Sullivan's Justice (28 page)

It might be hard, Hank thought, but the man standing in front of him possessed the strength to go on with his life. The detective listened to every word that came out of a person’s mouth. In the span of a few minutes, Caplin had gone from referring to his daughter as Laurel to what she had now become—nothing more than a lifeless body.

“Things are backed up now due to the holidays,” the detective told him. “I was at the coroner’s office this morning. My guess is no later than Wednesday. I’ll call you as soon as I know for sure. About that phone call—”

Caplin cut him off. “Jordan wasn’t angry or anything. All he wanted to know was whether or not Laurel had signed the papers.”

“Did he give you a number where she could reach him?” Hank asked. “We’ve contacted the navy several times. They aren’t being very cooperative.”

“An officer like Jordan could be anywhere. With all this trouble with North Korea and Iraq, his location is probably classified.”

“Let’s just say he wasn’t overseas,” Hank said, moving the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Do you think there’s any chance he might have killed her?”

“No,” Stanley Caplin said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t make sense. Jordan didn’t so much as slap Laurel when he found out she was sleeping with this idiot kid. Why would he want to hurt her now?”

“Maybe he wants to get married again and she was holding him up.”

Caplin looked the detective straight in the eye. “Your murderer is Neil Sullivan. If he’s not in jail by the end of this week, I’m going to kill him myself.”

“I don’t think you want to do that,” Hank told him. “Then you wouldn’t be much different than the person who killed your daughter.”

Caplin glared at him, then closed the door in his face. Hank stood there a few minutes, kicking a snail off the porch. It wasn’t uncommon for relatives of homicide victims to make remarks like Caplin had made. In most instances, nothing came of them. But there were also instances where people followed through on their threats. He hoped Stanley Caplin wasn’t one of the latter.

 

 

 

 

 

N
eil had disappeared. Carolyn had been at work since eight o’clock that morning. It was hard to concentrate when she hadn’t spoken to her brother since Christmas Eve. She’d driven by his house on her way to work. Several police cars and a truck from Leslie’s Pool Service were parked in the front. When she had tried to enter the house, an officer had told her to leave. She’d gone through the alley to the backyard, hoping Neil was hiding in the pool house. A different officer had sent her away, telling her they were still collecting evidence. She left when she saw a crime scene tech inside Neil’s studio.

She had set up an appointment for six o’clock that evening with Vincent Bernini, the defense attorney. She kept leaving messages on Neil’s voice mail until it was full.

Carolyn hadn’t left Brad’s office other than to go to the bathroom. Files and papers were strewn everywhere. When the records clerk delivered twenty new cases, she was ready to scream. Gulping down a cold cup of coffee, she began assigning cases as fast as she could. She didn’t have time to think about every assignment. If the officers had problems, they would tell her. So what if she gave one person more work than another? She’d handled twice as much as everyone else for years.

Carolyn was trying to stay focused on her work, but thoughts of her father kept surfacing. She remembered how her breasts had seemed to develop overnight when she was twelve. And they weren’t the swollen nubs most of her friends had. They were large and round, emphasized by her small stature. Her mother was completing her master’s degree in chemistry at the time, and too busy to pay her much attention. She was far too shy to ask her mother for advice. The boys had started to tease her, though, as her nipples protruded from her shirts.

Her mother’s bras didn’t fit, and she was afraid she would miss one if she took it. She’d been so desperate that she had stolen a garter belt from her mother’s drawer and fashioned herself a bra. Her mother didn’t wear the garter belts anymore, only panty hose. It was fairly easy, as all she did was cut off the snaps for nylons and stitched the elastic together for straps. The clasp at the back was almost the same as a real bra. The only problem was the fabric was too thin.

