Fat Chance (22 page)

In less than an hour, I had addresses and phone numbers for two more of the former foster children—Ava Patterson and Hilary McMasters.

Ava answered the phone on the second ring. I heard children and music in the background and spoke loudly as I introduced
myself. Stretching the truth just a bit, I told her that she could either speak to me, or my law firm would ask a judge to issue a material witness warrant for her as part of the investigation into the murder of Jill Burkett.

“What does that mean?” Ava asked.

“It means you’ll sit in a jail cell until it’s time for you to give testimony.”

“How long would that be?”

“No way of knowing, well beyond the legal one-eighty, eighty rule.”

“What’s that?” Ava’s hardened tone was gone. Now she sounded panicky.

Another tidbit I’d read in my continuing ed course materials. “A criminal defendant must be prosecuted within one hundred days of being charged. Ever heard of the right to a speedy trial?”

“Sure. I’ve got kids and no husband. No way I can go to jail. When do I have to come give my statement?”

For effect, I shuffled some of the papers Liam had delivered. Thanks to my internet snooping, I knew Ava had a job as a receptionist at an insurance agency in West Palm, a position she’d taken less than a month ago. Using that knowledge to my advantage, I said, “I’m available Monday at eleven.”

“I’m at work then.”

“You’ll have to take some time off. My schedule is completely booked. Since you’re refusing to cooperate, I guess we’ll have no choice but to contact that judge.”

“I’m not refusing,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

I winced. I was bullying the poor woman.

“Can’t we work something else out? I can come on my lunch break or during the evening.”

“Again, Ms. Patterson, my schedule is quite full. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“I suppose I
could
make an exception and meet with you this evening.” I held my breath waiting on her answer.

“I can’t leave my kids here alone.”

I made sure to sigh into the mouthpiece. “My firm doesn’t make house calls.” I paused for effect. “Okay, I’ll break with policy and come to you.”

“Thank you,” she fairly gushed. “Do you need directions?”

M
Y THIRD OUTFIT OF
the day was the über-conservative navy and white Chanel suit normally reserved for mandatory brunches with my mother. My hair was pulled back in a no-frills ponytail, and I’d completed the all-business look with a pair of simple navy pumps.

The rental was equipped with a navigation system, so I had no trouble finding the small, single-story house on the dirt road in Greenacres. The car rocked as it lumbered along the rutted driveway until I parked next to an assortment of toys littering the lawn. Okay, lawn was a stretch. It was mostly sand with a few lonely patches of grass.

A floodlight partially pulling away from the wall lighted the crumbled sidewalk leading to the cracked step in front of the house. Slimy green moss blanketed much of the stucco around the door. I heard the clunk and hiss of a window air conditioner as I knocked.

I fully expected Ava to be a clone of Abby. I was wrong. She was a tall, heavyset woman with clean, coiffed hair and a layer of careful, if imperfect, makeup.

She wore shorts, a faded black shirt from a Metallica concert, and no shoes. She greeted me with a smile that was equal parts warm and weary.

Shooing two boys who looked to be about ten to twelve years old to their bedroom, she moved a game controller to the top of the television and offered me a seat on the sofa. The house was clean and tidy. The faint scent of chili hung in the air.

The chair next to the sofa squeaked when Ava sat down. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

“Coffee?”

While Ava went into the other room, I took a legal pad out of my tote; I retrieved a pen, balanced the pad on my knees, and crossed my legs at the ankles. The sleeve of my suit was irritating the stitches on my arm. The stitches on my leg were discreetly covered by a Band-Aid.

“Milk or sugar?” she called.

“Black is fine.”

She returned, holding two mugs in one hand. Mine was placed on a veneered coffee table, while she kept hers with her as she retook her seat.

“Who was murdered?” she asked.

“Carlos Lopez murdered Jill Burkett,” I explained.

Her brows drew together. “I saw on the news that he was killed recently by our foster mom. A justified shooting. Melinda walked away, so who is going on trial?”

“Carlos had an accomplice after the fact.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” I asked. “You lived with him.”

“Not by choice,” she said, pain falling like a curtain over her expression. “But then, we never had choices.”

“What can you remember about your time at the Chilian Avenue house?”

