The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  According to her husband they fought about his schedule. Indeed, he had been away from home much of the time during the last four months. They hadn't quite been separated, but they had gone their separate ways for a while. Mrs. McCreary had kept to her normal appointments: hairdresser, nails, massage. She spoke to some friends but in the final ten days before her death, her calendar had been free, her phone log blank, and the security cameras had not recorded her taking her car out of the garage. According to friends, Michelle McCreary often removed herself from social activities and indulged in extreme privacy. Babcock's eyes panned across the small street that intersected Ocean Boulevard and dead-ended at the beach. He looked up at the first building that came into his line of sight. The second. The third was his destination. He had been going to that place since the day of the incident in an attempt to talk to one of the people who had called emergency services. Nine-one-one had received three calls within seconds of one another. Two of those calls had been checked out and the people who made them had nothing of interest to say. The third person had proved elusive and that was curious. That person was the first to call for help. She lived in the building where the balconies were angled on the side of the building like wings. She lived on the eleventh floor directly across from the McCreary penthouse.

  Babcock knew there was probably nothing to be learned from that caller since if she'd had any information to share, she would have come forward. Still, it was a loose end and loose ends made him uneasy. He crossed the street and opened the door of the building, holding it for an elderly couple. The woman was brisk, the man a bit slower. The man tipped his baseball cap and murmured his thanks. Babcock waited with them at the elevator, rode up to the fifth floor, where they exited, and then watched as the digital numbers counted off the next six floors.

  Babcock walked down the hall to the corner unit, knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. Babcock rang. This time he "felt" someone was on the other side of the door. He knocked once more and stayed still until finally the door opened a crack. The eyes peering out at him were angry and suspicious. There were two chains across the door, neither strong enough to keep him out if he wanted in.

  "I'm Detective Horace Babcock with the Long Beach Police Department. I was wondering if I might have a minute of your time."

  "I don't have to say anything. You can't make me. I've talked to my lawyer," the woman behind the door warned.

  Babcock smiled sweetly.

  ***

  "I'm here. I'm here."

  Josie called out to Hannah before she even had the key out of the door. Max-the-Dog struggled to his feet, his tail wagging, happy as a puppy to see her. Josie bent down and ruffled his jowls and got a lick back for her efforts.

  "Good boy. Is she mad?" Josie muttered and then cooed once more. "Good boy."

  "No, she is not mad and she wouldn't have been a lunatic if you didn't make it home in time."

  Hannah Sheraton, Josie's charge, stood framed in the doorway of her bedroom. Dark-skinned, green-eyed, she had black hair that spiraled down her back and spilled over her shoulders. Hannah was as beautiful as the first time Josie had seen her in prison, incarcerated for a murder she didn't commit. And, like the first time, Hannah's demons made themselves known as she tapped out a tune Josie had to know well. Twenty notes on the doorjamb or anything else within reach. Her obsession with checking her boundaries wasn't as frenzied as it once had been, the compulsion to touch was not as torturous, but still Hannah's fear of being left alone, forgotten or thrown away by adults stuck in her mind like the residue of a nightmare. Still, the touching and worrying were small burdens compared to the way Hannah used to cut herself, slicing the skin of her forearms to let the terror of abandonment and abuse flow from her along with her own blood. Thankfully, the cutting had stopped—or so it seemed.

  "I had a little unexpected business." Matter-of-factly Josie peeled off her jacket and tossed it on a chair as she went to Hannah, took the girl's hands in her own and looked directly into those green eyes the way the psychiatrist said she should. "But I never forgot about your opening. Give me some credit for a fast learning curve, okay?"

  "Okay." Hannah laughed almost shyly. She nodded once . . . twice . . . five times . . . ten . . . and more. "I wasn't worried."

  Josie dropped Hannah's hand, though the doctor had said it would be better to weather the entire episode in contact with her. But Josie was uncomfortable with such intimacy and unused to Hannah's constant vigilance. She was not a mother, just a better alternative to the mother Hannah had drawn.

  "So, I'm a little nervous about your opening, too. I bet this is the way the mother of the prom queen feels." Josie retrieved her jacket and talked over her shoulder on her way to her bedroom. Hannah followed, giving Josie some distance but not too much. She raised her voice when Josie turned the corner and disappeared.

  "Except you're not my mother, and I'm not the prom queen."

  "Thank God for small favors, huh?" Josie stuck her head through the doorway. "I'll settle for being the guardian of Hermosa Beach's best new artist any day. Almost seventeen and your own showing at Gallery C. Not bad."

  "It's not like the Met or anything." Hannah nitpicked, uncomfortable with the praise, proud of her accomplishment but fearful of drawing down bad karma if she rejoiced aloud.

  "Archer didn't call, did he?" Josie hollered from her bedroom.

  "Nope. I'll take Max out while you get ready. We have to leave like instantly, you know." Hannah picked up the frayed neon pink leash Max-the-Dog had been wearing when Josie found him cold, lost and hungry under the pier.

  "Five minutes. I promise," Josie called back but Hannah was already gone.

