The Last to Know (18 page)

She wants him out of here. Now.

She opens her purse. “I’ll just pay you and you can—”

“You already d-did,” he cuts in.

Right. She paid him earlier, before she left.

“Okay, then,” she says, and clears her throat. What if he doesn’t leave? Oh, God, what if he tries something?

But he takes her cue and stands.

He walks toward her.

Her breath catches in her throat.

He’s not looking at her, but down at his feet. There’s something about his behavior that tells her he’s up to something. What the hell can it be? Did he eat the carton of ice cream that’s in the freezer? Did one of the kids break something while she was gone?

“I’ll s-see you again s-sometime,” he says, walking toward the hall.

“Sure.”

Not on your life
, she thinks, sighing in relief, locking the door after him and turning on the outside light for Ben.

W
hen the front light goes on outside the Leibermans’ front door, it illuminates most of the front lawn and a good portion of the side yard. Thankfully, the clump of evergreen shrubs remains in the shadows. No neighbor glancing out a window will see the dark-clad figure hidden among the low-hanging boughs, and neither will Rachel, should trepidation steal over her, causing her to peer out into the night.

She’s left the light on for her husband.

That’s clear.

What if Ben Leiberman comes home before the goal is accomplished?

You’ll just have to slip out before anybody sees you, then wait for another chance.

But that could take days. This can’t go on forever. The longer it drags on, the greater the chance of being caught.

The key!

Relax. There it is, still in your pocket.

Getting it was surprisingly easy, thanks to Mrs. Tuccelli. It wasn’t hard to find out that Rachel’s former nanny goes to daily morning mass at Immaculate Conception. Nor was it hard to slip into the pew behind her . . . or sneak her keys out of her purse while she was kneeling after communion. Thankfully, the organ music had concealed the slight jangling noise, and by the time Mrs. Tuccelli finished her prayer and settled on the seat again, the pew behind her was empty.

When had the old lady realized her keys were missing? Would the police question her after they found Rachel tomorrow? What would she tell them about her missing keys? That she had lost them? Probably. She would never suspect that they had been stolen during mass.

Just as Rachel most likely doesn’t suspect, right now, that the curtain is about to come down on her charmed life.

Or does she?

If she does, there’s nothing she can do about it. No way for her to know for sure—or to stop it even if she suspects what’s about to happen.

The sense of power is intoxicating. It’s tempting to stay here a bit longer, basking in the sensation.

But that wouldn’t be wise.

A light has gone on in the master bedroom upstairs.

It’s time to move.

No need to risk detection under the glare of the front porch light. A trial run earlier indicated that the deadbolts on the front and rear doors can be opened with the same key.

The backyard is dark. Deserted. Gusting wind smothers the sound of footsteps crunching in fallen leaves. Ten seconds from the bushes to the door. Five seconds to insert the key and turn the lock, opening and closing the door in near silence.

There are footsteps above.

Rachel in her room.

Her faint humming is audible from the stairway.

You sound so content, Rachel. Like a woman who has just come from a rendezvous with her secret lover. Like a woman who doesn’t know she’s about to die.

The upstairs hallway is dark, but a pool of light spills from the master bedroom. The door is ajar.

Something is visible through the crack in the door.

It’s a barbell.

So that’s how you keep your figure, Rachel. You work out at home, too. Not just at your fancy gym. You lift weights in the privacy of your lovely bedroom.

The rage is building again. Just like the last time.

Let it in. Embrace it. It will help.

You’re going to wish you didn’t do that, Rachel.

You’ll wish you didn’t spend so much time making yourself perfect.

Familiar rage, white-hot, toxic.

Because I can lift weights, too, you know.

I can lift them up, and I can bring them down. Hard. Hard enough to destroy a beautiful face like yours forever.

“T
ash?”

“Mmm?” She rolls over in bed, burrowing under the down comforter, slipping easily back toward sleep. . . .

“Tasha . . .”