She blinked several times, and I wondered if it was her tell—an unconscious habit that indicated she was about to feed me
some sort of lie. Too soon to know, but I’d be watching for it.

“Melinda was an okay foster mother. I liked living at the beach.”

I’ll bet you did.
“Who lived there with you?”

She sipped her coffee. “When I first got there, it was Carlos, Jill, Terri, Abby, and me.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Jill and Carlos ruled the place. Cross either one of them, and you paid.”

“How?” I asked.

“If you were lucky, Carlos would just smack you around.”

Again, she did the rapid blink. I was right, it was a tell, but not the kind I expected. It was what she did when recalling something unpleasant. “And if you weren’t?”

“He’d…
mess
with you.”

Translation—sexual assault. My heart squeezed as sympathy for the woman settled in the pit of my stomach. “Where was Melinda?”

“Around.” Ava’s shoulders slumped, and it was like watching a balloon deflate from a slow leak.

“And Jill?”

“She wasn’t as violent as Carlos, but she was often the instigator. I think they were doing it. If she got pissed, which happened practically daily, Carlos would act as her muscle.”

“And Melinda did nothing?”

Ava shrugged and blinked some more. “I guess you could say she tried. If you towed the line, she’d take you on one of her field trips. If you screwed up, like missing curfew, you had to study one of her stupid arty things.”

“Coin books?” I asked.

“Coins, statues, glass vases, paintings. I didn’t take it seriously the first week. Not until the Friday test.”

“You were tested?”

Ava nodded. “We’d all sit at the table, and Melinda would put color copies in front of us. She thought it was a unique family-type game and a way of teaching us about the finer things in life, but it was hard. I never did very well. Especially with the paintings. To this day, I get freaked out if I see a Maltese.”

“Ma
tisse,
” I corrected automatically as I made notes.

“Whatever. Besides, I couldn’t compete with Terri or Jill.”

“Why?”

“Jill studied those art books and auction catalogs all the time.”

“And Terri?”

Ava shook her head. “I never saw her do it. But she had one of those memories. You know. See it one time and remember it forever. She was the nicest of them all.”

Not in my book.
“What about Jill? Do you remember when she left?”

“May of ’96. Thank God.”

“Know where she went?”

“Never heard from her again. Never wanted to. Jill might have looked like an angel, but she was pure evil. No conscience, no regard for others. Manipulative to the core. She’d glare at you and her eyes would turn almost black. Like a shark about to move in for the kill.”

“Did she manipulate anyone other than Carlos?”

“Hell yes,” Ava said, sipping her coffee. “When I first got there, I thought Jill and Terri were friends. That changed though, and Jill went out of her way to bust Terri’s ass. As time went on, Terri got really quiet and reserved. She spent hours lying on her bed playing with this token.”

“What kind of token?” I asked.

Ava made a circle with one hand. “About this big around, and
it had trees on one side and I think something engraved on the other side.”

My hand shook as I pulled Jonathan’s medallion out of my purse. “Was it this?”

Ava turned it over in her palm. “Maybe. It was a long time ago. All I know is Terri kept to herself until Hilary arrived.”

“Hilary McMasters?”

“Yeah. We used to call her Jill Junior. She was a total suck-up and imitated everything Jill did.” Ava let out a little, sarcastic laugh. “Actually, it worked out pretty well for Terri and me. Jill, Carlos, and Hilary would sneak out at night, leaving Terri and I in peace. We’d go to our room and do our own thing.”

“What was your thing?” I asked.

She almost smiled. “I was into writing angsty teenaged poetry. Suicide was a popular theme with me back then.”

“And Terri?” I asked, watching her over the rim of my coffee cup as I drained the last sip.

She shrugged. “Daydreaming, I guess. All I know is she’d lay in her bed for hours playing with that token thingy.” She handed me back the coin. “That could be it, but I never saw it close up. Like me, she had some secret hiding place. I slit my mattress to hide my poetry notebooks.”

“Mom! Trevor took one of my cars!” a child screamed.

“I can’t leave them alone much longer,” Ava told me. “If I do, I guarantee a fight will break out.”

“One last question,” I said, standing as she did. “Do you know how to get in touch with Hilary? Her phone’s been disconnected.”

