An hour before midnight—and the party's pretend new year—Miles detected a subtle change in the mood he couldn't at first define, then realized was the feeling of being watched—although not by everyone. Which gave him the tingling sense something was about to happen.
#
It was almost midnight when Cara finally pulled into her driveway. A serious accident had caused long delays on I-95, doubling the amount of time it should have taken her to get home. Cara was exhausted.
Seeing her living room dark, she assumed the bulb in the lamp had burned out.
She wondered if Miles was home, but pushed those thoughts away, trying to keep focus on the future—the new life she was going to make with Ian.
Exiting her car, Cara went inside through the side door, switched on the kitchen light. Once in her living room, she stopped cold. Seeing the boxes and empty shelves—her home being packed to move—triggered a sense of panic. She placed a hand on the mantle to steady herself, taking deep breaths. Telling herself she had a plan. It was arranged and ready. She just needed to get through this nasty web of doubt.
With her suitcase in one hand, handbag over her other shoulder, Cara started up the stairs. In her bedroom, she turned on the light. And there he was.
#
It was the way the kid quickly put down his phone when Miles looked at him—like Miles had caught him at something—the boy trying too hard to look casual, laughing at something no one else seemed to think was funny.
Miles didn’t know the kid’s name, but recognized him, and tried to remember if he was someone he’d seen hanging around with Rusty Bremmer.
Miles said to Jennifer, “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?”
“I want to give my dad a call, see how he’s doing in Buffalo.”
“Now?”
“It’ll only take a couple minutes. He’s not much of a phone talker.”
“Alright—whatever.” She crossed her arms like she might be getting chilly.
“You want your coat?” Miles asked. “I can get it from the truck.”
#
Cara should have run. Or screamed. But instead she froze seeing Danny Valentine. In her bedroom. Waiting for her.
The shock of his presence took seconds too long to register in her mind. By the time it did, he’d moved between Cara and the doorway, cutting off any hope of escape.
He smiled—what she realized now was a mask of his sadism, just like all his other smiles had been. “Going somewhere?” he asked, having seen the packed boxes.
She kept her voice even—at least she thought she did. “To see my son.”
Valentine looked as if pondering the idea—as if it was fresh to him—then said: “I thought you’d left already. Then I found this.” From his back pocket, he withdrew her passport.
“Please…” Cara begged.
He liked that—the whimper of helplessness that served as proof of his dominance. He spoke slowly, each phrase like a whip to bare skin. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay here…and keep screwing…and pay me…or else get thrown in jail.”
“Please… I have your money.”
She was reaching into her handbag when he grabbed it from her. Dumped the contents onto the bed, all the hundreds spilling out of the hotel envelope—$7,000 she’d gotten from Harrison.
Cara's last logical thought before fear overcame her was to remember what Wendy had said about offering him a lump sum as payment in full. "Please take that and let me be."
“Let you be?” He sounded as if considering a philosophical point when actually mocking her. “Let you be what…? A dirty whore?”
The words—dirty whore—caused something inside Cara to break loose. Dirty whore —what one of her first customers called her while she was on her knees, then apologized to her, saying it was just something that turned him on to say. Words that had been in her head ever since—dirty whore, dirty whore—taunting her. To keep from hearing it again, to drive it from her thoughts, Cara covered her ears and screamed—an anguished cry lasting no more than a second before Valentine's hand on was her throat, vice-like, as he slammed her against the wall.
Unable to breathe, Cara looked desperately toward her bedroom window, hoping the light would be on in Miles' room, that he would see what was happening and save her.
#
On the street in front of the party house, Miles spotted the same pair of trucks that had stopped twice by his house over the past ten days.
Like that night in Florida two years, Miles continued forward, giving the impression of being unaware what was coming.
#
Cara sobbed on her bedroom floor. She wanted to call Miles, but had never committed his numbers to memory. She’d only saved them to her phone. But Valentine had taken that along with all her cash and her passport. Telling her he was having her put on the government’s official do-not-fly list. That she was never leaving the U.S. She was not going to see her son. She was going to pay him until he said she could stop.
Dizzy with fear, heart racing, Cara pulled herself upright and staggered to her bedroom window, falling forward at the last moment and almost hitting the glass before catching her hands on the sill. She managed to unlock the window, thrust it open, then dropped to her knees. She tried to call Miles’ name but the bruising grip of Valentine’s hand had injured her throat and all that came out was a pained rasp.
#
Jennifer was still on the deck, wondering what was taking Miles so long, when screams cut through music inside the house.
She pushed her way through the kitchen and living room to where a crowd looked down at the landing. Where the front door was smeared with blood. Someone was unconscious on the floor. And panicked voices shouted to call 911.
52.
“Where are we going? What happened!”
Miles had Jennifer’s hand, urging her across dark back yards in hopes of not being seen. “I got jumped.”
“Jumped? What do you mean?”
“Three guys came after me.”
“What? Who?”
“I don’t know who they were. I didn’t recognize them.” Five houses from the party, he angled her toward the street. “One of them took off, maybe to get some friends—which is why we’re out of here.”