Back toward the nightmare that had her in its grip.

And then, once again, she’s in a bombed-out town in the French countryside, battling the Nazis as air-raid sirens blast.

“Tasha!”

Her eyes snap open.

The room is dark, but she can see Joel standing over the bed, backlit by the light from the hall. He’s wearing a suit beneath his unbuttoned trenchcoat. Is he coming in or going out? What time is it?

She glances toward the clock. Two-thirty in the morning.

That shrill whining isn’t part of her dream, and it isn’t an air-raid siren. It’s a police car or a fire truck.

“What are you doing?” she asks Joel, confused, rubbing her eyes and propping herself on her elbows.

“I just got home.”

Then why is he waking her up? Why isn’t he taking off his coat, his suit? Why isn’t he using the bathroom and climbing into bed?

He sits beside her. Surprised, she looks at him. His face is cast in shadows. He reaches for her hand, takes it, squeezes it.

He’s going to say he’s sorry for the stupid argument
, she realizes in relief.

Her next thought:
He’s going to tell me he’s in love with another woman and he’s leaving me.

Oh, God. She’s not ready for this. For all her suspicions and insecurities, she never thought it was actually going to happen. Not really.

“Tasha . . .” He pauses. Is silent again. There’s not a sound but the siren in the distance, drawing closer.

“Just say it, Joel.”

“Say it?” he echoes, sounding incredulous. “Then . . . you know?”

It’s true. He’s leaving.

The knowledge slams into her like a commuter train and it’s all she can do to keep from hurling herself on him, pounding him with her fists.

She opens her mouth to ask him who it is—whether it’s his secretary or someone else—but before she can speak, he says, “When did you find out?”

Suddenly too weary for anger, she says only, “I just figured it out.”

Just silence.

And the siren.

Again.

Say something else, you bastard!
a voice shrieks in her head.
Tell me who it is! Tell me how you can justify throwing away everything we have!

“Tasha, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing,” Joel says at last.

She stares numbly at his face. It’s still shrouded in darkness. But he’s still holding her hand. Still squeezing her hand. He wouldn’t be doing that if he were trying to tell her that he didn’t love her anymore.

“What’s going on, Joel?” she asks, suddenly more afraid than she was when she thought he was leaving.

Something is wrong. She can sense it, even as she realizes that the siren is coming much too close. It sounds like it’s right down the street. . . .

“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Tasha. It’s Rachel. She’s been killed.”

S
irens.

They’re shrill even through the closed window, shrill enough to jar the sleeping town into awareness. Are people waking in their beds, wondering whether there’s been some kind of accident or tragedy? Do they stir at all?

Or are they deep in slumber, oblivious, having trained themselves to ignore early-morning police emergencies, certain that whatever has gone wrong has nothing to do with them?

After all, Townsend Heights is the kind of town where nothing truly terrible ever happens. At least, it was.

Well, not anymore.

The people of Townsend Heights are going to wake up to reality. They’re going to realize that there’s a cold-blooded killer in their midst. And when they do . . .

Nobody will feel safe. Except, of course, for me.

F
RIDAY,
O
CTOBER 12

Chapter 8

“M
argaret? Are you in here?”

Startled, Margaret looks up from the television screen to see her mother hovering behind her in the doorway of the Kendalls’ family room.

“Margaret, something awful has—oh. You know,” Mother says, her gaze shifting from Margaret’s face to the TV.

It’s tuned to Channel 12, the local Westchester station, where a grim-faced reporter is standing live at the scene outside a cordoned-off two-story white colonial home with black shutters. The blue-black sky in the background shows the first streaks of pink.

Absorbed in the television news coverage, Margaret hadn’t realized that it’s dawn already. She glances out the floor-to-ceiling window nearest the couch. Sure enough, the trees just beyond are bathed in a gauzy light. She checks the clock on the mantel. It’s already past six
A.M.

“Margaret? You know, don’t you?” Mother persists.

