Girl Blue (A Brown and de Luca Novel Book 7)

by Maggie Shayne

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “The guy who’s confessing?”

  “Right. Totally didn’t do it. He only confessed to protect someone your uncle was about to drag off in manacles, who also didn’t do it. Mostly. I think.”

  “Shit.”

  “Put a dollar in the swear jar. And don’t worry. This is all pointing us closer to the truth. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Jere, and very soon. But in the meantime, I imagine you'll be off the cops' radar. Maybe you should give your lawyer the heads-up so she can get the ball rolling on your behalf.”

  “I will. Are you coming home?” he asked. It broke my heart that he sounded so deflated.

  “Yeah. I was going to go to the PD, but…I miss you guys. And I desperately need some bulldog love.”

  “Good. I was just gonna grill some burgers outside. Want me to throw one on for you?”

  “Yeah, thanks Jere.” That was a switch. Normally he’d have asked me to bring home food. He was growing up, or trying to. And if a hard childhood could make or break a man, I was betting on it making this one. He was good through and through.

  Sometime after eleven, Mason came through the front door, heeled off his shoes, scuffed straight through to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator without turning on a single light. I could see the dark circles under his eyes in the glow that spilled from the fridge.

  I was sitting at the bar in the dark waiting for him and sipping Diet Coke spiked with the vodka I’d stashed in my office, where it wouldn’t tempt Jeremy.

  “There’s a burger for you. Bun, lightly toasted. Veggies already chopped. All in separate containers. I know how you hate when things get soggy.”

  He stiffened when I started talking, waited until I was finished to close the fridge and turn around. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

  “Of course I had to wait up. We’re on the fritz and I want to know why. Did you really think I ran out there to warn Ivy Newman you were coming for her?”

  “Why the hell else would you have been out there? Again? Without even telling me?”

  “Um, first off, I love you, but you do not own me. I don't have to tell you everywhere I go and everything I do and you have no right to demand that. Furthermore, you went out without telling me where, and then when I texted you, you ghosted me."

  "I don't have to tell you everywhere I go and everything I do," he said, heavy on the sarcasm.

  "I went to Ivy's to find out what she knew about the murder of Gloria Orr and clear Jeremy. And also because I'm pretty sure the aforementioned Gloria told me to. Fuck, Mason, that you’d even come up with any scenario other than that is bullshit.”

  “You’ve been protecting her.”

  “Not at Jeremy’s expense. And not at yours.”

  He slid onto a stool across from me. I pushed the second drink I’d made across the counter to him.

  “You knew I was on my way.”

  “I was saving time. Knew I’d want at least two. Possibly four or five.”

  He looked at the glass, then pushed it away.

  I pulled his glass over next to mine. “I was hiding behind a dumpster at the McD's next door while you were texting with the chief. I saw her on the phone right before they opened the unit. But how was I supposed to know you were going to try to drag Ivy in for questioning?"

  “How do you know anything you’re not supposed to?”

  “Not by going through my lover’s computer when he’s not home, that’s for goddamn sure.”

  “There shouldn’t be booze in the house when Jere’s home.”

  “It’s hidden in my office, which is off limits, and also locked since he’s been home. Any other critique you’d like to share?”

  He lowered his head, looked away.

  I looked at my two drinks, took a deep breath, blew it out slow.

  He's right, Inner Bitch said.

  I know he is.

  “So you gonna tell me what went on with Reggie D’Voe at the station, then? Is his confession worth a shit?”

  He shrugged. “He told us where to find the professor's body and we found it there. So yeah.”

  I was stunned. And then I wasn’t. “He has it. What I have. And then some. That’s how he knew. He was reading us right there at the house. He knew what I'd seen in the storage locker. He knew that it belonged to Gloria Orr. He knew everything."

  “What, you want to clear him now, too? Do you want Jeremy to go down for this?”

  “Whoa, what the hell, Uncle Mace?”

  We both jumped like school kids caught smoking in the restroom. Jeremy came into the kitchen, snapping on the light, damn near blinding me. Not to mention revealing my possibly red eyes. And not from the vodka. Speaking of....

