Dead Wrong

by Mariah Stewart

  “What if the killer has been after you from the beginning? What if you’re the M. Douglas he’s been looking for all along, because of a recommendation you may have made to the court? To Judge Styler. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Is that totally crazy? That maybe the killer was after me because of something that happened on one of my cases, and that maybe he just made a mistake about my name? Am I starting to get paranoid?”

  “No. And no, it doesn’t sound crazy. We both know that you must have pissed off a lot of people over the past several years. I think we need to take a closer look at the cases you had in common with Judge Styler. Let me make a call or two, then I’ll get back to you. Go back to your office and stay there until you hear from me.”

  Mara rose on legs that shook just slightly. She didn’t want to make any assumptions, didn’t want to be melodramatic about this, but it was unsettling that Judge Styler would be murdered so soon after the Mary Douglas murders. And if it was the same MO as the other three women, stranger still. . . .

  Mara’s cell phone began to ring just as she returned to her office.

  Annie bypassed a greeting. “I think we need to go to plan B.”

  “What?”

  “Well, let’s start with this kid they locked up. According to Miranda Cahill, he’s said all along that he’d found that shirt in the park, and it’s beginning to look like he could be telling the truth. Now, he has confessed that he’s been wanting to kill his mother for several years. By the way, do you know why?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard the motive.”

  “Teddy Douglas told the police—as for years he has been telling anyone who will listen to him—that his father was an alien from the planet Targ.”

  “I’ve never heard of the planet Targ.”

  “Nor has anyone else. Apparently it exists only in Teddy’s mind. Anyway, his father being an ET makes Teddy half-alien. He believes that a shuttle is coming to take him to Targ on the first of May—”

  “Oh, boy . . .”

  “—and that the only person who knows where the shuttle is supposed to pick him up is his mother, and that she had refused to tell him.”

  “So if he misses his flight, it will be her fault, and he would have to kill her.”

  “That was his plan.”

  “Why’d he keep the bloody shirt?”

  “He thought it was a sign, because the victim’s name had been Mary Douglas, just like his mother’s. He thought the shirt had some power he could tap into if he needed to kill Mom.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that you don’t believe Teddy Douglas is the killer.”

  “In view of the fact that the judge was murdered while Teddy was locked up, it hardly matters, but just to make certain, I asked Miranda to fax a copy of his statement to me. It’s very clear, after reading it, that while Teddy Douglas is delusional—among other things—he’s not the man the police are looking for. He needs help, but he’s not a serial killer. He belongs in therapy—intensive, preferably in-patient therapy—not in a prison cell.”

  “Have you told the FBI and the Lyndon police department this?”

  “I’ve spoken with Miranda, and I’ve got a call in to my boss. I’m not really involved in the investigation at this point.”

  “So what do I do now?” Mara asked softly.

  “Right now you wait there in your office until someone from your PD arrives.”

  “You called them?”

  “Miranda did. Look, it may very well be that the real killer is someone connected to a case that you and the judge had in common, and that he’s still out there somewhere. Frankly, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. There’s a logic to this, and besides, it would explain a lot about the case.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the possibility that this is a contract killing. Someone who faced you in court wouldn’t be fumbling around, picking off women from the phone book. He’d know what you look like. Unless he hired someone else to do the job.”

  “Someone who doesn’t know what I look like.” Mara chewed on her bottom lip. “Someone who doesn’t realize that my name is Mara, not Mary.”

  “Let me get on this. If you don’t hear from anyone in your PD within the next twenty minutes, I want you to call me back.”

  “Okay.”

  “And while you wait, think about maybe taking a little vacation until someone gets a handle on this thing. There’s the cabin, you know. You could go up there.”

  “I’ll think about it. I will,” Mara promised.

  “One more thing . . .”

  “What?”

  “We may want to call Aidan back.”

  After she hung up, Mara sat at her desk, both hands in her lap. She stared out the window, trying to put it all into focus, but she simply could not. She couldn’t begin to believe that three women may have died terrible deaths because someone had been searching for her and repeatedly missed. But there was Judge Styler. . . .

  Mara turned to her computer and searched the files for the cases she and the judge had had in common. There had been quite a few, but several stood out.

  Birney v. Birney.

  Anderson v. Anderson.

  Giordano v. Giordano.

  Walsh v. Walsh.

  All four cases had been fraught with violence; all four had left ugly legacies. But the Giordano case had been by far the worst. After years of abuse at the hands of her husband, Diane Giordano had finally obtained a protection order and had filed for divorce from her husband, Vince. She also filed for sole custody of their two sons, but her husband fought her tooth and nail on this. The hearings had been horrid affairs, and Mara recalled quite clearly how Vincent Giordano had glared at her from across the room as she read her recommendations to the court, and how he had cursed Judge Styler when she announced her decision to award custody of the boys to their mother.

  “Who are you?” He had angrily approached the bench. “Who are you to tell me that I cannot see my sons? You think you can stop me from seeing my sons? Watch me. Yeah. You just watch me. . . .”

  Vince Giordano’s jaw had tightened and his eyes had narrowed to dark slits. He had been fined for contempt for the threats he had made against the judge that day almost three years ago and forcibly removed from the courtroom.

