Beyond Suspicion (6 page)

•

Cindy was staring into the eyes of a killer. Or at least it exuded a killer’s attitude. It was a two-pound Yorkshire terrier that seemed to think it could take on a pack of hungry Rottweilers simply because its ancestors were bred to chase sewer rats. Scores of color photographs were spread across the table before her. A dozen more images lit up the screen on her computer monitor in an assortment of boxes, like the credits for
The Brady Bunch
, all of “Sergeant Yorkie” and his adorable playmate, a four-year-old girl named Natalie.

Cindy’s South Miami studio had been going strong for several years, but she did portraits only three days a week. That left her time to do on-site shoots for catalogs and other work. The studio was an old house with lots of charm. A small yard and a white lattice gazebo offered a picturesque setting for outdoor shots. For reasons that were not entirely aesthetic, Cindy preferred outdoor shots when dealing with animals.

A light rap on the door frame broke her concentration. Cindy was alone in her little work area, but not alone in the studio. It had been five years since that psychopath had attacked her, and even though she was in a safe part of town, she didn’t stay after dark without company. Tonight, her mother had come by to bring her dinner.

“Are you okay in there, dear?”

“Just working.”

A plateful of chicken and roasted vegetables sat untouched on the table, pushed to one side. A white spotlight illuminated the work space before her. It was like a pillar of light in the middle of the room, darkness on the edges. A row of photographs stretched across the table, some of them outside the glow of the halogen lamp. The shots were all from the same frame, but each was a little different, depending on the zoom. In the tightest enlargement the resolution was little better than randomly placed dots. She put the fuzzy ones aside and passed a magnifying glass over the largest, clear image. She was trying to zero in on a mysterious imperfection in the photograph she’d taken of the little girl and her dog.

“You’ve been holed up in here for hours,” her mother said.

Cindy looked up from her work. “This is kind of important.”

“So is your health,” her mother said as she glanced at the dinner plate. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“No one ever died from skipping dinner.”

She went to Cindy’s side, brushed the hair out of her face. “Something tells me that this isn’t the only meal you’ve missed in the last few days.”

“I’m all right.”

Her mother tugged her chin gently, forcing Cindy to look straight at her. It was the kind of no-nonsense, disciplinary approach she’d employed since Cindy’s childhood. Evelyn Paige had been a single mother since Cindy was nine years old, and she had the worry lines to prove it. Not that she looked particularly old for her age, but she’d acted old long before her hair had turned silver. It was as if her husband’s passing had stolen her youth, or at least made her feel older than she was.

“Look at those eyes. When’s the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”

“I’m just busy with work.”

“That’s not what Jack tells me.”

“He told you about my dreams?”

“Yes.”

Cindy felt slightly betrayed, but she realized Jack was no gossip. It was Jack, after all, who’d stuck with her through the darkest times. He wouldn’t have gone to her mother if he wasn’t truly concerned about her. “What did he tell you?”

“How you aren’t sleeping. The nightmares you’re having about Esteban.”

“They’re not really nightmares.”

“Just the kind of dreams that make you afraid to close your eyes at night.”

“That’s true.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“October.”

“That long?”

“It’s not every night. October was when I had the first one. On the anniversary of… you know-Esteban.”

“What does Jack say about this?”

“He’s supportive. He’s always been supportive. I’m trying not to make a big deal out of it. It’s just not good for us. Especially not now. We’re trying to make a baby.”

“So, these dreams. Are they strictly about Esteban?”

Cindy was looking in the general direction of her mother, but she was seeing right past her. “It always starts out like it’s supposed to be about him. Someone’s outside my window. I can hear the blanket of fallen leaves scuffling each time he takes a step. Big, crispy leaves all over the ground, more like the autumns they get up north than we have in Florida. It’s dark, but I can I hear them moving. One footstep at a time.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Then I walk to the back door, and it’s not Esteban.”

“Who is it?”

“Just more leaves swirling in the wind. Then one of them slams against the door, and
bam
, he’s suddenly there.”

“Esteban?”

“No.” She paused, as if reluctant to share. “It’s… Daddy.”

“That’s… interesting,” Evelyn said, as if backing away from the word “creepy” again. “You sure it’s your father?”

“Yes.”

“Does he come to you as an old man, or does he look like the young man he was when he died?”

“He’s kind of ghostly. I just know it’s him.”

“Do you talk to him?”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

“He wants Jack.”

Her mother coughed, then cleared her throat. “What do you mean, he wants Jack?”

“He wants Jack to come and play poker with him.”

