A Guilty Mind (15 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Nine

“A
DIVORCE,”
G
EORGE
said. “I don't know what to say.” He slumped on the bed, stunned. Anger he'd anticipated. Hatred, too, but not this. He touched his bare ring finger. Wasn't that what he'd been wishing for when he'd tossed his wedding ring into the river? Even so, he'd never believed it was a possibility, no matter how much she hated him. Divorce was too sordid, too low class for Mary Helen.

“Not right away, of course,” she said, her drawl heavy. “We'll have to get through this. I'll stand by you because that's what's best, but after that, I want a divorce.” She sat down at her dressing table and wiped away the smeared makeup. She brushed the tangles from her hair, rearranging the blond locks into a smooth bob. “I don't think we need to say anything to the kids just yet, do you?” Mary Helen allowed a trace of sarcasm to creep back into her tone. “After all, they'll have your letters to prepare them for the police and all.”

He watched Mary Helen's reflection in the mirror. She applied fresh lipstick and pursed her lips three times. “I have a meeting at the upper school,” she said, referring to the private school their children attended. She went into the closet, emerging several minutes later in a different outfit. “You can move your things into the guestroom on the third floor. You can stay there when you're not in D.C.”

“I'm giving up the apartment. I put my notice in this morning.” He paused. “I thought I might stay at the river.” Her face froze and he knew he wasn't mistaken this time. She did hate him. “Unless you don't think I should.”

She blinked, then pasted a smile on her red lips. “Suit yourself.”

George wandered from room to room after she left. He stood in his son's room amid the piles of books, clothes, and athletic wear, and the reality of divorce—­the loss of his family—­hit him and his stomach twisted. William, or Wills as he was known, was nearly grown. Soon he would be away at college, a man in his own right, able to make his own decisions. George swallowed and leaned against the wall. Would Wills understand? Could he forgive his father?

He packed a bag and left the house. As the miles rolled by, his despondence gave way to hope. He rolled down the windows and let the warm air blow through his hair. He smelled the blooming azaleas and marveled at the dazzling display of colorful tulips on the oak-­lined streets of Richmond. The hard part was over. The police knew the truth and would do with it what they wished. If they wanted him to, he would cooperate. If not, at least his conscience was a little clearer. No matter what the police did and no matter how his children reacted, he could never erase the lifelong guilt or forgive himself, but he'd made a start. His confidence swelled with the realization that he'd acted like a man, standing up and doing all the things he should have done so long ago.

George stepped from the car, his back drenched in sweat. In the guesthouse, he poured a Coke and finished it in three swallows. The tremors had lessened, but at times, his head still pounded and his stomach churned. He threw his bag into one of the bedrooms and unloaded the groceries he'd picked up along the way. He forced down a handful of crackers. Things were happening fast. Within a week, his therapist had been murdered, he'd allowed the police to learn his most terrible secret, and his wife had asked him for a divorce. His body ached and he went outside, gulping the fresh air.

He crawled into the hammock by the river and welcomed the memories. They no longer scared him, although their innocence made him sad and a little confused. Why did everything seem so much clearer to him now that he was older, no longer distracted by the selfish tendencies of youth? He pictured her as she had been long ago, teasing and coquettish on a hot spring day.

“What makes you think I'm so perfect?” Sarah had asked, lying naked in the rope hammock, a coy smile on her face.

Standing over her, George pretended to consider. “Well, maybe I've been too quick to judge.” He stepped closer, allowing his hands to travel over the length of her body. “Yes, the hair is good. The breasts. Hmm. Let me see.” He reached out and circled each nipple with his index finger. “Very nice.” His fingers trailed down to her belly button. His eyes widened and he pulled his hand away. “Nope. I'm sorry. I was wrong. You're not perfect after all.”

Struggling to sit up, she looked down at herself, then back at him. “What's the matter?”

A stricken look crossed his face. “You have an outy,” he said, shaking his head in disappointment.

“What?”

“It's such a shame. Almost perfect, but . . .” He laughed then. She reached out and he caught her hands in his. He looked at her sideways, from under his lashes, and kissed her belly button. “See, an outy!”