“About the Leiberman woman? Yes, I know.” Margaret turns her attention back to the television.

Her mother crosses the room and sinks heavily into the couch beside her. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I couldn’t sleep—”

“I haven’t either.” Leave it to Mother to turn the conversation back to herself. And Jane. “I’ve had terrible insomnia ever since Jane—”

“—and I heard the sirens,” Margaret continues as though her mother hadn’t interrupted her original explanation.

“I can’t bear this,” Bess wails. “This other woman is dead. If this has anything to do with your sister’s disappearance . . .”

“Nobody has said that it does, Mother,” Margaret tells her.

“But she’s so like Jane. Beautiful—not in the same way, but very striking. Did you see her picture?”

Margaret nods. Yes, Rachel Leiberman
was
beautiful. And she, like Jane, had it all. Everything money could buy, and the precious things it could not: an adoring, successful husband, cherubic children . . .

The perfect life.

Now someone has taken it away.

Margaret eyes her mother’s trembling hands, wondering if she should reach over and hold them.

She rarely touches her mother these days. Never has, really. Not like affectionate Jane, who was always patting Mother’s arm or casually slinging an arm around her shoulder. If Jane were here and Mother were this upset, she would be hugging her, comforting her.

But Jane’s not here. Which, of course, is why Mother is upset.

And God help her, Margaret can’t quite bring herself to comfort Bess, even now. At least, not physically.

“This woman was found bludgeoned in her bed, Mother. In her own home. Jane hasn’t turned up dead. She’s only missing. One might have nothing to do with the other.”

“This is Townsend Heights, Margaret. For God’s sake, are you telling me that there are two homicidal maniacs on the loose in this town?”

“Jane hasn’t been murdered, Mother.” Margaret grips the remote control in her lap, tension aching in her fingers, her jaw, her shoulders. “She’s just gone. Nobody is telling us that she’s been murdered.”

Bess just stares stiffly at the television, her eyes brimming with tears.

Margaret looks at her for a long moment, then looks away, out the window.

On television the reporter is interviewing a woman who says she works in Benjamin Leiberman’s office. She’s sobbing, talking about how wonderful the doctor is and how tragic it is that something has happened to his wife. How his poor children have been left motherless . . .

Schuyler.

“I’ll go listen for the baby, Mother,” Margaret says, remembering her niece. “She should be up soon.”

“She’s already awake. Owen has her upstairs, in his room.”

“I’ll go see if he wants me to take her.” Margaret stands, putting the television remote onto the polished cherry-wood coffee table.

She hasn’t seen Owen yet this morning. Her hands flutter to her hair, making sure it’s neatly combed back. She was tempted to leave it loose this morning for a change. But then she lost her nerve, pulling it into a bun as usual.

Suddenly aware of her mother’s shrewd gaze on her, she quickly lowers her hands, thrusting them into the pockets of her black wool slacks.

“Leave Owen and Schuyler alone, Margaret.” Bess’s voice is stern. Knowing.

“But I’m not trying to—Mother, he must be exhausted. I heard him walking around the house at all hours. I’ll just go take the baby off his hands.”

“No. If he needs help with her, I’ll do it. Schuyler is more comfortable with me.”

Margaret spins on her heel and leaves the room, stung, yet knowing it’s the truth.

“L
et’s go over this one more time,” the gray-haired police detective says, folding his thick arms across his broad chest. “Exactly when did you put the children to bed?”

“I already t-told you. . . .” Jeremiah’s voice cracks. “It was around eight.”

“And then you watched television in the Leibermans’ family room. But you can’t remember what you watched.”

Fletch looks at his nephew. The kid squirms on the couch.

“I w-wasn’t really w-watching it,” he says. “I was studying, t-too. So I wasn’t p-paying much attention t-to the TV.”

“I see.”

The detective turns to Sharon, who’s seated in a chair across the room. “Your nephew says Mrs. Leiberman sent him home at around midnight, Mrs. Gallagher. Did you hear him come in?”

