind.” George couldn’t look at her, couldn’t listen to her tell lies, spin such a sick story. “I was surprised how much I liked it. It was different than you. Gordon’s a good kisser.” A fresh wave of jealousy swept over him and he breathed heavily. “He took my clothes off slowly, telling me I was like an Amazon goddess. I remember he used those words. Amazon goddess. It made me think of that old Wonder Woman comic book. She was an Amazon, I think.”
He put his hands over his ears to drown out her words, to stop it from happening. He didn’t want to hear her anymore, but she kept talking, staring past him.
“I helped him undress, too. He’s not as tall as you are and I could look him in the eye, but he pulled me over to the bed, telling me to lie down and stretch out.”
He could taste the sickness creep into his mouth. Turning his head to the side, he threw up, hunched over, head hanging low.
She kept talking, her voice like acid on his skin. “He lay down next to me, touching me all over. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time. I could say I was drunk and didn’t know what I was doing, but that would be a lie. I knew. He wanted me to touch him.” She paused then, taking a breath. With a sinking hear
t, he knew she wasn’t lying. Sarah told him about Gordon, about the dark birthmark that stretched from his hip to his groin, the one a woman could only know about if she’d seen it. When she stopped speaking, he stood paralyzed. A heavy silence fell over them, and he could hear every breath she took. He’d believed in her, in them. The pounding in his head gathered strength and he wanted to punch her, wanted to hurt her as much as she’d hurt him, but he couldn’t. He hated her in that moment, but he loved her still. He forced himself to look at her. She seemed different, older, less alive than when she’d arrived.
“I need to say good-bye now.” She moved close to him and raised one hand. She touched a lock of hair and brushed it off his face. He stiffened with desire, fighting the urge to pull her to his chest. He swatted at her hand and pushed her away with more force than he’d intended. She tripped on the stones and fell backward, mouth and eyes wide in surprise. Her head smacked against the corner of the boathouse and she landed with a thud among the rocks, her long legs twisted beneath her body.
He rushed to her, dropping to his knees. “Oh my God, Sarah, are you all right?” He cradled her in his arms. Her head lolled back and he gasped. “Sarah? Sarah, say something.” He pulled her legs from under her, talking all the while. “Sarah, c’mon, Sarah. Wake up.” He felt the sticky warmth of her blood before he saw it and he held her close, stroking her back. She didn’t move, didn’t respond. He laid her gently on the ground, rocked back on his heels, and howled. He’d killed her. Sarah was dead and he’d killed her.
Chapter Forty-Four
CANCINI CLIMBED FROM the cab and raised a hand to block the sun. The Temple house, a white Colonial with a two-car garage, sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and he glanced over his shoulder. He imagined children riding their bikes, tossing balls, and playing hide-and-seek among the bushes. On this day, everything was still, no screams or squeals ringing in his ear. He climbed the driveway and knocked on the front door. Silence. He peered in the front window and knocked again, louder.