Pushing him away, she laughed, too. “You jerk.” She jumped from the hammock. “Catch me if you can.” She raced to the dock, diving from the edge, her perfect form slicing the water. He'd found himself running, too, desperate to keep up with her, to hold her, to keep her perfection close as long as possible.

Then reality had set in and she'd discovered he had a girlfriend. The sweetness he'd taken for granted had been replaced by accusations and mistrust. They tried. She'd put on a gallant face, pretending none of it bothered her, but he'd known it wasn't true. Sarah hadn't been that good at playing it casual. That had been his special talent.

The sun blazed in the sky and George walked back to the house. He ate a grilled cheese, sipped a second Coke, and daydreamed of days gone by. The call jolted him from the past and forced him back to the present.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Vandenberg. It's Danny Fielding. I tried your cell phone earlier today and you didn't answer.” The man spoke in a rush.

“It's okay, Danny, I didn't have it on. It's not your fault.”

His apartment building superintendent seemed surprised. “Oh. Well, you did tell me to call you if I needed to reach you, didn't you?”

George agreed that he had. “Is everything okay? Did I not give you enough notice or forget to sign something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” The man stumbled over his words. “The police are here with a warrant. They want to search your apartment.”

George's fingers tightened on the phone. “A warrant?”

“Yes, I think they're going in now. I didn't want to let them in, but they had the warrant.”

A cold fear coursed through his body and he shivered. “Did they say anything else, like why they wanted to look in my apartment?”

“I did hear something—­one of the detectives I think.” Danny hesitated, then said, “They said it was a murder investigation and to search everything real good. They said it was that murder that's been in the papers, you know, that psychiatrist that got stabbed.” George's hands shook and he struggled to hold on to the phone. “I'm sorry, Mr. Vandenberg. I just thought you should know.”

George choked out a thank-­you and hung up. His throat tightened and his skin crawled. Why? Was it because of the lamp? Maybe Mary Helen's fears had been more justified than he'd been willing to admit. Maybe he should have had Larry's counsel when he'd spoken to the police. He had no alibi after he left the club. He'd been alone. He'd fought with Dr. Michael that day. Worse, he'd given the detective motive, spoon-­fed it to him with the tapes. Wouldn't Mary Helen find that rich? It wasn't Sarah's accidental death he'd needed to worry about. It was Dr. Michael's murder. Sweat trailed down his face and pain exploded in his head. He jumped to his feet, staggered to the sink, and threw up.

 

Chapter Thirty

C
ANCINI STOOD IN
the living room of Vandenberg's apartment. Dark plaids, stripes, and soft leather covered the solid wooden furniture. A large window overlooked a small park. Neat and clean, but not showy, it was the kind of place Cancini wouldn't mind having if it were in his budget. On a detective's salary, it wasn't. The assistant D.A. and a handful of forensics officers bustled around the apartment. Vandenberg had returned to Richmond, and according to the superintendent, given a lengthy notice on the apartment.

The forensics team ripped open drawers and dumped the contents on the floor. They searched under and behind furniture, pulling the cushions from the chairs and sofa. Picture frames were removed from the walls and books were pulled from the shelves. Cancini rifled through Vandenberg's desk and papers, but found nothing. Wandering back to the bedroom, he watched as the sheets were stripped from the bed. He thumbed through the suits, shirts, and khaki pants that filled the walk-­in closet. Belts and ties hung from two arms on the wall. There were no female clothes or accessories to be found. Clearly, Mrs. Vandenberg did not stay over.

“Detective?” A wiry young man approached. “So far we haven't found anything significant. Do you want us to collect hair samples from the brush or sheets?”

“No.” Cancini shook his head. The killer had left only the dead therapist lying on the floor. There were no strands of hair, unexplained fingerprints, or samples of blood other than the victim's. Standing in the middle of the room, he turned his head in a semicircle. “Have you checked the shower and sink for trace bloodstains?”

“Yes, sir. Nothing.”

“All the clothes and shoes? Maybe there's spatter we've missed.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but there isn't anything. Everything is clean here.”