“No. I was in bed, asleep. I sleep very soundly.” She looks toward Fletch, seated on the couch beside Jeremiah. Her expression clearly says,
Back me up here
.

He intends to say nothing until he realizes that the detective, too, is looking questioningly at him.

Fletch admits, “Yes, she sleeps soundly.”

“And did you hear your nephew come in, Mr. Gallagher?”

He shifts his weight on the cushion, forcing himself to say evenly, “No, I didn’t. I was asleep then, too.”

“And you sleep as soundly as your wife does.”

He shrugs. It isn’t a question. Is the detective suspicious of him? No, Fletch reminds himself. Jeremiah’s the suspect here. Not him, or Sharon. They’re just witnesses. Or not.

“And when you came home, Jeremiah, what did you do?” the detective asks.

“I w-went to b-bed.”

“And what time was that?”

“I t-told you already, I th-th-think it was around m-midnight I d-didn’t look at the c-clock.” Jeremiah looks at Fletch, his eyes pleading.

All right. It’s time to put an end to this. The police have been questioning the boy for hours, ever since the doorbell rang in the middle of the night and Fletch opened it to find two dour-looking cops on the step.

He rises from the couch. “Yes, you did tell him. Over and over again. Don’t say anything else, Jeremiah,” Fletch orders his nephew.

“Mr. Gallagher—”

“Yes?” He glares at the detective. Summers, he said his name was. Moved up here after spending almost two decades working in the South Bronx. He probably figured he would have an uneventful cruise toward retirement.

“If you’d let us finish questioning your nephew, we’d—”

“Not without a lawyer,” Fletch says firmly. “I should have called him in the first place. I would have, but—” He breaks off, clears his throat. Makes himself look directly at the detective, unwilling to appear as anything other than a concerned uncle. And neighbor. After all, Rachel Leiberman lived right down the street. . . .

“So you want to hold off on further questioning until your lawyer is present?” the detective prods.

“Absolutely.” Fletch realizes he’s been biting his lip. Hard. He tastes tangy, salty blood on his tongue.

“Fletch . . . are you sure?” Sharon speaks up from her chair across the room, beside the fireplace.

“I’m positive,” he tells her. He follows her gaze back to Jeremiah.

His nephew is the picture of pathetic, shivering in his short-sleeved T-shirt and boxer shorts, his scrawny white arms wrapped around his thin chest in an effort to keep warm. The big, seldom-used living room is chilly at this hour. Fletch absently reminds himself to turn up the heat after the detective leaves.

What more does he want from the kid now? Jeremiah has painstakingly given him the rundown of last night, several times. His story never varied. He said he had put the Leiberman kids to bed, then watched television in their family room for a few hours. Then Rachel had come home at around midnight and sent him on his way. He came straight home, let himself into the house, and went to bed.

Finally the detective does go—reluctantly, and only after telling the Gallaghers he’ll be in touch again later.

The moment he closes the door behind him, Fletch lets out an enormous, shaky sigh. He bows his head and rubs his burning eyes.

“You don’t think he did it, do you?”

He jumps at the whispered voice behind him; sees that Sharon has followed him into the front hall. She stands there, bundled in her white silk robe, staring up at him.

Is that an accusing look in her eyes? Is she suspicious of
him
?

Suddenly overwhelmed, Fletch abruptly strides away, first to the thermostat on the wall, which he adjusts to sixty-eight degrees, then back toward the living room and Jeremiah.

“Fletch? You don’t think he’s actually guilty, do you?” Sharon asks in a low voice, hurrying after him, touching his arm.

He stops, turns to her. “I don’t know, Sharon. I honestly don’t know.”

“My God, Fletch. Are you saying you think Jeremiah—”

“I’m saying I don’t know what I think. Just don’t say a word about him to anyone. Including the cops.”

He crosses the threshold into the living room. His nephew is still sitting on the couch. Tears are streaming down his pock-marked face.

