by Sandra Brown
"They were dating exclusively."
"How long had they been seeing each other on this exclusive basis?"
"Let's see ..." She did a mental calculation. "Almost a year."
"And the relationship was intimate?"
"Are you asking if they slept together?" she asked testily, and when he nodded, she said, "They had a sexual relationship, yes. Is that relevant, Mr. Lawson?"
"It could be. What kind of guy is Hennings?"
"What kind? Successful. Overachiever. Nice-looking." "Ethnicity?"
She looked at the detective with puzzlement. "I'm not sure. Hennings is Irish or English, isn't it? Frankly, I don't see the relevance," she said with a trace of impatience.
"And you're sure that Hennings was the only man your sister was seeing?"
"What are you getting at?"
"In your opinion, is Hennings the jealous sort?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Why? Detective Lawson—"
She broke off when she heard the wheels of the gurney squeaking along the floor of the hallway. She never remembered standing, never recalled taking several halting steps before gripping the back of an armchair for support. The body had been placed in a zippered bag and then strapped to the gurney.
"I want to see her."
Lawson advised that she let the coroner take the body downtown and prepare it for formal identification.
"I want to see her," she repeated.
After a long hesitation, Lawson gave his reluctant approval. He stood close to her and she moved toward the gurney, which was now crowding the entryway. Lawson nodded to the medic, who unzipped the bag only far enough to reveal the face.
It was so still and pale, it could have been formed of wax. It also could have been her face, except for the brown flecks on the very white skin. Those spatters puzzled her for a moment, and then she realized that they were dried droplets of blood.
Reality hit with the impetus of a freight train.
She felt her knees giving way. "I'm going to be sick."
CHAPTER 7
"Ms. Lloyd?" A policewoman tapped softly on the powder room door. "Are you all right?"
All right? Am I all right? Hell, no, I'm not all right. She didn't speak her sarcastic thoughts aloud. The woman's intentions were good. "I'm okay," she called. "I'll be out in a moment."
She'd had the dry heaves, but the nausea had passed now, and she was left feeling only hollow, emotionally as well as physically. She bathed her face and neck with cold water, rinsed her mouth out, and washed her hands. She looked ghastly, but she couldn't think of a single reason why it mattered.
When she opened the bathroom door, the policewoman smiled sympathetically. "Can I get you anything?"
"Yes. Detective Lawson."
The policewoman accompanied her back into the central room, where the detective was kneeling down in front of a window. Another cop was explaining to him that footprints had been found outside. "We'll dust. Impressions have already been made of the footprints. We're getting soil samples, too."
"The drinking glass in the kitchen?"
"Already bagged."
Lawson nodded as he stood, favoring what appeared to be arthritic knees. The policewoman got his attention. "Ms. Lloyd has asked to speak to you."
"Sure."
As he approached, she geared herself for the argument she knew was coming. "I want to see the bedroom."
He shook his head. "I don't think that's advisable."
"You mentioned evidence that indicates Gillian was targeted. If I see what you're talking about, I may be able to shed some light."
"We'll have photographs."
"Why wait on them?"
"It's not pretty."
"And I'm not a shrinking violet. I know it'll be bloody. I saw blood splashes on her face. And you said she was stabbed repeatedly. I know what to expect."
"Not entirely." He lowered his gaze for a few seconds before apologetically meeting hers again. "I haven't mentioned this before because you had enough to deal with."
What could he have possibly omitted? How much worse could it get? She stared him down, silently demanding that he hold nothing back.
"There's some writing on the bedroom walls."
"Writing?"
"Apparently he— Based on the size of the footprints we found outside the window, our suspect is male. Looks like he dipped a washcloth in your sister's blood and scrawled some... well, some obscenities on the walls."
Her stomach rose and fell like an ocean swell. But she was resolved to see the worst of it. If she didn't, then years from now her imagination would still be painting the scene for her. She wanted to see it as it actually was, not an image her mind conjured up. It must be real to her, not an abstract. She must see the scene in order to cope with it and, she hoped, eventually file it away in a compartment of her heart and subconscious. If she didn't confront it now and deal with it, she would never be able to lock it away. The frightening unknown would remain with her always, haunting her forever.
"I must see where and how my sister died, Detective."
The crime scene unit had completed their work. They had packed their gear into a van and departed, officially relinquishing the scene to the homicide detective. It was at Law-son's discretion who went in and out of that room now.
The seasoned investigator peered deeply into her eyes, and apparently her steady gaze conveyed her determination. He sighed like a man conceding an argument he was destined to lose.
He motioned her down the hallway, then paused on the threshold of the bedroom and waited for her to catch up with him. She stepped into the room, braced for the worst.
Actually, it was almost easy to view the scene with detachment. Because nothing in her life prior to this moment was relatable. She had no point of reference for comparison. The carnage was so horribly foreign to her experience that she couldn't connect with it on any level.
It was as shocking to her system as plunging into frigid waters. The quality that made it stupefying was the same quality that provided protection. It wasn't painful because all sensation was instantly frozen. Upon seeing her sister's deathbed, her senses froze. That's the only way her sensibilities could have sustained this assault on them.