  I took both glasses to the sink and poured them out, rinsed the glasses, and then my mouth.

  Jeremy was standing there in the doorway, looking from one of us to the other like he’d never seen either of us before. “Are you two fighting because of my screw-up?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not.”

  We spoke over each other. I looked Mason’s way, and he looked back and we sort of agreed silently to get along in front of the kid.

  God, what are we becoming?

  Jeremy came in, sat on the third of four stools, on my side, so he could show his uncle what an asshole he was being to me, and also to make me super self-conscious about the possibility of vodka on my breath. Yeah, okay. I was going to dump the rest. This was going to be a dry household from now on. If we couldn't live without booze, how could we expect Jeremy, who was addicted to it, to live without booze?

  I nodded to myself, feeling good about the decision.

  And then he dropped the bomb.

  “Was my father a serial killer?” And he looked at his uncle. “Is that why he shot himself?”

  Mason looked like he’d been punched right between the eyes. He didn’t move, just looked at the kid, blinking.

  “Where did you get an idea like that?” he said at length.

  “Mom told me. But Mom’s crazy, so I thought I’d ask you.”

  “Look, Jeremy, I just don’t think–”

  “Rachel?” Jere asked, cutting him off and turning to me. “You know about this, too, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Me, and nobody else, kid.”

  “Rachel–”

  “For fuck sake, Mace, he’s a grown-ass man.”

  Mason closed his eyes.

  “Tell me, Uncle Mason.”

  After a long, anguished pause, Mason said, “Your dad texted me that night, from my place. The apartment. He sounded off, so I rushed home. He pulled the trigger just as I opened the door.” His voice broke. He looked at the water ring on the counter where his glass had been sitting, and I bet he was wishing he hadn’t refused it. “He left a note.”

  “What did it say?” Jere asked, in a voice rubbed in sandpaper.

  “He confessed to a string of deaths I was investigating.”

  “Murders. Not deaths. Murders,” Jeremy said.

  Mason nodded. “I destroyed the note. Found the evidence and destroyed that, too. It was my lowest day as a cop.”

  “And your finest day as an uncle,” I said. “As a parent. Jeremy, your dad felt as if there was some other force inside him committing the crimes, one he was powerless to fight. He took his life because he thought it was the only way he could stop it.”

  But Jere was looking at his uncle like he’d never seen him before. “You destroyed evidence? How could you do that, and still serve?”

  I stood up. “Hold on, kid. Listen to me–”

  “This is between me and Mason, Rache.”

  “The fuck it is. My brother was one of the victims.”

  That got his attention. He looked at me, horrified. “My dad killed your brother?”

  “Yeah. And I helped your uncle cover it up, once I knew the whole story. Jeremy, your father was dead. He couldn’t hurt anyone else. We found the bodies, so the relatives
had closure. The truth coming out would have devastated your family. Your mother was pregnant at the time. And think about your grandmother, what it would’ve done to her. Think about Josh, for God’s sake.”

  I reached across the bar and covered Mason’s hand with mine. “It was the right thing to do. Not the legal thing, but the right thing. For the right reasons.”

  “Mom knew,” he said softly. “That’s what drove her nuts.”

  “She probably had underlying issues," I said. "But yeah, it was probably a contributing factor."

  “So, the guy we all busted at the lake, the guy who went to prison for the crimes?”

  I looked at Mason. He nodded at me to go on. “Well, this is where it gets weird, kid. Your dad donated his organs. That guy got your dad’s heart, and kept on killing. I got his corneal tissue, and my NFP. Which I think your dad probably had, too. He just couldn’t handle it.”

  Mason seemed to have pulled himself together. He looked at my hand over his on the counter, and I moved it away. Then he faced Jeremy. “He was sick.”

  “Mom, too,” Jere said. “No wonder I’m so messed up.”

