There was a long pause, and then Alan let out a slow, exasperated breath. “It doesn’t. I know it doesn’t.” He threw her a quick, intense glance. “But, there is an answer to that question, and the only person who knows it is the man who calls himself Richard Merrill.” His voice was hard, and she could see the muscles in his jaw clench. “I’m going to have to talk to him, Lindsey. You know that, don’t you?”
She turned her head to look out the window and didn’t reply.
Yes. I’m going to have to talk to him.
“But,” Alan continued, “I need to have as much information as I possibly can before I do. The photos alone aren’t enough. Which means I have to wait for everything from the Richmond PD, as well as Bob Faulkner’s files-the Baltimore files on the McKinney case-to get here. He’s sending them overnight, but because of the weekend they won’t get here until at least Monday.” He paused, then said, “Lindsey?” in a warning tone. And paused again. “He cannot know about this-do you understand me? You can’t tell him what we know, or ask him about it yourself. In fact, you’d best stay completely away from him, if you don’t think you can keep secrets from him. Okay?”
She couldn’t seem to make herself utter a sound. She nodded, watching San Clemente slip past and the Pacific come into view beyond her window.
“Lindsey? Promise me you won’t try to talk to him. Stay…away…from him. Got it?”
San Onofre nuclear power plant loomed ahead on the right, a giant pair of female breasts pointing at the sky. She stared at them with burning eyes. “Got it,” she said.
Neither of them spoke again until they were pulling into Lindsey’s driveway. Instead of dropping her off, Alan got out and walked her to her door, looking around him the way cops do, checking out the surroundings. One hand even went automatically to his right hip, she noticed, where his holster would be, if he’d had a weapon with him.
Remembering the last time we were here, she thought. And Dad was here…coming down the driveway. My Dad. And now he’s wishing for his gun?
At her door, he took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes, and she thought for a moment he would kiss her. Instead, he said gravely, “Stay away from him, Lindsey. Please. There’s no telling what he might do if he knows we’re on to him.”
“Dad would never hurt me,” she said thickly.
She pulled away from him and put her key in the lock, opened the door and went inside. He didn’t say anything more, or try to stop her. She closed the door, locked it, then leaned against it and let the tears come.
“I don’t trust her,” Alan said.
At the other end of the cell phone connection, Carl Taketa was silent for a moment. Then: “Do you really think she’d confront Merrill on her own?”
“She didn’t promise she wouldn’t,” Alan said grimly. “And even if she did promise, I still wouldn’t trust her. She’s desperate for answers, and he’s the only one who’s got ’em. And, he’s her daddy. She truly doesn’t believe he’d harm her.”
“Do you think he would?”
Alan let out a gusty breath. “Probably not. But that’s not my only concern. The guy has changed identities before. He has financial resources. If he finds out we’re on to him, we’ll lose him for sure.”
“You really think she’d tip him off?”
“Again-probably not. Not deliberately, anyway. But I have a feeling she’s not a very good liar, not where he’s concerned, and this is weighing heavily on her mind. She could easily say or do something that would make him suspicious. Look-you know I can’t do anything until we get the DNA results showing a sibling relationship between Lindsey and Holt Kincaid. Without that there’s no proof Karen McKinney and Susan Merrill are the same person, and even with DNA we can’t definitively prove the Chesapeake Jane Doe is connected to either one.”
“Come on,” Carl said, “I don’t think you’d have any trouble convincing a jury.”
“Maybe not,” Alan said, “which only makes Merrill guilty of falsifying his identity. There’s nothing to connect him to the shooting of Karen and James McKinney. The only way I’m going to get that is to sweat it out of him, and before I go after him I need more than what I’ve got now. Meanwhile, I don’t want to take a chance on losing him. Partner, I hate like hell to ask you-I know it’s Sunday, but he knows me, he knows my car-”
“Say no more. I’ll sit on him until you can get the captain to assign surveillance.”