After being photographed as they'd been found, the linens had been stripped from the bed, bagged, and sent to the crime lab for testing. But there was a bloodstain in the center of the mattress that hadn't completely dried.
She stared, transfixed by the horror of it.
"We figure he was standing about where you are now," Lawson told her. "There was some loose dirt there on the floor that he must've tracked in from outside. She was probably asleep."
"I hope so." Her remark was only half audible.
"She was found lying on her back. Nude. Was that normal? Is that how she usually slept?"
"I think so. Not always."
"We found a pajama top on the bed, but the bottoms haven't been located."
She looked at him for an elaboration, but he glanced away. "There were no resistance wounds on her arms and hands. Seems it was quick. If that's any comfort."
Her eyes strayed from the mattress to the nightstand. It had been dusted for fingerprints. The powder had left a messy residue on the ruby pendant. She looked over at Lawson, a question in her eyes.
"Yeah, go ahead," he said.
She picked up the pendant and closed a fist around it.
The walls screamed to be noticed. Not that she could have avoided noticing them. The printed letters were large and well formed, except for the ones that had dripped rivulets of blood. The killer had felt comfortable enough to take his time and get his message across.
WHORE. MOTHERCUNT. BREED-FUCKER.
She stared at the writing, wondering first about the sick individual who could have done this, marveling at the unbridled rage or hopeless psychosis that had plunged someone into such depths of depravity.
Then she reread the words, concentrating on their meaning.
I
n one heart-stopping instant, she deciphered them. Realization struck her like a blinding light. She even covered her eyes and recoiled, crying out, "Oh, my God, oh, my God!"
She spun around and tried to flee the room, but she ran squarely into Lawson. "Ms. Lloyd? What's wrong? What is it?"
"Oh, my God!" she screamed. "It was supposed to be me! It should have been me!"
She tried to fight off his hands as she stumbled into the hallway, but he was stronger and wouldn't let her go. Once outside the room, he propped her against the wall. She closed her eyes, but that didn't stop the tears. She caught her lower lip between her teeth in an attempt to contain the keening sounds issuing from her throat.
Lawson had her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly. "Talk to me. What's with the words? What do they mean?"
Another commotion erupted at the front door. "Let me in. I was told to come here. What's happened? What's going on?" Jem Hennings was trying to push his way through a human barricade of uniformed policemen.
"Are you Hennings?" Detective Lawson barked.
"Who the hell are you?"
The other officers obeyed the abrupt motion of Lawson's hand and stepped aside, allowing Jem Hennings to come in. He strode up to Lawson, who showed him his badge. "Dallas PD."
Clearly baffled, Jem reached past the detective and took her hand. "For God's sake, Gillian, you're as pale as a ghost. Are you all right? What the hell is going on?"
Before she had an opportunity to respond, Lawson said, "Gillian was taken away in an ambulance."
"An ambu— Why?" Jem's gaze swung back to her. "Melina? What's wrong? Has something happened to Gillian?" No one said anything. When next he spoke, his voice was shrill. "Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?"
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Hennings."Jem faced the detective. "Gillian is dead. She was found murdered in her bed this morning."
He opened his mouth but didn't emit a sound. He staggered backward a step or two and gaped at them with disbelief. Then he turned toward the other policemen still clustered near the front door, as though willing them to contradict the unbelievable news.
Eventually he managed to gasp, "That's impossible."
Their funereal expressions must have confirmed it for him, because he covered his mouth for several seconds before dragging his hand down his chin.
"Would you like to sit down, Mr. Hennings?"
He shook his head. "You said she was... was murdered?" His eyes strayed beyond them, then, before either could react, he charged past.
"Wait!"
"Jem!"
Their grasping hands came up empty. Neither could stop him. But he drew up short when he reached the threshold of the bedroom. "Oh, God," he moaned. "Oh, no." He covered his head with both hands.
"Jem, I'm sorry." "Melina... ? What... ?"
She moved up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Come away, Jem. Sit down with me. I need you beside me. We need each other."
His sobs were painful to listen to. It took some urging, but she managed to turn him around. Leaning into each other, they staggered into the living room, where they sat down side by side on the sofa. He groped for her hand, squeezed it, raised it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles.
"Melina, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. Did you find her?"
"A neighbor who came over early to borrow coffee."
She was moved to see the tears collecting in his eyes.
To Lawson's credit, he gave them several minutes alone to comfort one another. Eventually he sat down on the ottoman as he had before, ungracefully, bulky shoulders hunched, looking like a frog squatting on a lily pad.
Jem had composed himself. He mopped his face with his handkerchief, then addressed Lawson. "What happened?"
He gave Jem a rundown of the known facts. "She sustained multiple stab wounds, several of which could have been fatal. It appears to have been an act of vengeance. Rage for sure."
"Who could have been enraged at Gillian?"
"That's what we're going to find out. Anything you can tell us might help." Jem nodded vaguely and Lawson continued. "When did you last speak to her?"
"Last night. I came over here with a gift. A ruby pendant." "We found it on the nightstand."