  And less than twenty-four hours later, Vince Giordano had entered the home he had once shared with his family and calmly placed one bullet into the back of each of his sleeping sons’ heads before shooting his wife.

  Oh, yes. Mara remembered Vince Giordano all too well.

  The soft knock caused her to turn around. Two men in khakis and tweed sport jackets stood in her doorway.

  “Detective Crosby. Good to see you again.” She swung her chair toward the door.

  “Mara.” He offered his hand, and she rose to take it. “Guess you know why we’re here . . .”

  Mara glanced at her watch. “That was fast. I just got off the phone with my sister.”

  “FBI lady. Profiler, I heard.” Detective Joe Sullivan dug his hands into his jacket pockets.

  “Right.” Mara nodded.

  “Works with that team who came up here from Virginia to give us a hand,” Sullivan continued. “Show us how it’s done.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, Mara turned back to her computer and hit Print. As the reports slid from the printer, she handed a copy to each of her visitors.

  “The list of cases common to both Judge Styler and me.”

  “Didn’t waste much time,” Sullivan noted.

  “We—my sister and I—thought you should know.”

  “It’s hard to not go back to Giordano.” Evan Crosby sat on the edge of Mara’s desk and scanned the names on the list. “It’s just too good a fit. I wouldn’t put anything past that bastard.”

  “Strange, the judge being murdered so soon after Giordano’s ex-mother-in-law is found dead.” Sullivan exchanged a glance with Crosby.

  “Oh, my God.” Mara sat back down. “Was sh
e killed the same way as the Marys?”

  “Bullet to the head, just like her daughter,” Sullivan explained. “Awfully coincidental, if you ask me.”

  Evan Crosby continued to look over Mara’s list, weighing each name. “These others, well, Kevin Birney was a junkie, but once he got out of prison that last time, he went back into rehab, really straightened himself out. I’d bet everything I have that he’s not our man.”

  “I wasn’t aware that he’d cleaned himself up,” Mara said. “Good for him.”

  “And Tommy Anderson, he left town about a year ago, is said to be living out in Seattle. I don’t see him coming back here. He was just as happy to leave.”

  “That leaves Walsh and Giordano,” Mara noted. “And of the two of them, I don’t think there’s any contest. Without question, Giordano is the more likely of the two.”

  “Gotta be him.” Sullivan nodded. “I just don’t know how he’s doing it.”

  “I know you must remember how he went off in court at his criminal trial. I seem to remember hearing that he’d mouthed off at Styler, too, after she’d granted custody to the wife,” Detective Crosby told her. “You were there for that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he strike you that day?”

  “Like a vicious, macho thug.” The words were out of Mara’s mouth before she even realized she’d spoken. “Like a man who was incensed that anyone had the nerve to come between him and what was his. The only emotion he exhibited was anger.”

  “That’s how he struck me at the criminal trial, too.” Crosby nodded.

  “Boy, the thought of that animal getting out of prison . . .” Sullivan shook his head.

  “What are the chances of that?” Mara asked. “I’ve heard some rumors.”

  “The chances are better than anyone would like them to be. He had a hearing that had been postponed for some reason, but it’s been rescheduled. If he can prove that all the evidence used to convict him was corrupt and the officer upon whose testimony the case was built had lied, the convictions go out the window.”

  “And you think that’s likely?”

  “I hate to say it, but yes, I do.” Crosby shook his head to show his disgust. “Joe and I stopped by for a little chat with Vince about two weeks ago, right after his former mother-in-law was found dead. We haven’t been able to tie him to it. But suddenly it seems that everyone who pissed him off is dying.”

  “Maybe he hired someone,” Mara said.

  “Well, if he did, he arranged it on the psychic hotline.” Sullivan rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s had no visitors other than his lawyer, no phone calls other than to his lawyer, and no mail. And God only knows how he’d pay off the contract—the guy is broke. No open bank accounts. His defense took every penny that he had. We’ve checked out every angle, believe me.”

  “Maybe his lawyer brought something in. . . .” Mara suggested.

  “He swears he didn’t.”

  “And you believe him?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Harry Matusek is a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. I’ve known him for years. I don’t always like his clients, but I think if something was going on, he might hedge—you know, client privilege and all that. But he didn’t. He just flat out said no, he’s passed on no messages to Giordano. Delivered no mail, no packages. But it’s tough to imagine that Vince doesn’t have a hand in this. The judge, the mother-in-law—too much of a coincidence. And those women all named Mary Douglas . . .” Evan Crosby shook his head. “Mara, Mary . . . way too close to be a coincidence. And you were the advocate for his boys. I think we need to proceed as if you were the target all along. And I think we need to determine whether Giordano knows—whether the killer knows—that the advocate is still alive.”

  There was silence in the small office.

  “My sister thinks I should take a little vacation,” Mara said quietly.

  “Well, that may not be a bad idea,” Sullivan told her. “But then again, unless someone tells him otherwise, he might think he’s already gotten to you.”