“That’s…” The word “interesting” seemed to be on the tip of her tongue, but it didn’t suffice. “I can see why you’re not sleeping. But we all have strange dreams. Once I dreamed I was talking with a man who was supposed to be your father, but he looked like John Wayne. He even called me ‘pilgrim.’”

“This is different. It’s not that Esteban shows up at my back door looking like Daddy. It’s more like one thought drifting into another. It’s as if Daddy comes in and takes over the dream, forcing me to stop thinking of Esteban.”

“That sounds normal. Don’t people always tell you to think happy thoughts when you want to stop scaring yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“So, you’re lying in bed at night thinking of this man who assaulted you. And your mind drifts to happy thoughts of your father to make you stop.”

“That was my take on it, too. But it still frightens me. Especially the way he seems to be asking for Jack.”

“What does Jack say about that?”

“I haven’t told him that part. Why freak him out?”

“Exactly. And why freak yourself out? Esteban is dead. Whatever he did to you, he can never do it again.”

“I know that.”

“You can’t let him creep into your dreams this way.”

“It’s not that I let him. I just can’t stop him.”

“You have to force yourself to stop.”

“I can’t control my dreams.”

“You must.”

“Can you control yours?”

“Sometimes. Depending on what I read or think about before I fall asleep.”

“But not all the time.”

Evelyn seemed ready to argue the point but stopped, as if realizing that she wasn’t being honest. “No, I can’t always keep them under control.”

“No one can. Especially when dreams are trying to tell you something.”

“Cindy, don’t spook yourself like that. Dreams are a reflection of nothing but your own thoughts. They don’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“That’s not true. This dream I’m having about Daddy and Esteban is definitely trying to tell me something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ve had the same dream in the past, and every time I have it, something bad happens. It’s a warning.”

“Don’t do this to yourself. It’s only a dream, nothing more.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

Her mother just lowered her eyes.

“Before Daddy died,” said Cindy, “you had that dream. You knew it was going to happen.”

“That’s overstating it, sweetheart.”

“It’s not. You saw his mother carrying a dead baby in her arms. A week later, he was dead.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Aunt Margie told me.”

Margie was Evelyn’s younger sister, the family big-mouth. Evelyn blinked nervously and said, “I didn’t see it. I dreamed it.”

“And why do you think you dreamed it?”

“Because I was worried about your father, and those worries found their way into my dreams. That’s all it was.”

Silence fell between them, as if neither of them believed what she’d just said. Cindy said, “I get this from you.”

“Get what?”

“The ability to see things in dreams. It’s something you passed on to me.”

“Is that what you think? You have a gift?”

“No. A curse.”

Their eyes locked, not with contempt or anger, more along the lines of mutual empathy. Her mother finally blinked, the first to look away.

“Don’t stay here too much longer,” she said. “Try to get some sleep tonight.”

“I will. As soon as Jack gets home.”

Her mother cupped her hand along the side of Cindy’s face, then kissed her on the forehead. In silence, she stepped outside the glow of the spotlight and left the room.

Cindy was again alone. Her eyes drifted back toward the photographs before her, the shots she’d taken of a little girl and her dog. She was relieved that her mother hadn’t asked any more questions. She wasn’t sure how she would have explained what she’d been doing. Lying never worked with her mother, and telling her the truth would only have heightened her worries. The dreams alone were strange enough.

Imagine if I’d shown her this.

One last time, Cindy ran the magnifying glass across the enlarged image before her and held it directly over the flaw. An amateur might have been puzzled, but she was looking through a trained eye. In Cindy’s mind, there was absolutely no mistaking it. She extended her index finger toward the photograph-slowly and with trepidation, as if putting her hand into the fire. Her fingertip came to rest in the lower right-hand corner.

It was there, in this one photograph out of ninety-six shots she’d taken outside her studio, that a faint shadow had appeared.

A chill ran up her arm and down through her body. She’d examined it from every angle, at varying degrees of magnification. This wasn’t a cloud or a tree branch bending in the breeze. The form was definitely human.

“Daddy, please,” she whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

She tucked the photograph into an envelope and turned out the light.

•

Jack and Cindy went out for dinner Friday night, a neighborhood restaurant called Blú, which specialized in pizzas from wood-burning ovens. It was a bustling place with a small bar, crowded tables, and smiling waiters whose English was just bad enough to force patrons to talk with their hands like real Italians. The chefs were from Rome and Naples, and they dreamed up their own recipes, everything from basic cheese pizza like you’ve never tasted to pies with baby artichokes, arugula, and Gorgonzola cheese. It was Jack’s version of comfort food, the kind of place he went whenever he lost a trial.