  “You’re not messed up. You’re a normal, healthy young man who’s susceptible to alcohol addiction. Murder isn’t genetic.”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “Jere,” I said, “It wouldn’t matter if it was genetic. A gene like that could only express under the right conditions. Stress, anger, negativity. You’re the opposite of all that. You have a good life with people who love and support you. You’re a good person.”

  “So was my dad.”

  Mason opened his mouth, closed it again.

  “What?” Jeremy asked. “What were you gonna say?”

  “Just that...Eric killed things even when he was a kid. Josh’s age."

  Jeremy lowered his head, swearing in a whisper.

  “Younger even,” Mason went on. “If this thing was in you, the way it was in him, you’d know it by now.”

  “Jeremy, it could have cost Mason his entire career. He could’ve done time for the decision he made. He did it to protect you and your brother, and your grandmother.”

  Jere took a deep breath, then he said, “I know. I know you did, Uncle Mace. I guess I'd have done the same thing."

  All the breath rushed out of Mason. Jeremy closed his eyes, and then they were off their stools and hugging each other and I was suddenly leaking saltwater all over my face.

  17

  LEGENDARY ACTOR REGINALD D’VOE FAKED OWN DEATH, screamed the headline. And the sub-headline added, Confesses he's the Riverside Strangler.

  Some version of that story was on every front page and 24-hour news network in the country. It was irresistibly glamorous. The man who’d played monsters and crazed murderers on the silver screen for fifty years, was claiming responsibility for a string of grisly murders, some of which had included torture. Even juicier, he’d been the public’s favorite suspect in the death of his fiancée, Hollywood darling Jez Parker, decades ago, a crime that was still unsolved.

  The arraignment was a circus, as Reggie, surrounded by bodyguards and lawyers, was brought into the courtroom. He’d spent the night in a cell, but if we thought Jeremy had received special treatment, it was nothing compared to what Reggie must be getting. No handcuffs, and he got to wear his own clothes. And yet he looked terrible. There was a gray caste to his skin, and his eyes were tired.

  Mason, Jeremy and I sat in the back of the room, trying to be inconspicuous. Celia Moon had shown up with an officer of the court to remove his ankle monitor last night. The courtroom was packed with press, none of whom were paying any attention to us.

  Reggie admitted his crimes, the DA stated he had evidence to support the confession, and Reggie’s lawyer asked for his release on his own recognizance until sentencing, arguing that Reggie was a dying man. His doctor had submitted a statement saying Reggie didn’t have the strength to harm a puppy right then, much less a human being.

  The judge granted the defense’s request. Didn’t even require electronic monitoring, because it was obvious Reggie was no danger to anyone. What should have been obvious was that he never had been. Certainly not as recently as a few days ago.

  We managed to sidle out just before the judge banged his gavel and the circus resumed.

  “I wonder why Ivy wasn’t here?” I asked as we walked out of the courtroom, down the steps, onto the sidewalk. We’d parked a block away, so we’d be able to get out again in the crush.

  Already throngs were pouring out of the courthouse behind us. We headed down the steps to the sidewalk.

  “Look," Mason said, "I know you two have some kind of…weird bond–”

  “Don’t be like that.” Things were still tense between us and I hated it.

  “I want you to stay away from her.” He leaned closer. “We both know Reggie didn’t kill anyone. But maybe she did.”

  “Maybe she did.” There was a commotion behind us, and I looked over my shoulder, then clutched Mason’s arm. “Something’s happening.”

  He stopped, too.

  Reggie was standing at the top of the courthouse stairs, holding up his hands for quiet. There were a dozen microphones shoved in his face. His lawyer was close to him, one hand on his back for support.

  “Mr. D’Voe, why did you do it? Why did you kill all those men?”

  “Mr. D’Voe, why did you fake your own death?”

  “Mr. D’Voe, what’s all this really about?”

  The same question was shouted by several reporters.

  He looked at his lawyer, said something. The lawyer shook his head angrily. Reggie just smiled. “I have a brief statement. I won’t be taking questions,” he said. “First, I want to apologize for pretending to be dead when I wasn’t. The truth is, I was diagnosed with cancer. Terminal. The end won’t be pretty, and I wanted to do that part in private. So, I faked it. Attended my own funeral in disguise. Got quite a charge out of that, as a matter of fact.

