Closing the door, he stood for a moment, surveying his wreck of a house and Maureen’s once-beautiful garden. How had things gotten so run-down? He looked towards heaven and said, “I’m so sorry, Maureen.” Brian Vickery was a logical man. He didn’t believe in ghosts, premonitions, or anything that couldn’t be substantiated by science. So when a wave of determination and resolve overtook him out of the blue, he acted on it.
Searching through the teak credenza, he pulled out a random CD and put it in the stereo. He opened all the windows, not minding the frigid October chill. The cold motivated him; it whipped through the corners and took his desperation with it. With Jim Morrison singing “Light My Fire” as loud as it could go, he tossed out the piles of newspapers that had accumulated, vacuumed and mopped and scrubbed and scoured. He switched out The Doors for Crosby, Stills and Nash, singing along to the songs he knew so well.
Each room got the same treatment. Brian worked until the house was spanking clean and he was exhausted. It was just after 2:00 p.m. when he heated up Mrs. Winkle’s casserole and sat down at the table to eat.
Brian almost didn’t recognize Stephen Vine when he came sauntering down his driveway, dressed in jeans and a baseball cap, carrying his well-worn briefcase. The two had had professional dealings over the years and had gone to lunch a handful of times. Stephen had cross-examined Brian on the witness stand and over the years the men had become friends. They had gone deep-sea fishing a couple of times, and Brian and Maureen always received an invitation to Stephen Vine’s office Christmas party, a swanky affair held at the Corinthian Yacht Club in Tiburon. Brian had found Stephen to be a fair and ethical man, a rare quality in an attorney, in Brian’s opinion.
He got up and met Stephen at the front door.
“Apologies for the drop-in, but I’ve got a case for you. It’s big. A murder. Good money.” Stephen saw the napkin in Brian’s hand. “Did I interrupt your lunch? I can come back.”
Brian shook his head, unable to grasp his good fortune. He chuckled and shook his head. Maybe Maureen had been watching him after all, looking down on him in his despair.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just thought you might—”
“I’m interested.” Brian shook Stephen’s hand. “Come in. You’re not going to believe this, but I was just getting ready to make a list of attorneys to contact. Your timing is fortuitous, as I am in need of a job.” They walked into Brian’s kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
Stephen eyed the casserole. “It smells delicious.”
Brian served him up a plate of Mrs. Winkle’s food, and soon the two men were sitting at Brian’s kitchen table – Stephen in Maureen’s spot – and eating their meal in comfortable silence.
“Did you cook this yourself?” Stephen asked when he had cleaned his plate.
“No. My neighbor has been taking care of me since Maureen—”
“I’m sorry, Brian. What a tragedy. I haven’t called because I figured you wanted to be left alone.”
“I’ve let things slide,” Brian said. He took their dirty dishes to the sink and refilled their coffee cups. “Tell me about this case.”
Stephen reached into his briefcase and took out a thin manila folder, which he placed on the table. “Someone opened an American Express card in my client’s name, used it to rent a flat in the Avenues, lured a woman to it, and murdered her. They went so far as to plant the girl’s personal items and evidence of the murder in my client’s closet.”
“Sounds cut and dried to me, Stephen. Do you think maybe your client is guilty?”
Stephen shook his head. “She’s also a friend. She didn’t do it.”
“What else?”
“It’s Olivia Sinclair, Richard Sinclair’s wife.”
Brian perked up. “Richard Sinclair, the lawyer on television?”
“The very same,” Stephen said.
Brian opened the folder and read the police report. When he got to the crime scene photos, his heart pounded and his mouth went dry. “Jesus,” he whispered.
“What is it?” Stephen asked.
Brian met Stephen’s eyes. “This knot is unique. I’m betting there’s signs of manual strangulation under this rope.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I had another case just like it.” Brian pushed away from the table. “Come with me.”
Stephen followed Brian into an office that looked like a time capsule from 1980. A metal desk was pushed up against one wall. It boasted a rotary-dial phone, a Rolodex, an Underwood typewriter, and a Parker fountain pen, complete with an inkwell and stand.
Next to the desk, stacked in a neat tower, were four banker’s boxes with the words Janelle Maycott – May 2000 written on the outside. Brian took the top two boxes off the stack, opened the third box, took out a file and pulled out another police report, the pages worn thin with age. Opening to the photographic evidence, Brian handed the report to Stephen. “See the similarity?”
“How could I not? This girl is staged in the exact same manner as Sandy Watson,” Stephen said. “Tell me about the case.”
“Back in 2000, a young woman named Janelle Maycott, a college student at Cal, didn’t show up for her finals. When her mother couldn’t reach her by phone, she went to her apartment in the city and found her like this. Notice the knot?”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “Is that significant?”
“I think it is. It’s a left-handed bowline knot, used by sailors and people who know about boats. We believe Janelle was injected with something – probably propofol or something equivalent – before she was strangled.”
“Did you catch her killer?”