“How bad was it?” asked Cindy.

“Jury was out all of twenty minutes.”

“Could have been worse. Your client could have been innocent.”

“Why do you assume he was guilty?”

“If an innocent man were sitting in jail right now, you’d be kicking yourself all over town, not stuffing your face with pizza and prosciutto.”

“Good point.”

“That’s the truly great thing about your job. Even when you lose, it’s actually a win.”

“And sometimes when I win, it’s a total loss.”

Cindy sipped her wine. “You mean Jessie?”

Jack nodded.

“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”

“Sorry.” He’d told her about the latest confrontation with Jessie, though Cindy hadn’t seemed interested in the details. The message was pretty clear: It was time to put Jessie behind them.

“Do you think I made a mistake by leaving the U.S. attorney’s office?”

“Where did that come from?”

“It ties in with this whole Jessie thing.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about her tonight.”

“This is about me, not her.” He signaled the waiter for another beer, then turned back to Cindy. “I used to think I was good at reading people, whether they were jurors or clients or whoever. Ever since Jessie, I’m not so sure.”

“Jessie didn’t just lie. She manipulated you. This latest episode proves what a total wack job she is. You said it yourself, you thought she was on drugs.”

“Maybe. But what if these investors really are after her?”

“She should go to the police, exactly like you told her.”

“She won’t.”

“Then she isn’t really scared. Stop blaming yourself for this woman’s problems. You don’t owe her anything.”

He piled a few more diced tomatoes atop his bruschetta. “Two years ago, I would have seen right through her.”

“Two years ago you were an assistant U.S. attorney.”

“Exactly. You remember what my old boss said when we all went over to Tobacco Road after my last day?”

“Yeah, he spilled half of his beer in my lap and said,
Drings are on the Thwytecks
.”

“I’m serious. He warned me about this. Guys go into private practice, get a taste of the money, pretty soon they can’t tell who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. Like ships in dry dock. Rusty before they’re old.”

“You done?”

“With what?”

“The pity party.”

“Hmmm. Almost.”

“Good. Now here’s some really shitty news. Just because the rust on the SS
Swyteck
is premature doesn’t mean this ship is getting any younger, bucko. Even your favorite Don Henley songs are finding their way to the all-oldies radio station.”

“You really know how to hurt a guy.”

“It’s what you get for marrying a younger woman.”

“Is that all I get?”

She bit off the tip of a breadstick. “We’ll see.”

The loud twang and quick beat from Henley’s “Boys of Summer” clicked in his brain, triggering a nostalgic smile.
I still love you, Don, but man, it sucks the way time marches on.

They finished their pizzas and skipped the coffee and dessert. The kick in the ass from Cindy had been a good thing for Jack. Behind the jokes and smiles, however, she seemed troubled.

“Jack?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing trying to have a baby?”

“Sure. We’ve talked about this. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. I just want to make sure you’re not.”

“I want this more than anything.”

“Sometimes I’m afraid you want it for the wrong reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you think we need another reason to stay together.”

“Where would you get an idea like that?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, I’m glad you said it. Because we need to put that out of your head right now. How long have you been worried about this?”

“I’m not really worried. Well, sometimes I am. It’s been five years since… you know, Esteban. And people still think of me as fragile. Five years, and I’m still having the same conversations. ‘Are you doing okay, sweetie? Getting enough sleep? Have the nightmares stopped? Need the name of a good therapist?’”

He lowered his eyes and said, “You talked with your mother, didn’t you.”

“Yes. Last night.”

“I’m sorry I dragged her into this. I was trying to enlist a little family support. That’s all.”

“I understand. Look, let’s just forget this, okay?”

“You sure?”

“Yes. It’ll work out.”

“Everything gonna be okay with you?”

“Fine.”

“You want another Perrier or something?”

She shook her head. “Let’s go home.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. Their eyes met as she laced her fingers into his.

“What do you say we stop by Whip ‘n’ Dip, get a pint of chocolate and vanilla swirl to go, climb under the covers, and don’t come out till we kill the whole carton?”

“I’d like that.”

“Me, too,” he said, then signaled the waiter for their bill.

Jack left a pair of twenties on the table, and in just a few minutes they were in their car on Sunset Drive, moving at the speed of pedestrians. The ice cream parlor was up the street beyond the log jam, though the line was clear out the door, typical on a weekend. Even so, they arrived home before ten-thirty. Cindy went straight upstairs to the bedroom. Jack popped into the kitchen in search of two spoons. It was one of Cindy’s pet peeves. If you were going to indulge yourself with dessert, it should be on real silver, not those cheap plastic jobbies with edges so sharp that they could practically double as letter openers.