“I ran into her about three months ago. She was working at the Cracker Barrel in Stuart.”

“Thanks.”

W
HERE ARE YOU
?” L
IAM
asked.

“Out having dinner,” I answered, conveniently leaving out the part about being at the Cracker Barrel. And that my dinner had been a big slab of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and fried okra. And that said yummy, calorie-heavy meal had been served by none other than Hilary McMasters.

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“I know. I’ve been able to tell time since the first grade. Is there anything else? It’s rude to the other diners for me to chat on my cell.” The other diners were four young men and a young couple who had that travel-weary glaze in their eyes. I’m sure none of them cared that I was on the phone, but what Liam didn’t know couldn’t come back to bite me in the butt.

“Did you get the stuff I left for you?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“You’re taking the news awfully well.”

Okay, so he’d gotten my attention. “News?”

“The tox screen from Carlo’s autopsy didn’t raise a red flag for you?”

I hated to admit a lapse to him, but I had no choice. “I didn’t get to that.”

“His blood alcohol level was off the charts.”

“Based on the stuff I did read, I’m not surprised he abused alcohol before he went after Melinda.”

“He wasn’t drunk,” Liam said. “He was obliterated. With that much liquor in his system, I doubt he could have found Melinda’s house, let alone her door. I know you were on the phone and think you heard everything that went on, but—”

“I’m open to suggestions,” I interrupted, then told him of our little standoff in my apartment. “Wasn’t Abby drunk when her trailer caught fire?”

“Um-hum. Interesting coincidence.”

A chill ran through me. “You think Melinda drove all the way to Daytona and got Abby drunk, then set the fire?”

“A friend of mine at the phone company checked. There’s no record of Melinda calling Abby or vice versa.”

“So, it might have been an accident,” I said, almost disappointed to have such a promising lead shot down in a single breath.

“I didn’t say that. Abby did reach out to Terri Semple. Called her five hours before the fire started.”

“Something about her doesn’t make any sense. Everyone I’ve spoken to who spent any time with Terri claims she was a sweet person.”

“Which is why I had my phone company contact do a little more digging. Right after Terri heard from Abby, she called a prepaid cell number.”

“I happen to know those are impossible to trace.”

“True, unless you happen to find the prepaid.”

“Judging by your tone, I’m assuming you did.”

“Not me,” he said. “The ME. It was in Carlos’s pants pocket when they inventoried the items on the body.”

“So what happens now?”

“I thought I might take a trip to Abby’s trailer park tomorrow. Ask around to see if anyone saw Carlos or his silver sedan the night of the fire. Wanna come?”

“Maybe,” I hedged. “Can I call you in the morning?”

There was a brief pause, and then he asked, “What are you up to?”

“Who says I’m up to anything?”

“You’re being evasive. That means you’re doing something dangerous, stupid, or both.”

“For your information,” I said, not masking my irritation, “I’m thinking of dropping in on Terri tomorrow.”

“Not a good idea. My gut tells me she’s involved in this up to her eyeballs.”

“Your gut may be right. But we’ll never know until I have a chat with Terri.”

“Too dangerous.”

“It would be if I planned on meeting her at her home, but I happen to know she has a meeting at Concierge Plus tomorrow. She can’t do anything to me there.”

“What time?” he asked.

Still stung by the implication that I would intentionally do something stupid that would put me in danger, I gave him the time and hung up. Technically, I gave him
a
time. An hour after Terri’s appointment time. Guess we’d see just which one of us was stupid.

As soon as I saw Hilary come out from behind the massive fireplace that hid the kitchen, I pulled a hundred-dollar bill I’d gotten from the ATM in the gift shop and placed it on the table.

Her washed-out blue eyes bulged when she saw the bill. “I don’t think I can break this,” she said, reaching for the money.

I slapped my hand on the edge of the currency and looked up to lock gazes with her. “It’s all yours.”

She eyed me suspiciously, placing one hand on her nonexistent hip. The woman was rail thin, with a gaunt, drawn face. The only word that came to mind was pathetic. She just had the look of someone who’d had a very hard life. Her teeth were stained yellow from tobacco, and she had the remnants of an orangish lipstick in the corners of her mouth when she smiled.