Brian nodded at the stack of file boxes. “As you see, no. This was the case I couldn’t solve. I made a promise to that girl’s mother that I would find out who murdered her daughter. When I retired, I planned on reopening the case and finding out the truth. Felt like I owed that to Mrs. Maycott. But then Maureen got sick and—” Brian shook his head “—everything fell apart.”
“So come to work for me, Brian. Let’s find the common connection between Sandy Watson and Janelle Maycott.”
Stephen didn’t have to ask twice.
“Come to my office tomorrow. We’ll discuss terms and make a plan. Of course, you’ll have to meet my client. She will make the ultimate decision about hiring you.”
“Understood. What time?”
“Meet me at my office at 8:30. Then we’ll go visit Olivia at her house.”
“At her house?”
“Did I mention she’s been bailed to house arrest? And I should warn you that she will want to be involved. She’s a good lawyer, and she could be useful.”
“I’m not used to working with the clients,” Brian said. “Sort of a lone operator, if you get my meaning.”
“We’ll find something for her to do,” Stephen said. “Don’t worry.”
Brian didn’t worry. It seemed that Lady Fate was throwing him a juicy bone. For the first time since Maureen died, Brian Vickery had something to live for.
Chapter 12
Friday, October 17
The reporters were still outside when Olivia woke. They stood in the gray morning fog huddled together, seeming to conspire as they smoked and drank coffee from disposable cups. Cigarette butts and other garbage littered the grassy hillside across from her house. Had they been out there all night again? Were they on alert for any sign of movement, any opportunity to invade her privacy and go for that money shot? The best course of action was to stay away from windows and ignore them.
Denny was coming to visit today. Olivia put on a pot of coffee and put two pieces of bread in the toaster. Pulling a chair up to the sliding glass door that led to the deck, she opened it wide, letting in the cold morning air. After Denny’s visit, Stephen was bringing the private detective over. With a bit of luck, they would find something for her to do, anything to keep her occupied.
This period of morning solitude spent outdoors had always been sacred to he
r, a few moments to herself before her busy day started. She had sat outside on the deck as a young mother, eager for the sound of her waking daughter. She had sat on this very patio the day before her first trial, nervous and apprehensive, pulling comfort from her little spot of earth. This space, with its sweeping view, her precious garden, beautiful despite her neglect of it, did not provide comfort today. Her truth was frightening. Now she was fighting for her freedom. Even more important than the potential for utter ruin was the precarious relationship with her daughter.
Olivia sipped her coffee and watched for Denny to come walking up the garden path, knowing her day would become much brighter if she could lay eyes on her daughter, assure her in person not to worry.
Olivia’s breath caught when instead David came walking up the back slope of her garden. He didn’t bother to stay on the path, opting instead to walk right through one of the beds, not caring that he trampled the herbs and flowers. The sight of him, so large and intimidating, caused Olivia to panic. A knot formed in her stomach. As he walked closer, his hands clenched in fists, Olivia realized she had never been alone with her son-in-law.
In her mind, there was nothing original going on with David Grayson. He was the only son of a wealthy and influential family. David worked for his family’s charity, an organization that touted its strong moral compass, while it fostered causes that cut benefits for those in need and lobbied for tax cuts for wealthy people that had more money than they would ever spend.
Linda Grayson, David’s domineering mother, had spoiled her only son, propping him up, telling him that he was better than everyone else, thereby instilling a sense of entitlement that never failed to take Olivia aback. She had known men like this since the beginning of her career, men who believed the wife was a commodity, that the house and the children were the husband’s property by right.
At the sound of David’s footsteps on the wooden stairs that led to the deck, Olivia went into the house and closed the sliding glass door. David would have to break it down to get to her.
“Olivia,” David said.
“Where’s Denny?”
David gave her his usual condescending smile. “Can I come in?”
“No.” She made a show of dialing 911. If David became menacing, if he attempted to come into her home, she would call the police.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t have to call the police. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here with a message.”
“Where’s Denny?” she asked again.
“That doesn’t concern you. I’ve forbidden her to have anything to do with you. In fact, both of us would appreciate you not interfering in our marriage.”
Olivia’s fear morphed into a white-hot anger as her heart broke for her daughter. “How dare you. She’ll find out what you’re like, David. Men like you always reveal their true selves eventually.”
“She’s pregnant. Did you know that?
Denny’s pregnant? I’m going to be a grandmother. A spark of joy and hope ran through Olivia, only to fizzle out when she realized her position.
“Ah, I can see she didn’t tell you. Doesn’t matter. You’ll never see your grandchild. I know what you did, Olivia. If Denny knew that you hired a private investigator to spy on me, she’d be furious. Stay away from Denny. And just so my position is clear, if you ever contact Denny, I’ll tell her how you went against her wishes and meddled in our marriage, tell her how you’re trying to break us apart. Denny’s mine. She’ll always choose me. You should come to terms with that.”
Not wanting David to see that all of his arrows had struck her heart, Olivia bit back tears. What a fool she had been to hire an investigator she didn’t know. He had been clumsy, had botched the job. Now David had something concrete to use against Olivia. Never had she felt so helpless, so out of control. This monster had come into her life, had sabotaged her relationship with Denny, and there was nothing she could do about it. Not now, not if she was going to prison. David Grayson had won. Olivia swallowed the lump that had formed at the back of her throat. Just as David turned to leave, she said, “This isn’t over.”