“Alicia is going to hate me.”
“Nah, that’s the great thing about her being a cop, too. She’ll understand.”
“Well…thanks, pal. I owe you.”
“What for? Giving me a piece of solving a forty-year-old murder? Shoot, man, I owe you.”
Lindsey was stepping out of the shower when her cell phone rang. She grabbed a towel and picked up the phone with a shaking hand, knowing who it was before she even looked at the caller ID.
“Dad!” she said, as her chest and throat filled up with a lumpy mixture of guilt and grief.
“Lindsey? Where’ve you been, sweetheart? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.”
“Um…sorry about that.” She tried to laugh, and it sounded like a cry of pain. “I…had my phone turned off most of the weekend. I was-Alan and I went to L.A.”
“In all that rain? What in the world for?”
“We were…uh…we were visiting some friends of Alan’s. Traffic was fine going in, but coming back it got pretty bad, so we stayed over and came on home this morning. I didn’t think about calling. I’m sorry if you were worried, but there wasn’t any reason to be.”
“I know, I know, and you’re an adult and don’t need to check in with your old dad anymore, but…it wouldn’t kill you to give me a call, would it? You’re still my little girl, you know.”
“I know…”
“Lindsey? What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”
“No, no.” Her eyes were shut tight. She struggled with all her strength to hold back tears…make her voice sound bright…normal. She forced a laugh, then sniffed and added, “I just got out of the shower, Dad. I’m dripping here.”
“Oh! Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t catch cold. I won’t keep you, honey. Just glad you’re home safe.”
“Me, too. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“I know you are. But I’ll worry anyway. I love you, girlie.” There was a pause, then: “Talked to your mother lately?”
“Not for a few days. I’m going to go see her tomorrow.”
“Okay…well.” There was the sound of an indrawn breath. “Tell her I love her, honey. Will you do that for me?”
“I will, Dad.” She was holding her breath, afraid to breathe, afraid he would hear a sob in it. Her chest felt as though it would burst.
“Well…okay then. Guess I’ll say g’night. Let you get dried off.”
“’Night, Dad.”
“I love you, honey.”
“Love you, too…”
She broke the connection and turned blindly, first one way, then the other, in such agony she wanted nothing so much as to hurl the phone as far and as hard as she could. But of course she didn’t. Instead she pressed the instrument against her forehead, closed her eyes and let the pent-up tears flow freely down her cheeks.
First thing Monday morning Alan knocked on Ron Tupman’s door. The captain sounded surly, as usual, even that early on the first day of a new week, but he listened with his customary laser-like intensity while Alan filled him in on the weekend’s developments in the Susan Merrill case.
“So,” Tupman said when Alan had finished, “you’re telling me Taketa’s been sitting on Merrill’s place all night?”
“Yes, sir, he has,” Alan said. “Didn’t want the man deciding to pull another disappearing act.”
“So, you think his daughter-so-called-might tip him off?”
“I hope she won’t, but…let’s just say I’d rather not take that chance.”
Tupman nodded and picked up his ph
one. “Well, let’s get somebody out there to relieve Carl.” He drilled Alan with a stare. “How long you figure before you’ll have enough to bring him in?”
Alan considered. “Depends on what Richmond sends me. And the rest of the files from the Baltimore detective-Faulkner. Unless there’s something there we all missed, I’m probably going to have to wait for the DNA.”
Tupman nodded. “We’ll take it a day at a time. Somebody’ll be on him as long as needs to be.”
“Thanks,” Alan said, then added, knowing he probably didn’t need to, “Unmarked cars-don’t want to spook him.”
Tupman glared at him and punched a button. “Got it,” he said dryly.
Lindsey closed her mother’s front door quietly behind her. Across the tiny apartment she could see her mother on the patio, snipping off spent blossoms from pots of chrysanthemums. It was a chilly, breezy day, and Lindsey was pleased to see she’d remembered to put on a sweater.