"I have it, Jem." She opened her hand. The piece of jewelry had left a heart-shaped impression in her palm.
Jem lifted it from her hand and smiled wistfully. "It looked beautiful on her. She was wearing it when I left."
"What time was that?" Lawson asked.
"Uh, nine or so, I think," he replied, rubbing a spot on his temple. "Do we have to do this now? I need some time."
"If you would indulge me by answering a few more questions." Reluctantly Jem signaled for the detective to continue. "How long were you here?"
"Not long. Gillian was ready for bed when I arrived. I gave her the pendant and left."
"Just gave her the gift and left?" "Basically."
Lawson said nothing for a moment but used the time to take Jem's measure. "That's a valuable piece of jewelry, Mr. Hennings. Was last night a special occasion?"
"Yes."
"Care to share?" "It was private." "Private."
"That's right."
Lawson tugged on his lower lip as though mulling over a contradiction. "So you just came and went. Around nine o'clock." "Yes."
"And you said Ms. Lloyd was ready for bed when you got here?"
"She was very tired. She'd had an eventful day. She was already in pajamas." "Pajamas."
"Am I not speaking clearly, Detective Lawson? Or is there something wrong with your hearing?" Jem asked testily. "Why are you repeating my answers? Jesus Christ! My fiancée has been found murdered—"
"Fiancée?"
"Fiancée?"
She and Lawson spoke in unison, neither concealing their surprise.
"You were engaged?" the detective asked.
Ignoring him, Jem turned to her, looking chagrined. "This should have been happy news, Melina. I'm sorry you had to hear it under these tragic circumstances."
"You were engaged?" she repeated.
"I know you two confided everything to each other. But Gillian and I made a lover's pact not to tell anyone for a while." "When did this come about?"
"A few weeks ago."
"Had you set a wedding date?"
"Not yet. We were taking first things first."
He gave her a significant look, and she realized that he was referring to the Al, which he obviously didn't want discussed in front of Lawson. "I see."
"It was tough to keep the secret," he said, smiling sadly. "Especially from you."
"It must have been."
"There was no engagement ring on her finger," Lawson noted. "You're sure that it was official and that Ms. Lloyd had agreed to marry you?"
Jem rounded on the detective. "Of course I'm sure. What do you think? That I'm making it up?"
Lawson shrugged. "Are you?"
"Why would I?"
"Because it might be easier for a homicide investigator to believe a fiancé rather than a boyfriend who drops by at bedtime with an expensive gift but who doesn't spend the night. Were you angry because Gillian sent you packing last night and didn't invite you to stay over?"
Jem sprang to his feet. "You think I did that?" he shouted, angrily pointing toward the bedroom. "I loved her. She was going to be my wife."
"Jem."
"Calm down, Hennings." Lawson was unfazed by Jem's angry outburst. "Nobody's accused you of anything. I'm just tossing out some options."
"Your options stink."
"I just want to make certain I've got your story straight." "It's not a story. It's the truth."
"Fine. Sit down."
Jem was fuming and looked ready to fight, but he resumed his seat. "Did he put you through the third degree, too, Melina?"
"I had to answer some questions, yes."
Lawson continued as though Jem's outburst had never occurred. "You said Ms. Lloyd was wearing paj
amas." "Yes," Jem hissed. "Boxer shorts and a matching top." "She wasn't wearing any when she was found."
"Then she must've taken them off when she went to bed." "We found the top. No bottoms."
Jem's posture became rigid. "Your implication is insulting to both Gillian and me."
"I'm not implying anything. Why are you so defensive?"
Jem remained mutinously silent. Lawson picked up his questioning. "After you left here, did you go straight home?" "Yes."
"Can anyone corroborate that?"
"The doorman at my building. I live in a high-rise just off Oak Lawn. I left my car with the parking garage attendant. It remained in the garage until I left for work this morning. You can check it out."
"I will."
"There's no need for you to do that, Detective Lawson. It would be a waste of your time."
Jem jerked his head around to her. "What do you mean, Melina?"
Both he and Lawson had been startled not only by the quiet quality of her voice, but also by the statement. Even the other policemen in the room stopped what they were doing and paused to listen. The policewoman who'd treated her with such kindness was regarding her expectantly.
She addressed the detective. "There's no need for you to check with the personnel at Jem's building. I can corroborate his story."
"Melina, what—"
She shook her head to stop Jem's shocked protest. "I know you were here at nine o'clock last night. You left about nine-fifteen. After... after you left, I rinsed the conditioner off my hair."
For several seconds he stared at her with misapprehension. Then his lips parted in wordless surprise. "That was..."
"Me," she said gently. "I was the one here with you last night." He was still too stunned to speak, so she turned to the detective, who was now regarding her with a mix of astonishment and suspicion.
"When we were kids, my sister and I often switched identities," she explained. "We played tricks on babysitters, schoolteachers, friends, even relatives. It was a child's game to us, a challenge to see if we could pull it off without being discovered. We always got away with it." She returned to Jem, who was still looking at her with patent disbelief. "I guess we still can."
Finding his voice, he stammered, "But. . . I kissed you."