“Oh, but it is. I won.” David Grayson turned and headed toward the stairs. Before he left, he faced Olivia and said, “Don’t contact Denny again. Understand?”
“Go to hell, David,” Olivia said.
“Good luck with your trial,” David said before he headed down the stairs.
The surprise encounter with David left Olivia shaken and afraid for her daughter’s safety. She spent the hours between David’s departure and Stephen Vine’s arrival pacing in her kitchen, fueled by pent-up energy that she would cope with under normal circumstances by working in her garden. But she was trapped in her house and there was nothing she could do about it.
Images of David telling Denny that her mother had hired a private investigator to follow him haunted her. Denny’s reaction would be one of fury and betrayal. David, narcissist and master manipulator, would capitalize on Denny’s anger, galvanizing the wedge between mother and daughter. Forcing herself to take a calming breath and step back from the situation, Olivia tried to console herself with the knowledge that her daughter was an intelligent, sensitive woman. Narcissists like David Grayson were attracted to woman like Denny like a shark is attracted to blood.
David had won this round. Olivia needed to retire to her corner and take comfort in the knowledge that eventually Denny would see his true colors. Deep inside she knew, in this rare instance, non-action was the best thing.
Stephen was bringing the detective he wanted to hire today. In the spirit of making a good impression, Olivia spent fifteen minutes trying to look presentable. She put on foundation, blush, and lipstick. But as she stared at herself in the mirror, the makeup looked garish against her pale skin and bloodshot eyes. The inchoate gray roots against the dark brown dye reminded her that a trip to the hairdresser was in order, yet impossible. Bending over the sink, she scrubbed and scrubbed until the makeup was gone and her skin glowed from her efforts.
As she brushed her thick dark hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, she thought that she may just take Lauren’s advice and let it go gray. Why not? What was the point of trying to look young? The expensive facials, potions, lotions, scrubs, and masks all seemed like a big joke now. Certain there were no facials in prison, Olivia settled for some soothing lip gloss and scented hand lotion.
Clutching her notepad over her chest, she paced across her kitchen until Stephen’s car pulled up. Through the window, Olivia watched the reporters swarm as Stephen and the other man, Brian Vickery, got out of the car. Stephen stopped to speak to them, while Mr. Vickery headed down the path to the front door, impervious to the crowd on the street. Olivia hurried to let him in.
“Good morning. Mr. Vickery, I presume?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, as she stepped aside for him to enter.
Leaving the door unlocked for Stephen, Olivia followed Brian Vickery into the living room, studying him surreptitiously. He wore faded jeans and a well-cut sportscoat over a button-up shirt, an interesting combination of sophistication and scruff. At one time he had been a blond, but now his hair – and the whiskers on his unshaven face – were mostly gray. His eyes were a rich blue, almost azure. They reflected the man’s intelligence, but Olivia saw pain there. They were just about into that awkward stage where neither of them knew what to say, when Stephen joined them. He carried a thick file, which he set on the table.
“I was able to get the first round of discovery, thanks to Inspector Bailey. I have the American Express receipt for the vacation rental and the copies of the emails that you allegedly sent Sandy. We now need to figure out a way to prove that someone – the murderer presumably – used your name to open an email account and obtain an American Express card and rent the murder scene. That will be our first order of business. As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve hired an expert in this area, and he’s working on your case now, Liv. He’ll need some information from you. A phone call should do it
. I know you need to be proactive. But let’s talk to Brian first, so we can all be on the same page going forward. Brian, do you want to explain the situation or should I?”
Brian Vickery appeared to be the type of man who would let others do the talking. He took a second, as if collecting his thoughts, before he said, “Fourteen years ago a young woman named Janelle Maycott was murdered in exactly the same fashion as Sandy Watson. The killer injected her with something and strangled her. After she was dead, a rope was tied around her neck with a very specific knot, exactly like the one tied around Sandy Watson’s neck.”
“You think this is the same person who killed Sandy Watson?” Olivia saw Brian flash Stephen a look.
“I do, Mrs. Sinclair. If you hire me to work on your case, my plan will be to aggressively seek a common denominator between these two girls, in addition to what Stephen asks me to do, of course. I have copies of my original investigation, which I will use as a reference for your case. I know you’ll want to be involved. If you hire me, I’ll bring the files to you for review. In my opinion, fresh eyes on an investigation are always welcome. I’m hoping that you’ll find something that can connect the two women.”
“Why do you have your investigation files? Aren’t you retired?”
Olivia saw the brief flit of anger in Brian’s eyes and knew she had hit a nerve.
“This is the only case I didn’t solve,” Brian said. “I brought the files home so I could work on it during my retirement years. Janelle Maycott shouldn’t have died. I made a promise – never mind. Let’s just say that I’m committed to finding out who killed her.”
“If I hire you, where will you start? How will you go about helping me?” Olivia asked.
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