  Josie changed fast. The brown suit she had worn to court was tossed aside in favor of black drawstring pants, flat sandals, a white cotton crop top, the sleeves banded by fabric salvaged from an antique kimono. She splashed water on her hair and gelled it back. It had been a winning day—Kevin O'Connel brought to justice and a few lucrative billable hours to Grace McCreary, who was delighted to hear that all was well. Hannah couldn't miss tonight. Josie swiped gloss on her lips, added big hoop earrings and found herself thinking again about Grace McCreary. Their conversation had ended with the promise of a check and no mention of Matthew. Not that there should have been; not that Josie was expecting it. Still, it was odd to have been so close to him again and yet make no contact.

  Sinking onto the bed, Josie put her hand on the phone and looked through the French doors to the patio and the garden beyond. She was proud of her home. Matthew would never believe how handy she had become. Her gaze wandered back to the leather chair inside, the bed with its white duvet and mounds of pillows. She smoothed the comforter. Though her thoughts had wandered to Matthew, Josie was really missing Archer. Her lover, her friend, her confidant, Archer was all those things and Josie wished he was with her right now. But Archer was gone, chasing sunsets and blue skies in Mexico. He would photograph the desert, the plants, the rocks— anything that caught his artist's eye. Those pictures would be sold to magazines and newspapers, adorn postcards and Screensavers. Archer was a retired cop and a freelance private detective but his eye for beauty made him incredibly interesting. Needing to hear his voice, Josie picked up the phone and punched out the number to Archer's cell. Just before she hit dial, the front door opened and Hannah called out.

  "Josie, come on. We're going to be late."

  Reluctantly, Josie held the phone away from her ear. Archer was somewhere in the Sonora Desert, as close as the next ring, but instead of waiting, she hung up.

  "Okay. Okay." She sighed. "Let's go shake up the art world."

  Josie got up, smoothed her pants and chalked up another experience to that ritual of surrogate parenthood: child before self, before love, before everything. Not that it mattered. Archer would wait. He always did.

  CHAPTER 8

  Grace McCreary stood in the darkened knave of St. Mary's by the Sea Church and watched a woma
n kneel, make the sign of the cross and bow her head as she did penance for her sins. The woman had come from the confessional, the ornate little box in which sins and secrets were told to a man you could not see. Even if he recognized your voice he would never give the slightest inclination that he knew what kind of person you really were.

  That's what Michelle had told Grace about the confessional. Michelle said that God knew your sins but you had to tell the priest if you wanted to be forgiven. Grace liked the notion that a man could release a person from guilt, wipe away the dark places of a heart and ease a tortured mind. Michelle was always happier, more content, easier to be with when she confessed. At least she was until she committed another sin—or imagined she had. Grace wondered what the plain person kneeling in front of the altar had to confess. A sharp word? A bad thought? A minor infraction hardly seemed worth saying out loud. Those things were mistakes. A sin was . . .

  "Excuse me. May I. . .?"

  Startled, Grace turned to find that a priest had come upon her silently, stealthily. Over one arm he held a white robe trimmed in gold; in his other hand he held a golden cup. He was young and unattractive except for his eyes. Behind his less-than-fashionable glasses those eyes sparkled. He was excited to be about the business of God.

  "No. No," Grace said quietly. "I was just looking."

  "Oh, that's great. Look all you want. In fact, I hope you'll stay. It's an hour until Mass but I can promise you a rousing sermon if you hang around. Definitely one to keep you awake."

  Grace shook her head. She smiled slightly even though he made her uneasy.

  "No. Thank you. I came . . ." Her voice trailed off. She wasn't sure why she had come but now that she had begun to explain, the young priest was listening. She took a breath and started again. "I came to see Father Sidney. My sister-in-law said he was a good man to speak with."

  "Well, he's gone on retreat, you know, but I'd be happy to take a moment if you like. I'm not as wise as Father Sidney, but I am a superior listener, if I do say so myself. I'm Father Frank."

  Eager. Eager beaver. His eyes were almost exploding with sincerity and it was enough to blast Grace back, away from someone so keen to hear her secrets. There must have been something in her expression that made him realize she did not share his enthusiasm for baring her soul.

  "But you're also welcome to just sit and contemplate. Sometimes contemplation is just as good, you know." He added this hurriedly, fearful of losing a soul.

  "Yes. Thank you. I think I'll do that," Grace murmured.

  "So, I'll let you be. You just sit. God's casa es su casa, as they say."

  Off he went down the aisle, an absolute spring in his step. A good word for the woman at the altar, who then went back to her prayers, fervently fingering a rosary bead as if rubbing it out of existence could ease whatever tormented her soul.

  When the young priest was gone, Grace walked slowly down the center aisle. Her eyes ran over the stained-glass windows, the statues in their alcoves, the wooden pews, the altar straight ahead. Her gaze lingered on the pictures hung on the walls to her left and right: the Stations of the Cross. Grace had sat in these pews a few times: once for her sister-in-law's funeral, of course, and at other times with Michelle, to please her. Grace would watch as Michelle raised her beautiful eyes, her face contorting with sorrow as she contemplated what God had suffered for her. Suffering, she said, could be so noble. God only gave us what we could bear.