Her father taught math at the high school and got home every day around four. One afternoon, he took her to Robinson’s and pressed a twenty-dollar bill into her hand, telling her she could buy whatever she wanted. Then he told her he would meet her in the men’s department, claiming he needed a new tie. Money was tight then, and her father seldom wore ties to school. She knew he was lying. When she returned with her purchase, two white cotton bras wrapped in tissue inside the sack, she was terrified her father would ask her what she had bought. He never said a word, not even to ask for the change back. As they drove home, she glanced over at him, still waiting for him to say something. All he did was touch her hand and ask her if she wanted an ice cream. She would never love another person as much as she had loved her father that day.

Hank Sawyer appeared in the door to Brad’s office, startling Carolyn out of her thoughts.

“I can’t talk now,” she told him, turning back to her computer and trying to figure out where she’d left off.

“There’s been some new developments in the Goodwin case,” he said. “Thought you’d want to know about them.”

“Sit down,” she said. “And close the door. The records clerk forgot to close it.” She spread her arms out. “Look at this mess. First day on the job and I’m already behind. I can’t work like this, Hank. It makes me a nervous wreck.”

The detective had a smug look on his face. “I spoke to a man about an hour ago who swears Melody Asher is an impostor. But you’re too busy so I’ll . . .” He turned to leave.

At the mention of Melody’s name, Carolyn was enraged. When Hank reached the doorway, she shouted, “Get your butt back in here!”

“Okay,” he said, returning and taking a seat. “A man named Michael Graham called me from New York. He swears the woman we know as Melody Asher is his daughter, Jessica Waldheim Graham.”

“Wait a minute,” Carolyn said, trying to absorb what she’d heard. “You’ve got a crank caller on your hands, Hank. Don’t you screen for those kinds of people?”

“Don’t take this lightly,” he cautioned. “All Graham wanted was his daughter’s address and phone number. He was sentenced to thirty years in the joint because of his kid. He thinks she can help him get his medical license back. That’s why he was trying to find her. He was a doctor, a cardiologist, before he went to prison. We confirmed this with the medical board in New York.”

“There’re plenty of doctors in prison,” she said, annoyed he was wasting her time with such nonsense. “I have work up to my eyeballs, Hank. Tell your stories to someone else.”

“Will you just listen, for Christ’s sake?” the detective said. “He’s not just any con.”

“Are you saying you consider Melody a suspect now on the grounds of what this person has told you?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said, speaking faster. “I’m flying Graham out here tomorrow. Even her father admitted she may have the capabilities to kill again. I’m going to pick him up at the airport, then take him to Asher’s house to make a positive ID.”

Carolyn swiveled her chair so she could look out the window. The fog hadn’t lifted and she saw several menacing clouds. Any minute, she thought, it would start raining again. She hoped John would pick up Rebecca from school. She hadn’t told Hank about the video Melody had sent her. It was embarrassing and she didn’t think it had any bearing on the case. “I don’t believe it,” she said, spinning back around. “Melody Asher is famous. Wouldn’t the real Melody know if someone was using her identity? What about the press? Dozens of articles have been written about this woman.”

The detective told her, “Graham says the girl found a loaded rifle in the garage and accidentally killed both her mother and brother. Then she lied and told the authorities he was the shooter. She was only nine at the time. Sounds like something Melody Asher would do, don’t you think? She also accused Graham’s brother of sexually abusing her, which Graham claims was unfounded.”

“Tell me more,” Carolyn said, intrigued at what she was now hearing.

“Okay, Jessica Graham grew up in an exclusive area in upstate New York. I had one of my people do some research before I came over here. Tuxedo Park is a hideaway for the rich and famous. It was developed over a hundred years ago by a French tobacco baron. Because it’s an incorporated city, they have their own police department. No one else has jurisdiction. Graham claims there could be bodies buried everywhere. The houses are acres apart and most of the residents are major icons.”

“What does this have to do with the Goodwin homicide?”

“Wait until you hear everything.” Hank’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Melody Asher grew up in Tuxedo Park. According to Dr. Graham, the two girls were friends. Jessica was always jealous of Melody. This is the scary part. The real Melody Asher disappeared not long after she turned eighteen. As you know, she’s the sole heir to APC Pharmaceuticals. What I’m saying is this woman may have developed a taste for killing. Jessica Graham might have murdered three people before she turned nineteen.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Her mother, her brother, and the real Melody Asher.”