“Clean?”

“As in there are no dirty clothes at all. Everything's been laundered.”

Cancini sighed. Sometimes it worked like that. You did a search and whatever might have been there was gone. It wasn't a stretch to assume that if Vandenberg did murder his therapist, he was smart enough to get rid of the clothing he wore that night. A flash of gold caught his attention then, and he moved toward the items piled on the floor. He picked through books and papers but found only a shiny pen. He looked back at the man from forensics. “Anyone come up with a pair of reading glasses? Gold, wire-­rimmed?”

“No. Sorry,” the man said.

“Cancini, got something.” Smitty's voice came across the apartment. “In here.”

He followed the voice to a tiny kitchen, an L-­shaped room with just enough space for a table and two chairs. “What is it?”

Smitty gestured to a butcher's block next to the stove. “A knife is missing.”

Cancini's heart skipped a beat. He stepped closer. Six steak knives were tucked into slots on the bottom row of the block. A sharpener and four larger knives occupied the slots above those. One slot, however, was empty. Cancini pulled out the knives and laid them side by side on the counter. He looked up at Smitty.

“The butcher knife is gone,” his partner said. “I'm betting our murder weapon belongs to this set.”

“It's the right brand?”

“Yep.”

“Not in the dishwasher? Or a drawer?”

“Nope.”

He considered the hole in the knife block. There would be no way to prove the knife that killed Dr. Michael came from this kitchen unless it had markings like initials, but it was still damaging from Cancini's point of view. If they got lucky, someone in the lab could make a match. Either way the empty slot in the block would put the image of George holding the large knife into the minds of a jury. “Good work,” he said to Smitty, and turned to one of the forensics officers. “Bag these knives and the block.”

The detectives walked out of the apartment together. “I think it's time we pay a visit to Mrs. Michael, don't you think?” Smitty shot him a questioning look. “Call it a courtesy visit.”

“Sure,” his partner said. “After that?”

“Heading to Richmond to meet Mrs. Vandenberg, maybe see if she can shed some light on her husband's activities.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Don't know, but I've got a feeling there's no love lost between them.”

Smitty nodded and turned the car toward the Potomac. “You get that from the tapes?”

“Yeah, and something else.” As they rode, he told his young partner about Vandenberg's blackouts. “He admitted he drank heavily the night Dr. Michael was murdered. Maybe he doesn't remember what happened?”

Smitty snorted. “Sounds like psychological mumbo-­jumbo to me.”

“Maybe.” Cancini rolled down the window, breathing the sweet scents of spring. “Probably.”

“My buddy in Boston got back to me.”

“Did he find anything?”

“I gave him her maiden name, Nora Burns. From that, he found out she shared an apartment with her brother through college and right up until she got married. Now, here's the weird thing.” Cancini watched Smitty's face. “The rent, tuition, books, all of it was paid for in cash. No credit card. Never even a check. Always cash.”

Cancini sat back against the seat. His shirt stuck to the cracked leather and he rolled up the window again. It was weird, but that alone didn't make it suspicious.

Smitty pulled up in front of a large redbrick estate with dark shutters and double doors. “Nice place,” he said.

Cherry trees, evergreens, and brilliant flowers dotted the landscaping. A sweeping drive curved around the side of the house, keeping the garage hidden from view. Tall windows faced the street and glittered in the bright sun like jewels. “Big for two ­people.” Cancini scanned the street. An old Toyota, rusted in spots with hubcaps missing, sat parked on the street in front of the house. It seemed out of place in the quiet, well-­manicured neighborhood and he made a quick note of the license plate.

“Hey.” Smitty elbowed him. “Look.”

A woman stood on the front steps, her back to them. Golden hoops hung from her ears and her dark hair was piled into a high ponytail. A flowered skirt billowed around her long legs. Mrs. Michael, standing inside the house, leaned toward her, arms outstretched. The woman pulled away, whirled on her tiptoes, and skipped away. She shaded her eyes from the blistering sun, jumped in the old car, and revved the engine before driving away.

“Isn't that—­” Smitty started.