  Grace cocked her head and considered the fallen Christ. The weight of the cross he bore was so heavy that he crumpled beneath it. Her eyes clicked right. Christ on the cross, looking to the sky. A dead Christ in his mother's arms. Grace looked at the fallen Christ —no, man and Christ. She understood that one. She had no doubt that man could be god and still be frail and sinful. Grace understood the weight of Christ's cross because she bore one so heavy that she was near breaking with the burden of it.

  It was then that despair put its arms around her and squeezed tight. Grace's breathing was suddenly loud and the kneeling woman whipped her head around, annoyed that her prayers were being disturbed. Grace blinked. No, that wasn't right. The woman was still caressing her rosary, her eyes were still closed, her head still bent. Grace trembled with the knowledge that she had imagined such a thing—that a woman blessed by forgiveness would even look her way. Grace put a hand to her chest and felt her beating heart. It skipped and thumped and frightened her. She put a hand to her face and felt the heat under her skin. She didn't want anyone to see her. She didn't want anyone to know about her cross. She didn't want to be there at all.

  Intending to leave, Grace tried to cut through the row of pews but stumbled instead. One knee struck wood, the other the padding on the kneeler. Her head whipped left and right. There was the altar and the golden box where God lived in a golden chalice.

  Righting herself, Grace put a hand on the back of the pew and looked over her shoulder toward the back where the entrance was shadowed and she couldn't see the way out. Suddenly, a young boy emerged from the confessional. He had barely cleared the door when Grace scrambled up and rushed to it. Twirling into the little room, she pulled the door closed behind her and leaned against the wall, safe in the stillness and the dark.

  Sweat trickled between her breasts, wetting the fine fabric of her blouse. She shivered. Her hands spasmed as she clutched at her purse to steady them. Her lips were dry and her eyes were screwed shut, almost sealed with tears of terror now that she was confined. But it was a small price to pay for being alone. So blessedly alone. Or so she thought until the middle of the wall opposite her moved. Slowly, a panel slid open, exposing an ornate metal grate. Behind the grate was a man. Grace could just make out his sharp profile. He wore a white shirt and a narrow purple scarf around his neck. He was young. Horrified, Grace could do nothing more than watch and pray that he didn't know she was there. She asked God to make the priest close that panel so that he wouldn't see her.

  But the little window stayed open; the priest didn't move. He could see her with God's eyes. But Grace was afraid to move, as terrified of leaving as she was of staying. She would make herself small, will herself to nothingness so that he would lose patience and close the grate. But he was a magician. He not only knew Grace was there, he knew something else.

  "You have sinned, my child."

  His voice filled the little room and covered her like a blanket. She couldn't breathe at all. Her knees buckled. Slowly, Grace McCreary slid down the wall to the floor. There was nothing to do. Nothing except tell the truth to this man.

  ***

  "Good Lord, Father Sidney is popular. I can't wait until I'm the boss. I'm going to take a retreat in Ireland every six months."

  Father Frank peered at two envelopes, trying to decide whether to put them in his superior's business or personal mail pile. There must have been a hundred letters in each and it was Father Frank's job to deal with the important things while the elderly priest was gone. But Father Frank was a lazy secretary, preferring to be among the people.

  Father Bob flopped in the chair next to his colleague and rubbed his eyes with both hands. "No complaining, Father. I just finished ten of the most awful confessions I have ever heard. Nothing interesting and almost three hours in the box." He thought again. "Except for one. I couldn't make heads or tails of what she was talking about. I hope she comes back. Whatever was bothering her sounded pretty ugly."

  "Did you see who it was?"

  "Nope. She bolted before I could get too far. I didn't recognize the voice. I doubt she was even Catholic. Didn't know the routine. Just babbled."

  Father Bob let his arms fall over the side of the chair and checked out his new colleague. Not exactly the kind of man he would have hung out with as a civilian, but he counted himself lucky to have a companion at all. So many parishes had no priest and they had three—well, two now that Father Sidney was gone for a while. It was too early to go to bed. He wasn't ready for night prayers. There was only one t
hing to do.

  "Let's close up shop, Frank. Come on. We'll have a glass of wine and watch the tube, then call it a night. Sidney won't be back for another couple of weeks. His mail can wait."

  "I don't know." Father Frank fretted as he split the difference and put one envelope in the professional pile and one in the personal. "I hate to get behind on his correspondence. There might be something important."

  "It's all important, Frank, but even God rested."

  "But it's only Friday."

  Father Bob shrugged. It was enough for the younger priest. He set aside Father Sidney's important business and went to have a glass of wine and watch a rerun of Law and Order.

  CHAPTER 9

  Everyone who was anyone in Hermosa Beach had been at Hannah's show. Strike that. Everyone who was anyone, except Josie, was still at Gallery C sipping wine, nibbling on chocolate-dipped strawberries and viewing the sum total of Hannah's recent artistic endeavors. Twelve canvases had been hung in the marvelous space that had once been the Bijou Theatre on Hermosa Avenue. Gutted, painted, exquisitely lit, the place called Gallery C was hot, the party cool and Josie was so proud of Hannah Sheraton.