“Jeremiah . . .” Fletch goes to him, sits next to him. He doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he settles on, “I’ll call my lawyer.”

The boy nods. “What ab-bout my d-dad?”

“I’ll call him, too. Unless you want to.”

Jeremiah shakes his head mutely.

Struggling to conceal his inner turmoil, Fletch pats the boy’s bony arm. Across the room, he sees Sharon in the doorway, watching him, an inscrutable expression on her face.

“A
re you sure you’re okay, Tash?” Joel asks, watching her as she yanks a navy turtleneck over her head. They’re both in the master bathroom with the door closed, the air swirling with mist from their showers.

Yet somehow it’s freezing in here
, she thinks vaguely.
Or maybe it’s just me
. Her entire body is covered in goose bumps. The cotton fabric of the shirt seems to irritate her skin everywhere it touches.

“Tash?”

She pulls her damp hair free of the neckline, then looks at him. He’s watching her, one hand on the knob of the closed door. He’s put on a dress shirt and has a tie dangling around his neck.

“So you really are going to the office today?” she asks him.

When he first said that he was, she reacted in disbelief.

After all they’ve been through in these past few hours . . .

Joel rushed back over to Ben’s right after he told Tasha what had happened. She had been torn between wanting to go and needing to stay here, with her children. The whole time Joel was gone, she prowled the house, going from window to window, from door to door, making sure the house was secure, never quite believing that it was, no matter how many locks she checked and rechecked.

Finally, Joel came back across the street, carrying one of the sleeping Leiberman kids. Mara. Tasha tucked the little girl into bed in the master bedroom, then swiftly set up their portable crib alongside the bed. A minute later, Joel came back with Noah, and Tasha gently laid the sleeping baby in the crib.

She and Joel tiptoed back downstairs to collapse into each other’s arms, Tasha weeping, Joel comforting.

Later, they drank coffee and took turns peeking out the window at the commotion in front of the house across the street. Police officers came and went. So did the coroner. The media came and stayed, their number growing steadily through the wee hours. By daybreak, the street was clogged with vans and reporters and camera crews.

The Leiberman children slept through all of it. So did the Banks children.

Joel told Tasha that Ben was a mess. Hysterical. In shock.

“One of us should go be with him,” Tasha kept saying. But Joel insisted that they should remain here at home, out of the way. Ben’s sister was on her way over from her home in Bedford. She would stay with him.

And Joel would stay with Tasha.

Or so she thought.

“Can’t you cancel your client meeting?” Tasha asks her husband now, not looking at him as she pulls on the same pair of jeans she wore yesterday. And the day before.

The washing machine, she remembers, distracted. She still hasn’t touched it. Well, it doesn’t seem nearly as pressing now. She can wear these jeans every day if she has to. It doesn’t matter.

“I told you,” Joel says wearily, with forced patience, wiping at the fogged mirror with a towel, “it’s not a meeting. It’s a shoot. I’m already late as it is. The CEOs of both the client and the agency are going to be there, and I need to be there, too. Like I said, I’ll come straight home as soon as it’s over.”

She knows.

He
did
say it all before. Went into detail, telling her that the shoot can’t be delayed because the talent is a supermodel who has a busy schedule, and they’re shooting on location in midtown, which means applying for permits galore. The bottom line is that Joel can’t cancel the shoot merely because of a murder.

While he swiftly knots his tie, standing in front of the mirror, Tasha jams her feet into her sneakers, not bothering to tie them.

“All set?” he asks.

She nods.

“Okay, I’m opening the door now,” Joel whispers.

She flips off the bathroom light and follows him through their darkened bedroom, glancing at the small figures huddled in the bed and crib. Rachel’s children are still sound asleep, unaware that they no longer have a mommy.

Will I have to be the one to tell them when they wake up?
Tasha wonders in dread.

Damn Joel for leaving her alone with them at a time like this.