She smoothed the tight, thin sides of her dyed-too-often brassy hair and asked, “What’s the catch?” Instantaneous distrust laced her tone.

“Fifteen minutes of your time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, honey, but I don’t turn tricks, my double shift is over, and I don’t do chicks.”

“Conversation only,” I clarified.

“You a cop?”

“Do I look like one?”

She eyed me up and down. “In those shoes? No. What’s the topic of this conversation that’s worth a hundred bucks?”

“Jill Burkett.”

She backed up. “Right. Like I’m dumb enough to do that. Keep your Ben Franklin.”

As she started to walk away, I called after her and hurriedly yanked another bill out of my purse. “Ben has a twin.”

Her lips pursed as she hungrily stared at the two bills I fanned out like a hand of blackjack.

After a minute of staring at the money, Hilary said, “Meet me in the back parking lot in five minutes.”

I paid my check and noticed my hands were trembling, partly because I was hoping Hilary would tell me something that would explain how Jonathan’s medallion had found its way from Terri’s hiding place to Jill’s hand. The other reason I was shaking was less complicated. I was scared.

My anxiety level doubled when Hilary failed to show after five minutes. For all I knew, she’d left by the front and ditched me by the kitchen door, leaving me to choke on the stench from the nearby Dumpster. Five minutes turned into fifteen, and I was ready to admit I’d been had when Hilary came around the building.

“Thank you for talking with me.”

She held out her hand palm up. “One hundred up front. The other hundred when we’re done.”

Not exactly how I wanted to do it, but since she had me by the thong, I relented. “Here.”

“So,” she said as she pulled a cigarette out of her apron pocket, cupped a lighter to block the breeze, took a drag, and blew a steady stream in my face. “What are we going to conversate about?”

We could start with the fact that
conversate
isn’t a word.
Yeah, that was sure to win her over. “I want to know about the time you lived with Melinda Redmond.”

“What part?”

“Carlos Lopez and Jill Burkett?”

“The Bonnie and Clyde of the system,” she remarked as she drew on the cigarette, making the end glow orange.

“I heard you were friends.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s your angle in all this?”

“I bought the house on Chilian Avenue. It came complete with a skeleton in the closet.”

She raised her hands. “I had a couple brushes with the law, but there’s no way in hell you can pin a body on me.”

“I’m not trying to,” I insisted. “I’m more interested in what Jill and Carlos were doing.”

“What weren’t they doing?”

“I know about Carlos’s inappropriate sexual behavior.”

“Cop a feel Carlos,” she agreed with a little laugh. “He was an amateur compared to my stepfather.”

“And Jill?”

“Total bitch. But she had this…this
way
about her.”

“Can you explain that?”

Dropping the cigarette to the ground, Hilary snuffed it out with her rubber-soled shoes. “If you didn’t know better, you’d think she was legit. She could walk the walk and talk the talk and blend right in with the local snobs. Then without warning, she’d turn on you and without so much as blinking, tell Carlos to beat the crap out of you.”

“Why did Carlos do her bidding?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Gee, let’s see if we can think of a reason why a guy would do anything for a girl. He was a pudgy toad, and she was a goddess.”

“It was about sex?”

“And drugs and pretty much whatever he wanted. Gold chains, Air Jordans.”

“How could she afford those things?”

Hilary glanced at her watch. “Time’s up.”

I shook my head, holding my ground and my money. “No. I want to know about the robberies.”

She seemed surprised but not shocked. “So we lifted stuff from the rich folks.”

“You, too?”

“Sure, a couple of times. We got to keep part of whatever she got from the fence. First and only time in my life I had cash to spend. ’Course, most of it went up my nose.”

Color me shocked.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Jill?”

She shrugged. “Four years ago. Tried to hit her up for cash. We set up a meet, only Carlos showed up and did this.” She pulled up her shirt and showed me a ragged, red scar on her belly. “Said if I ever contacted Jill again he’d gut me like a fish.”

“I’m not paying for lies,” I told her.

“I’m not lying. Think I’d slash myself with a box cutter just for something to do?”

“Not that. You couldn’t have seen Jill four years ago. I was the one who found her remains. Two autopsies concluded she’d been dead for at least a decade or more.”