Once they reached the sidewalk, Jennifer looked back and saw a handful of kids plus some adults gathered around a body face down in the street. “My God, Miles, you didn’t kill him, did you?” The body wasn’t moving.
He opened the passenger door of his truck for her to get in.
“Miles…?”
“He’s not dead.”
“Okay…” Jennifer examined his face by the interior dome light. “You’re not hurt?”
“No.”
“Should we call the police?”
“I already did.” Miles drove forward. “I said I’d been attacked and was leaving because I thought others might be coming. And gave my name and number.”
Jennifer tried to reason through that. “Okay… Yeah… I guess.”
“I’m going to take you to Autee’s, then I’ll deal with this.”
“No way.” Her voice was beginning to shake. “I’m staying with you.”
“Your mom will be thrilled.”
They were no sooner on the highway than Jennifer curled up in the passenger seat, saying she felt light-headed and might throw up.
Miles reached over to stroke her forehead. “Everything’s okay.”
She closed her eyes. “Dizzy.”
“Take deep breaths. You’re just freaking out.”
“Tell me again he’s not dead. He looked dead.”
He continued to stroke her forehead. “He’s not dead.”
“Okay…” Jennifer inhaled, let it out. “Okay…”
Fifteen minutes later, they were at Miles’ house. He carried her inside through the kitchen door and had her lie on the living room sofa, covered her with a knitted afghan, and softly caressed her back.
“You want something to drink?”
She shook her head, pushing back a wave of nausea.
Miles looked out the window toward Cara’s house. Getting out of his truck, he’d noticed her car in her driveway. And seen her bedroom blinds were raised and the window was open, but the bedroom was dark.
Keeping a hand on Jennifer’s back, he quickly texted Cara—waited for her reply. One minute. Two minutes. Three.
Maybe Cara had some guy with her and couldn’t talk. But there hadn’t been any other cars in her driveway. And why was her bedroom window open? He’d only seen her open it to call over to him. But tonight she would have seen his truck wasn’t there.
He phoned Cara instead of sending another text. No answer.
“You going to be alright a minute?” he asked Jennifer. “Cara’s not picking up. I’m going to go over and see if she’s okay.”
She nodded—that latest wave of nausea having passed. “I’ll go with you.” She started to get up.
“Just stay here,” Miles comforted. “I’ll be right back.”
“Have Cara come over, okay? She’ll know what to do.”
Miles hurried outside.
Cara’s living room light was off. He knocked on her front door, waited a few seconds, listened, then used the key to let himself in. “Cara?”
53.
By the time Debra Vance got to the county police station, it was 3:30 a.m. Miles had already been inside for over two hours, the last 45 minutes spent with Detective Roberto Delgado in a small interrogation room.
Miles was still with Delgado when Vance joined a weary-looking Rod Marin in the observation area.
Her lieutenant stood, arms crossed, wearing an unzipped police uniform jacket. He turned off the sound just as Delgado angrily demanded of Miles: “Let’s try this again…”
“You’re looking at a desperate man,” Marin said to Vance. He was referring to Delgado, who, pitched forward, yelled at Miles, aggravated that Miles wouldn’t look at him.
Miles sat passively, hands in his lap, his chair pushed two feet back from the table, angled toward the section of wall that, from his perspective, would appear mirrored.
Marin said, “Delgado expected this to be his break in the Bremmer case. But obsessions can play tricks on you.”
“What’s this got to do with Bremmer?” Vance asked.
“The guys who came after Peterson tonight were Bremmer’s friends. Four of them—but one was wise enough to run. He’s already signed a confession—not really cut out for being a vigilante, it seems. He says they’d been planning to ‘mess Miles up’ for a couple weeks. They’d driven by his house a few times. And there had been a lot of talk—and apparently tonight also enough alcohol—so when they found out Peterson was at this party, the geniuses decided to make their move.”
Inside the interrogation room, Delgado slammed his fist on the table, yelling for Miles to look at him—an order Vance heard through the mirrored wall without the microphone being on.
Marin continued filling her in on the night’s events: “So the four guys are there, sitting in their trucks arguing about how they’re going to do it, when Peterson strolls by to get his girlfriend’s jacket out of his own truck. What happened next we have from a neighbor who was outside, already more than a little irritated about noise from that party. He says three guys rushed Peterson. One was swinging a set of homemade nunchucks, which Peterson got away from him in what the neighbor says was ‘a flash.’ Then Peterson kicked that kid in the face, which knocked him out cold. A strike to the chest put the second kid down. While the last one ended up with a broken nose, fractured eye socket, some loose teeth, and a really bloody shirt. The neighbor said it all happened in about twenty seconds.”
“So self-defense,” Vance concluded.
“Something like that.”
“And Delgado thinks…?” Vance couldn’t imagine what that might be.
“It’s not so much about the fight, but Peterson’s neighbor: Cara Blakely. Peterson found her dead in her home. And she had marks around her neck like she may have been strangled. The M.E.’s confirmed bruising, but not as a cause of death. Most likely it’s an O.D.—probably whatever was in a zip-lock bag found on the floor near her body. How she got the bruises—that’s what’s keeping Delgado on Peterson. That he may have forced the pills down her throat. A neighbor saw Peterson run over to Blakely’s house. This same neighbor woman claims he was over there a lot. And tonight he let himself in and came out about five minutes later, went back to his own house, then a couple minutes after that left with some girl. An hour, hour and a half later—she wasn’t real sure of the time—she says Peterson returned home, which was around the time 911 logged his call about his neighbor being dead.”