“Mom,” she called, “it’s me-Lindsey.”
Susan looked up, and to Lindsey’s relief, her expression changed from alarm and suspicion to a smile of recognition. “Oh-my goodness. Lindsey-how nice!” She waved her snippers at the array of pots on various tables and stands around the patio. “I was just cleaning up these mums-they’re about done for the season, I think. I’m going to plant pansies next. Did you bring me some pansies?”
“I brought you pansies last week, Mom,” Lindsey said, and hastened to add, as a look of uncertainty crossed her mother’s face, “but I’ll bring some more next time I come.”
“Yellow ones,” Susan said emphatically. “I like the yellow ones best. They brighten up the place. Well-” she pushed back her hair with the back of her hand, then pulled off her gloves and laid them and the snippers on the wrought-iron table “-shall we have something cold to drink? See what there is in the fridge. I think there might be some iced tea…”
Lindsey said, “Sounds good, Mom,” and laid the manila envelope she’d brought with her on the table beside the gloves and snippers. “What’s this?”
Already on her way to the kitchen, Lindsey glanced back and said, “Just some pictures I brought to show you.” She felt quivery inside, now that the moment was almost upon her. “Wait a minute, let me get us some tea first, okay?”
She opened the refrigerator, removed a flat of wilted pansies from the bottom shelf and put it on the counter next to the sink, then got two bottles of sweetened lemon-flavored tea and shut the door. She returned to the patio to find her mother staring blankly down at the sheet of paper in her hand. The manila envelope had fallen unnoticed to the floor.
“Mom?”
Susan put out a groping hand, and Lindsey lunged, reaching her in time to guide her into a chair. She pulled out a chair for herself and sat in it, facing her mother. The piece of paper, upon which was printed the copy of the wedding photograph of James and Karen McKinney, now rested on Susan’s knees. Almost fearfully, Susan touched first one face, then the other.
“Do you recognize them?” Lindsey asked. Her throat hurt so intensely she could barely speak.
Susan’s shaking fingertips caressed the groom’s smooth cheek, almost as if it was warm flesh she felt instead of cold paper. She nodded, and a tear fell onto the image, making a small wrinkled circle. “James,” she whispered. “Oh, James…” She looked up at Lindsey and her face was bathed in tears. “He’s dead. That man killed him-the one who says he’s my husband. He shot him. I asked him why, but he wouldn’t answer me. Why? Why would anybody want to kill James? He was such a good, sweet, gentle man…”
Lindsey slid from her chair and, kneeling, gathered her mother into her arms. She held her mother while she cried and cried. And all the time, Susan just kept asking, “Why?”
On Monday afternoon, a packet of files arrived from the Richmond, Virginia, PD. Included in the file were several clear photos of the woman rescued from the Chesapeake Bay, the one that came to be called Chesapeake Jane Doe. Carl, being a bit more adept with computer stuff than Alan, scanned them into a facial recognition program along with the high school graduation portrait of Karen McKinney and a recent photo of Susan Merrill. Shortly thereafter the computer came up with a positive match: Jane Doe and Karen McKinney and Susan Merrill were one and the same.
“What do you think?” Carl asked as they stood together staring at the monitor screen. “Is this enough to pull him in?”
Alan nodded grimly. He had his cell phone in his hand and was punching in numbers. “Calling Lindsey?”
Alan glanced at him as he listened to the rings. “I’d feel better knowing where she is and what she’s doing before we do this. Don’t want to take any chances on her getting into the middle of a situation.” Carl nodded.
After a moment, Alan put the phone back in his pocket and plucked his jacket off the back of his chair. “She’s not answering. She might be out jogging-she leaves her phone home when she runs. I’m going to drive out there…see if I can locate her. We’ve got Merrill boxed in. Let’s hold off on bringing him in until we’ve got his daughter under wraps.”
Safe, he thought.