“Jealousy,” Carolyn said, starting to think they’d stumbled onto something that could clear her brother. “Maybe the real Melody Asher stole her boyfriend or something. That would tie in with the situation with Neil and Laurel. How could she have got her hands on Asher’s money, though? A fortune that large would have been protected by dozens of lawyers.”

Hank stood and removed his jacket, tossing it on the chair as he walked around the room. “That’s the beauty of this. Jessica was also an heiress, not as wealthy as Melody, but a millionaire several times over.”

Carolyn sucked in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Her head was throbbing, her stomach growling, and she was shaky from the caffeine. “So you think Melody killed Laurel?”

“Jessica,” Hank said, correcting her. “She’s not only a jealous person, according to her father, she may be a pathological liar. Instead of telling the authorities the truth, she let her father go to prison. For all we know, the Asher woman is buried somewhere in Tuxedo Park. The father said the girls were both tall and resembled each other. Jessica must have bleached her hair to look more like Asher. Her father said she used to be a redhead.” The detective then went on to explain what he’d learned from Stanley Caplin.

Carolyn was shocked. “But Laurel seemed so sweet.”

“And sweet people don’t sleep around?” Hank said, giving her a chastising look. “My father was a captain in the army. He beat the shit out of me and my sister. Jordan Goodwin is a lieutenant commander. Guys like that don’t walk away when they find their wife in bed with another man. I’m not saying the husband killed her, but I’m not saying he didn’t. The first thing we have to do is find the sucker.”

She locked eyes with him, placing her hand on her chest. “So you consider Jordan Goodwin a suspect as well?”

“He has a motive,” Hank said, smiling. “The good news is Kevin Thomas thinks we should back off Neil for now. If you’ve been praying, it must be working.”

 

 

Carolyn was pacing the reception area of Vincent Bernini’s law firm. She’d left messages at Neil’s home as well as his cell phone. Their appointment was at six, and it was now six-thirty. The new leads in the case were promising, but she still had to protect her brother. Things could turn around.

Taking a seat, she flipped through a magazine, then nervously tossed it back on the table. She replayed the day before when she had visited her mother. How could she have kept such a huge secret for so long? Her father had been a humble man. She recalled how scuffed his shoes had been, how he never spent money on himself. He’d surprised her by showing up at her office not long before his death. She’d been so caught up in her divorce that she hadn’t appreciated his desire to be with her. The worst was that she had been embarrassed at his shabby appearance. A pang of guilt seized her. Could this have been around the time he’d solved his lifelong goal—the Riemann hypothesis? He’d come to share his special moment. Tears stung her eyes. She could not help but think how excited he must have been. He hadn’t said anything. What made him a great man was his humility. She doubted if he gave thought to winning the Fields Medal.

A realization struck her—he may have killed himself as soon as he felt he’d accomplished everything he set out to do in his life. Maybe that lunch, which had meant so little to her, had been her father’s way of saying good-bye.

Carolyn heard the young blond receptionist speaking and pulled out a tissue to blow her nose. A plate on a metal stand read WENDY FITZGERALD. “Mr. Bernini had to leave. Would you like to schedule another appointment?”

“Yes,” she said, reaching down to pick up her briefcase. When her jacket opened, the receptionist’s eyes zoomed in on her gun.

“Are you a police officer?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “I’m a probation officer.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No,” she answered. “Why don’t we focus on setting up another appointment?”

“The first opening we have is February fourth at ten in the morning,” the woman said, a plastic smile on her face. “Is that okay?”

“No, it’s not okay,” Carolyn said, her voice sharper than she intended. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Don’t you have anything sooner?”

“Mr. Bernini will be in trial most of January,” Wendy explained. “The only reason he agreed to see you this evening was because he knew you. Maybe you should call and speak to him another day.”