“Lauren Temple,” Cancini said, cutting him off. “One of the patients I interviewed the other day.” He got out of the car and headed up the drive, Smitty by his side.

The door opened after one knock. “Oh, it's you.” Mrs. Michael looked over their shoulders, red-­rimmed eyes searching the street. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I wasn't expecting you.” She sniffed and held up the wadded-­up tissues in her hand. “I'm kind of a wreck today. It's just, well, you know . . .”

Cancini glanced back at the now-­empty street. “Is that because of Lauren Temple?”

She winced, then raised her shoulders in a shrug. “I guess you saw her leaving.”

“Why was she here?”

Her lips parted and she blinked. With a shake of her head, she waved them in and led them to the living room. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she said. “Let me wash my face, and I'll be right back.”

She carried a tray of coffee when she returned. Cancini noted the freshly applied lipstick and dry eyes. Her rich brown hair had been swept up into a French twist. The crushed tissues were gone. Her voice, broken just minutes earlier, was crisp, businesslike now. “How can I help you today, Detectives?”

“You were going to tell us why Lauren Temple was just leaving?”

Mrs. Michael sat down across from them. “Oh, that. She came to pay her respects. I'm afraid she caught me in a low moment.” She crossed her smooth legs. “Actually, I'm glad you're here. Do you have any news for me?”

Cancini ignored the change in subject. “How do you know Miss Temple?”

“I don't,” the widow said. “She came because she said she was a patient of my husband's. I thought that was nice of her, don't you?”

“Yes,” Cancini kept his tone noncommittal, unable to reconcile this considerate act with the hostile young woman he'd interviewed. “Very nice.”

Mrs. Michael sipped her coffee. “Has what I told you the other night helped you?”

“We're pursuing some leads.” Cancini avoided naming Vandenberg. “I can't tell you anything specific though.”

“But you have something?”

He wasn't ready to reveal how far her tip had taken them. “Maybe. It's too soon to tell.”

“I see,” Mrs. Michael said. “Can you tell me anything?”

“No.”

She uncrossed her legs and stood. “Detectives, why did you come here?”

Lips twitching, Cancini realized he might be enjoying the woman's irritation more than he should. Underneath the icy exterior, he suspected there was a fiery and passionate woman. Surely the tears they'd seen earlier were a sign she wasn't as cold as she appeared. “I have a ­couple of questions.” he said, no longer smiling. “About the calls on the night Dr. Michael was murdered.”

Pinched lines appeared above her full lips. “What about it? I told you my husband called me that night and how worried I was about him. That was around eight. I'd just gotten back to my room after dinner. Do I need my lawyer for these questions?”

“That depends. Do you have anything to hide?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, hands on her hips. “What do you want to know?”

“I'd like to hear again why you were worried about him.”

“Why? I told you he was anxious. A patient had gotten angry during a session. He was a little nervous about it. Any wife would be worried, too. We've been over this already.”

“Yes, but I've been thinking. You knew he was feeling a little scared. Did you call him back and check on him? See if he was all right?”

Head bowed, she sat down again. “No, I didn't.”

“So, you didn't call to check on him,” Cancini said. “But you did call someone.”

Her head snapped up, her face pale. “Wh-­what?”

Cancini nodded at Smitty, who took over the questioning. “Mrs. Michael, there were four phone calls that night. One was from your husband, exactly as you said, and the other three were made from your room to a Washington-­area cell phone number.”

She came to her feet. When she spoke, her voice shook with anger. “You checked my phone calls? You had no right to do that.”

“This is a murder investigation. We have every right.”

“I won't have it.”

Cancini asked again, “Mrs. Michael, who did you talk to three times on the night your husband was murdered?”

“Leave!” Two white spots stood out on the smooth skin of her cheeks. She pointed one slender finger at the front door. “Now!”

They walked out, the heat of her gaze on their backs. She slammed the door after them.

“I'd say you pressed her buttons,” Smitty said.

Cancini agreed but said nothing. Like it or not, the calls meant something. Any pretense of an innocent explanation was long gone. A lover? An accomplice? He didn't know, but he was more determined than ever to find out.