Lindsey left her car parked at the curb and walked up the driveway on legs that felt as if they might give way at any moment. The garage door was open, and so was the door to the backyard patio. She went on through, calling, “Dad?”
“Lindsey? I’m out here, honey-come on back.”
He was cleaning the pool. How many times had she watched him do that? He was wearing a windbreaker with his Bermuda shorts and tennis sneakers with no socks-a typical San Diegan’s concession to winter-standing with his legs a little apart to brace himself against the pull of the strainer, methodically moving it back and forth, back and forth… He could have installed an automatic cleaning system, like most of their friends had, especially now that they were all getting older, but he always insisted he liked the exercise.
“This is a nice surprise,” he said, and as always his face had lit up at the sight of her. The smile almost instantly turned to a frown of concern as he got a better look at her face. “Honey? What’s wrong? Has something happened?” As he spoke he was drawing the long-handled skimmer out of the water, laying it on the pool deck. He came toward her, drying his hands on his shorts, reaching for her. She backed away before he could touch her. His gaze dropped to the manila envelope in her hand, then rose again to her face. “Lindsey? What have you got there?”
She turned away from him and put the envelope on the patio table. She opened it and pulled out the wedding photo of Karen and James McKinney…slid it across the glass toward her father. When she looked up at him, she found that he was staring down at the photo, not looking at her.
“Where did you get this?” His voice sounded stifled.
“Do you recognize them, Dad?” She was amazed at how controlled her voice seemed.
He didn’t reply. His face, his whole body seemed to have frozen.
Almost gently, she said, “You do, don’t you?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s your mother, obviously, but I don’t-did Alan give you this? Of course he did.” He paused, and his smile was sad. “Is he even your boyfriend, Lindsey?”
She shook her head as if to clear away fog. “Maybe-I don’t know-does it matter?” Her voice hardened. “You know him, don’t you? Of course you do. How could you forget the face of the man you killed?”
He jerked as if she’d slapped him. “Lindsey? What are you talking about? Where did you get such an idea? I don’t know what you-or Alan, the police, whoever-think I’ve done.”
“No-don’t lie to me.” She was crying, suddenly. “The fact that I have that photo should tell you I know pretty much everything. The police do, too. The only thing they can’t figure out-the thing I can’t understand, no matter how hard I try, is why?”
There was a long silence. He drew a shaking hand over his face, which seemed to have aged a decade in a matter of minutes. “I have always known this day would come.” His voice sounded o
ddly stilted, as if he were reading from something he’d written. He paused, then turned and started toward the house in a vague, lost sort of way. “I have something I must give you. Something I’ve been saving for you…”
“No!” Lindsey shouted at him, “Don’t walk away. I want you to tell me why. Forty years of lies, pretending to be my father, saying you loved us-Mom and me-”
He turned back to her, his movements jerky, off-balance. “No-that was not pretense. I love you, Lindsey, as my own daughter. Your mother-I loved her, too. I think I loved her maybe from the first.”
“Then why-how could you-”
“Please try to understand.” He held out his hands to her in a kind of entreaty, but at the same time his voice seemed to grow stronger, to take on a note of determination-even pride. “I was a soldier. I was doing what I had been trained to do. It was my duty-my mission. I believed I was doing what I had to do-”
“You had to kill them?” She couldn’t stop a shudder of revulsion.
“Yes!” His eyes were fierce; she’d never seen him look like that before. “They were the enemy-traitors to their country!” And just that quickly the fire died, and his face looked haggard and ravaged. “Or so I believed…”
He reached blindly for a chair and sat in it heavily, then raised tortured eyes to her face. “Please,” he said hoarsely. “Sit down. I will tell you everything. But, you must let me begin at the beginning.”
Chapter 12
I thought it would be safer to have her close to me. Then, I told myself, if her memory ever did return, I would be able to deal with her. The years went by and I dared to hope the day of reckoning would never come.
Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.
Memory of Murder Page 16