  “Right, I’m safe as long as he believes that he’s already killed the right person,” Mara agreed. “He must have thought the last Mary Douglas was me, because she worked here in the courthouse. But isn’t there a chance that Vince Giordano has realized the mistake and that he’ll get the word out to the killer somehow? Her picture was in the paper. If Vince had seen that—and if he’s behind this—he’d know that I’m still alive. If in fact I was intended to be his victim.”

  Crosby said, “We’re having him watched twenty-four/seven. If he so much as speaks to someone in the hallway, we’ll know about it. So even if he’s figured out that you’re still alive, we’ll know if he tries to convey that to someone else.”

  “All the same, maybe we should have someone watch Ms. Douglas’s house until we have a better feel for what’s going on,” Joe Sullivan said.

  “I think Joe’s right. Someone should be keeping an eye on you,” Crosby agreed. “I’ll see what we can arrange.”

  “That would be appreciated.”

  “And if you decide to take that vacation, you’ll let us know, right?”

  “I will, Detective Crosby. I haven’t made up my mind about that yet, but yes, I’ll let you know.”

  Aidan toyed with the telephone. It had been almost forty-eight hours since he’d called the Lake Grove PD. You’d have thought that someone would return a call from the FBI—particularly since someone had seen fit to actually check his credentials. Of course, that had led to the call from John Mancini.

  That call had led Aidan to spending the last two days working out with his therapist—who’d greeted him with a hearty, “Knew you’d be back, Mr. Shields“—and taking walks along the beach.

  This morning he would walk down to that new condo complex that stood at the edge of the sand. Later, this afternoon, he’d repeat the walk.

  Digging his bare heels into the damp, cold sand along the water’s edge had been therapeutic, and every day he added to the distance he walked to build his endurance. But it had also given him time to clear his head, time to think as he walked along the shoreline, the waves pounding at his feet, froth swirling around him as he walked purposefully. It seemed that lately, there was so much to think about.

  For the past several months, he’d thought about little other than himself. His injuries. His pain. His loss. His future, or lack of one.

  And then there had been that visit from Annie, and somehow his priorities had begun to shift. He’d been reminded of how much pain, how much loss there was in this world that had nothing to do with him.

  He stopped to pick up a piece of sea glass that the tide had tossed upon the sand. It was green, as green, he thought, as Mara’s eyes. Without thinking, he tucked it into the pocket of his shorts and continued on his way. It occurred to him then that he’d been thinking an awful lot about Mara lately.

  Not that that was a bad thing.

  It was just . . . different. It had been a long time since he’d found his thoughts turning to the same woman over and over again.

  He reached the jetty and stood for a moment, looking out beyond the breakers, where several small boats rocked in the wake of a large fishing vessel, then turned back the way he came, recalling again his conversation with John Mancini.

  He never thought it could happen, but he was back with the Bureau. Even in his present condition, they wanted him back. He’d make certain that John never had cause to doubt or regret his decision.

  Maybe tomorrow he’d drive out to that shooting range off Route 1 and he’d see what his nondominant left hand remembered about holding a gun. If Curt Gibbons was still out there, he would find him, find out just what it was that had set off Miranda Cahill’s bells a few years back.

  The minute he returned to his apartment, Aidan went directly for the pocket of the shirt he’d worn the day before, his fingers searching for the slip of paper he’d tucked in there. Smoothing out the wrinkles, he dialed the number
. He’d given the Lake Grove Police Department two days to call him back. He wasn’t giving them any more.

  To his surprise, the call was answered by Chief Lanigan himself.

  “Oh, yes, Agent Shields. There was a message from you here someplace,” the chief began. “Something about someone who used to live in Lake Grove . . .”

  “Curt Gibbons,” Aidan reminded him.

  “Right, right. Gibbons . . .” Chief Lanigan paused, then said, “Can’t say that the name rings a bell with me, but I’ve only been here for about four years. Now, maybe Chief Tanner might know the name.”

  “Chief Tanner?”

  “The chief before me. I replaced him when he retired.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Lives out by the lake now.”

  “Could you give me his number?”

  “Phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nope.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Chief Tanner has no phone. Said for the last fifty years of his life, his life was ruled by the telephone, that it never rang when it wasn’t something he had to tend to, and now that he didn’t have to tend to it anymore, he didn’t want to hear a phone ring ever again. So he doesn’t have one. He loves company, loves to talk about the old days. But you want to talk to him, you’ll have to do it in person.”

  “Well, then, I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.”

  “If I happen to see him in town, I’ll let him know that you called.”

  “Great. I appreciate that.” Aidan paused, then asked, “Chief Lanigan, are there any unsolved murders there in Lake Grove?”

  “Unsolved murders? No, not out here. Lake Grove is a real small, quiet town. The last murder out here was maybe five, six years ago. Man killed his brother with a hunting rifle. Other than that, we’ve had a few domestics over the years. The last big murder case I recall hearing about happened a long time ago, twenty-five, thirty years maybe, but I don’t know the details. That was long before my time.”

  “And it was solved?”

  “Yes. I imagine Chief Tanner can fill you in on that one. He would have been on the force at the time, though probably not as chief back then. Now, you planning on maybe taking a trip out here?”