Leaning back, she regarded me for several seconds. Then her lips curled into a smug smile. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

In a swift and unexpected move, she snatched the second hundred out of my hand. “You’ll have to figure that one out all on your own. Me? I’d like to keep on breathing.”

I
WALKED TO MY
car with Hilary’s words bouncing around in my brain. How could Jill be alive four years ago when her remains were at least…
Holy shit!

Checking the dashboard clock, I debated calling any or all of my friends. I gave a passing thought to calling Liam, but it was after one in the morning. With my luck, Ashley would answer the phone, and I didn’t want a reminder that he was still sleeping with Beer Barbie to kill the elation pumping through my system.

The only option was to call the police. They’d swoop in and make the arrests, totally stealing my thunder, but now was so not the time to be selfish.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“How do I get in touch with Detective Graves or Steadman?”

Slightly miffed, the emergency operator had me hold the line while she looked up their direct lines.

I thanked her, disconnected the call, then dialed the number she’d supplied while it was still fresh in my mind.

“Hello.”

“Hi, it’s—”

“…have reached the desk of Detective Ed Graves. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”

Beeeeep.

“This is Finley Tanner. Please call me back the minute you get this message. It’s about…It’s…just call me, please.”

Before starting the engine, I tried Sergeant Jennings, with the same result. He was working days and not expected until 7:00 a.m.

I drove home, stopping once for an iced hazelnut coffee from the McDonald’s drive-thru. I was way too excited to sleep, plus I wanted to go back through my skeleton files, knowing I had to print out proof to turn over to the authorities. And given what I now suspected, I knew exactly what to look for.

I arrived at my apartment thirty minutes later, and still Sam’s car wasn’t in the lot. I quickly scribbled a note insisting that he come see me the second he got home, then I ran up the stairs and went to my own apartment to get to work.

The first thing I did was delete my incomplete, now useless list without saving it. I sipped on my coffee while simultaneously logging into the Medicaid records one last time. Clicking
the mouse button, I sent the file to the wireless printer in my bedroom.

While the cheap-but-utilitarian inkjet slowly did its thing, I shed the Chanel suit, hung it up, and changed back into my jeans and T-shirt. Pulling the band from my ponytail, I shook my head and ran my fingers through my hair.

While I collected the pages out of the tray, I chanted, “Finley is a genius. Finley is a genius.” Then I headed back to the living room and my laptop.

With my legs crossed, I pulled the machine into my lap and surrounded myself with the files. My sense of accomplishment soared as I typed the first line:

Terri Semple is actually Jill Burkett.

It fit. It explained almost everything. My new bulleted list was going to support my conclusion.

I didn’t have all the answers, but I had a lot of pieces. The Terri Semple I’d met in The Breakers ladies’ room wasn’t the sweet, kind girl I’d been hearing about. What had Abby called her? A brown-eyed bitch?

“How did I miss that?” I chided myself. The woman engaged to Martin Gilmore had hazel eyes. Sure, they could be contact lenses, but my guess was no. Rifling through the files, I found Jill Burkett’s DCF records, and sure enough, right there on the intake form, she was listed as having blond hair and hazel eyes.

I checked Terri Semple’s file and found that the real Terri, in fact, had brown eyes. “Score another one for me,” I said as I added that information to my new list.

I’d probably have to show it to her for verification, but Ava’s brief description of the “coin” had to have been Jonathan’s medallion. Which, of course, explained…

“No, it doesn’t,” I mumbled, frowning. Neither Abby, nor Hilary, nor Ava had implicated the real Terri in the robberies. If she hadn’t been part of the theft ring, why had she died clutching a medallion stolen from my parents’ home?

Sighing, I took a long sip of coffee. Caffeine helps me think. Real Terri could have found it and threatened to…

“Wasn’t on the police inventory of things stolen.” I was sorry to dismiss that idea as an available possibility.

And sorry I hadn’t figured out sooner what was so obvious. The thought jogged another tidbit from my memory. I’d read almost that exact sentiment not so long ago. Hunting in yet another folder, I retrieved a photocopy of the scrap of paper Liam and I had found in the Chilian Avenue house.