“Maybe he found his neighbor, didn’t want the girl at his house involved, so he took her somewhere—maybe home—and didn’t call it in until he was back at his own house without her. Figured what’s the harm in the delay if the woman’s already dead.” Vance made it sound as if she was posing a theory instead of knowing what actually happened. Because Miles had called her before he’d called anyone—had called her as soon as he found Cara Blakely dead on her living room sofa.
Marin didn’t respond. Instead, he pointed at Miles. “You see that? The way Peterson just shook his head? But not at Delgado. He’s looking this way. Every couple minutes, he does that.”
Vance shrugged. “Peculiar.”
Delgado screamed at Miles that he was a cold-blooded murderer.
“So who called you on this?” Marin asked Vance.
“Nobody. Social media,” she lied.
Marin nodded, then turned the sound back on to the interrogation room. “I’m curious how long Delgado’s going to keep listening to himself talk.”
Since Vance’s arrival, Miles hadn’t said anything. That silence continued, as did the way he shook his head every few minutes toward the two-way mirror—which continued to puzzle Lt. Marin, but not Debra Vance.
Vance knew Miles was telling her not to use the SD card from the surveillance camera in Cara’s house—video recording that caught Danny Valentine earlier: Valentine crossing Cara’s living room toward the stairs; Cara coming home an hour later; Valentine leaving; Cara coming downstairs ten minutes later, looking shaken, unsteady on her feet; Cara walking through the living room; Cara coming back moments later with a baggie of pills and a glass of water; Cara sitting on the sofa, taking the pills two or three at a time—30 or more—until they were all gone, then curling up and closing her eyes; motionless for a couple minutes when she suddenly looked up and whispered, “Miles…?” Blinking when he wasn’t there. Then closing her eyes again and becoming so still that the motion-activated camera timed out and didn’t come on again until over an hour later, when Miles entered the house.
He tried to waken Cara, then hugged her for almost five minutes once he knew she was dead. Then he kissed her. Stood. And retrieved the surveillance camera from the built-in shelves.
After driving Jennifer Gaines home, Miles had delivered the camera to Debra Vance at her apartment, where they watched the covertly-recorded video together.
Seeing Cara whisper Miles’ name shortly before dying, Debra Vance had shuddered.
Once the recording ended, she and Miles had stared at the blank computer screen. A silence she’d broken by telling Miles that Delgado might suspect him of killing Cara, and that the video on the SD card would clear him.
Miles said the video would bring Valentine into the investigation, but what would it prove? That Valentine had been there? Valentine was a practiced liar. He could say he was investigating Cara being a prostitute. That she left the side door open for him. That they had a date. Without more, the video would merely give Valentine opportunity to cover what he’d done.
Also: Cara had come home and gone upstairs wearing a coat with a collar. It would be impossible to tell if she had those marks on her throat before Valentine ever got there.
Besides: Cara took the pills h
erself. She didn’t leave a note. And even in her final minutes of life she didn’t say or do anything that incriminated Valentine.
So Miles and Vance had agreed—in the urgency of what little time they had—not to reveal Valentine’s involvement unless there was enough evidence to charge him in connection with Cara’s death. Or unless it was absolutely necessary to keep Miles from being indicted for murder again. That was why Miles kept shaking his head toward the two-way mirror: assuming Vance would be there and she’d know he was telling her not to use the SD card.
So she kept it secret. Even though she was certain that was the wrong thing to do, and she was helping set up what would happen later.
54.
As suddenly as Miles Peterson arrived at Kensington High, he was gone. Three days after the death of Cara Blakely—time he spent at home mourning his pretty neighbor’s death with his father—Miles drove his grey truck with the Florida manatee license plates down I-95 and was south of Santee by sunrise.
Detective Roberto Delgado pressed the State’s Attorney’s Office hard, but there was no evidence to charge Miles with Cara Blakely’s murder—especially after Jennifer Gaines came forward, identifying herself as the girl the neighbor across the street had seen with Miles leaving his house the night Cara died. “If he’d told me Cara was dead,” Jennifer informed the police, “I’d have fainted out cold.” Jennifer also confirmed what happened the night Rusty Bremmer was beaten: that she’d been with Miles in his house and Cara helped them keep that from her mother. As for why Cara may have taken all those pills, Jennifer didn’t know, but thought it involved Cara’s husband taking their son to Ireland and not allowing Cara to see him.
Lt. Marin charged Rusty Bremmer with first degree assault for knocking out Ben Schuman’s teeth. It was a somewhat unpopular development given how Bremmer’s own injuries suffered that same night had left him permanently disabled, never to play football again, and the police were yet to arrest anyone for that crime. But Marin made no apologies and confirmed suspects were still being sought for questioning. Miles, however, was no longer considered a part of that group.
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 22