The master bedroom was on the second floor, directly over the kitchen, and Jack could hear Cindy walking above him. The click of her heels on the oak floor gave way to a softer step, and he realized that she’d kicked off her shoes. A trail of barely audible footsteps led to her dressing mirror. Jack smiled to himself, imagining his wife undressing. But it was a sad, nostalgic smile triggered by what seemed like ancient memories of a time when passions ruled, not problems. She’d reach behind her arching back and unzip her cotton sundress. With a little shrug she’d loosen one strap, then the other, letting the garment fall to her ankles. She’d stand before the full-length mirror and judge herself, unable to see that she didn’t really need that push-up contraption. It was a show he’d watched countless times, wishing he could just strip away all the emotional baggage and pull up behind her and kiss the back of her neck, unfasten the clasp, and reach inside, one for the delight of each hand.

But there was never any pulling up behind Cindy, no physical intimacy of any sort, unless she initiated it. That was their life since Esteban. Jack didn’t blame her for it. Her only crime had been falling in love with the governor’s son. Esteban had been his client, not hers. It was Jack who’d drawn the attacker into their world, not Cindy.

And
that
was something for which he could never forgive himself.

Jack started out of the kitchen, then froze at the sight of some broken glass on the floor. He dropped the frozen yogurt on the kitchen counter and ran to the French doors in the family room. One of the rectangular panes had been shattered. Jack didn’t touch anything, but he could see that the lock had been turned. Someone had paid them a visit.

“Cindy!”

His heart raced as he grabbed the cordless telephone and ran to the stairway. He was gobbling up two and three steps at a time and was about to call her name again when he heard her scream. “Jack!”

He sprinted down the hallway. Just as he reached the bedroom door, it flew open in his face. Cindy rushed out. They nearly collided at full speed, but he managed to get his arms around her. He saw only terror in her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

She grabbed him but never stopped moving, her momentum dragging him back into the hallway. Her voice was filled with panic. “In there!”

“What’s in there?”

She pointed inside the master suite, in the general direction of the bathroom. “On the floor.”

“Cindy, what is it?”

She fought to catch her breath, on the verge of hyperventilation. “Blood.”

“Blood?”

“Yes! My God, Jack. It’s-there’s so much of it. Back by the tub.”

“Call 911.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just call.”

“Jack, don’t go in there!”

He dialed 911 and handed her the phone. “Just stay on the line while I check this out.”

He hurried across the room to the dresser and took the gun from the top drawer. He quickly removed the lock and started toward the bathroom. Jack didn’t think of himself as a gun person, but one attack against your wife has a way of making you forever mindful of self-defense. Cindy called his name once more, a final plea to keep him from doing something stupid, but she was soon in conversation with the 911 operator.

“My crazy husband is going in there right now,” Jack heard her say. But that didn’t stop him. Too many weird things had happened in the last two weeks. He wasn’t about to let something-or
somebody
-bleed to death in their bathroom while they waited for the cops.

He stood in the bathroom doorway with arms extended and both hands clasped around the gun. He was aiming at nothing but at the ready. “Who’s in here?”

He waited but got no answer.

“The police are on their way. Now, who’s in here?”

Still no answer. He stepped inside and checked the floor. He saw no blood, but he’d ventured no farther than the first of two sinks-his sink. It wasn’t quite far enough inside their bathroom to see into the back area by the big vanity mirror and Roman tub-the place where Cindy had seen the blood.

He took two more steps and froze. He was standing at Cindy’s sink. Her medicine cabinet was half-open, and in the angled reflection he saw it: a glistening, crimson line of blood on a floor of white ceramic tile.

His pulse quickened. Jack had seen plenty of blood before, visited many a crime scene. There was nothing like seeing it in your own house. “Do you need help?”

His voice echoed off the tiled walls, as if to assure him that no answer would come. He took two more steps, then a third. His grip tightened on the gun. His steps became half-steps. Weighted with trepidation, he turned the corner. His eyes tracked the bright red line to its source. He faced the Roman tub and gasped.

A bloody hand hung limply over the side-a woman’s hand. For an instant Jack felt paralyzed. He swallowed his fear and inched closer. Then he stopped, utterly horrified yet unable to look away.

She was completely unclothed, only blood to cover her nakedness. An empty bottle of liquor rested at her hip. It was literally a bloodbath, her life seeming to have drained from the slit in her left wrist. Red rivulets streaked the basin, the thickest pool of blood having gathered near her feet.

“Jessie,” he said, his voice quaking. “Oh… my… God.”