  “Facing my own demise led me to reassess my life, the work I had done, and I felt...well, frankly, I felt like it wasn’t enough. And then, through means I will take to my grave, I heard about a man who was abusing a child.” He stood there in silence for a moment, then shrugged. “So, I killed him. And it seemed such a good idea, that I learned of others doing the same, and I killed them, too.”

  “Are you alleging all your victims were pedophiles, Mr. D’Voe?”

  “I’m not alleging it. I’m stating it flat out. They were. And now, they are not. I have not one regret. That’s all I have to say. Please, part the waters and let me get to my car.” He moved through the crush, and down the stairs. Two young men in suits walked ahead, splitting the crowd for him, creating a wide channel. His lawyer held his arm as they descended through the mob toward a waiting limo.

  “But Mr. D’Voe, some of the dead men were tortured,” a reporter shouted above the others.

  Reggie paused, hand on the car’s open rear door. “Do you think their victims were not?” And then his eyes rolled, and he sank toward the ground.

  The two men and a couple of cops held back the crowd, while the lawyer managed to wrestle Reggie into the car. Then it sped off.

  “Holy shit, he collapsed. Mason–”

  “I know. We’ll go to the hospital.”

  “You go,” I told him. “I have to–”

  “Don’t tell me. You have to go to Ivy.”

  “Something’s wrong. She would’ve been here. I have to go. If you don’t trust me, Mason, there’s nothing I can do about that, but I trust me. That’s the thing. I trust this stuff I have. I trust my inner knowing. I trust my instincts, and they’re telling me to go to Ivy right now. I don’t know when you lost faith in me. In us. I hope to hell you can get it back. But either way, I’m going.”

  I jumped into the Crosstrek, went to slam the door, but he got in the way. He leaned in and kissed me on the mouth. “I love you, goddammit. Be careful.” Then he closed the door.

&nbs
p; It should’ve been a pleasant drive, all those trees, their colors in infancy, getting ready to pop into full blown vivid adulthood, their limbs arching over the roads leading to Dilmun. Cayuga lake’s dark waters rippled under the sun. Layer upon layer of mountains unfolded in every direction. But I drove too fast to enjoy it. And for me to speed past such breathtaking vistas without visually devouring them was a rare thing. But there was this feeling deep in the pit of my stomach that got worse with every mile. A sense of urgency nipped at my heels like a pissed-off chihuahua.

  The wrought iron gate was closed, so I parked on the road and squeezed in through the opening along one side, then brushed off my clothes as I walked quickly along the curving driveway. The D’Voe mansion seemed as if it was in mourning. I wondered what made it seem that way, but it wasn’t something I could see with my eyes. It was something I could only feel. The tall windows with their ornate gothic trim felt like the empty eyes of a being without a soul. The white paint seemed dull beneath a haze of gray loneliness.

  I trotted up the wide stone steps that would bear Jack-o-lanterns on either side of them most Octobers. I’d seen photos. Probably not this year, though. At the door, I rang the bell. Its deep, funereal chimes didn’t seem as entertaining anymore. They seemed morbid.

  Impatient, I followed by ringing it again, and then knocking on the door but there was no sound from inside, so I tried the knob.

  Unlocked.

  When I opened the door, its hinges groaned in pain, and I stepped inside. “Ivy? Ivy, are you here?” The place felt empty. I closed the door behind me and walked farther in, wondering why I felt like I should tiptoe and whisper. There was no logical reason. But I did it anyway.

  The foyer was empty, as was the big sitting room with the fireplace. Reggie’s picture above the mantle seemed to look right into my eyes. It felt almost like he was validating my feeling that something was wrong, and urging me to get on with it.

  I didn’t bother searching further. My intuition or whatever told me to go upstairs, so I did. I walked past the room full of mannequins. Its door was wide open, and even in daylight, it creeped me out. Somebody’s in there, whispered through my mind. “Don’t be stupid,” I whispered back.