A Guilty Mind (17 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­Three

G
EORGE ST
ARED UP
at the ceiling and blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the night. A faint breeze blew in through the open window, stirring the flowered curtains. An owl hooted in the distance, its plaintive sound sending a shiver up his spine. He breathed in and out, his mind going over every event of the past week. Everything he knew to be true was wrong.

He'd made several calls during the evening, embarking on his own personal line of questioning. Attempting to retrace his steps on the night Dr. Michael was killed, he'd started with his arrival at the club. The manager had filled in some of the blanks.

“Yes, Mr. Vandenberg, I did try to get you a cab, but you refused.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Lewis.” George paused, unsure what he was hoping to learn. “I shouldn't have driven home. You were only doing your job.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Lewis, other than having a bit too much scotch, did I behave badly?”

The man hesitated. “I don't think it's my place, sir, to judge that sort of thing.”

George sighed. “I see. Well, if you think of anything, it could be important.”

“Well, there is something, Mr. Vandenberg.” The man clucked his tongue. “You did seem angry at someone but you never said who. I'm not sure I heard you right, but you kept saying something about how you couldn't take the pressure anymore.” George's heartbeat sped up and he clutched the phone. Mr. Lewis's tone was apologetic. “That's all, sir.”

George rubbed his temple and swallowed. He didn't remember saying anything about being angry. Had he simply blanked it from his mind? “Thanks, Mr. Lewis, you've been a big help.”

“I didn't tell the police, sir.”

“Excuse me?” His head began to throb.

“About what you were saying. They were here this morning, asking questions, but I only told them I tried to call you a cab. I didn't say anything about you being under pressure. I hope I did the right thing, sir.”

He'd lied and assured the manager everything was fine. Most of the calls had been more of the same. Nothing he'd learned had helped. A gust of wind blew open the curtains. George pulled his legs up to his chest and curled into a ball. He had been under pressure that day, yet it wasn't so much more than any other day. There were times it seemed every important person in his life was always pushing him, Mary Helen, his father-­in-­law, and lately, Dr. Michael. Was that what he'd been ranting about?

George had to assume he'd driven straight from the club back to his apartment, although he had no memory of the act itself. Worse, he had no way of proving this assumption. His building had security, but it was so private that cameras had been vetoed by the board of directors. While there was always a guard on duty at the front desk, coded passkeys allowed entry into the underground parking lot, thereby eliminating any witness who might have seen him return to the building. A dead end.

His head, neck, and shoulders ached, and he craved a warm scotch or a cool gin martini. Tiny goose bumps dotted the flesh of his arms. It was his blank memory that scared him most of all. Not knowing what he'd done, even though he believed it was as innocent as going to bed, was unnerving. The knowledge that he couldn't explain his actions, didn't even know for sure what they were, was even more disturbing. A claim of memory loss would not hold much water with the police. Of that, he was sure. And not knowing the details did not give him the freedom to hide from the truth. He'd already had a lifetime of that, and he could not allow himself to repeat the errors of his past. He pushed the negative thoughts from his mind and straightened his legs, stretching the length of the bed. The movement released some of the tension from his neck to his toes. The wind whistled again, brushing the hair on the back of his arms. George renewed his vow. The truth must be found.

A swath of light cut across the room from the open window. George sat up and held his breath, staring into the darkness. Had he been mistaken? No, there it was again, another beam of light. It was too close to be from a boat out for a moonlight sail. Coming closer, the light bobbed up and down. Someone was on the property. He tiptoed to the window, stood to the side, and peeked around the curtains. The light, a flashlight, stopped moving, and cut in the direction of the cottage as though searching for something. He jumped back from the window, crouching low. His breath ragged, he tried to remember if he'd heard a car or a boat. No. All had been quiet until he spotted the light. Trembling, he rose and pushed the curtain aside again. The light was gone. He peered into the darkness until he caught the light from the corner of his eye. A dark figure moved down the stone path toward the old boathouse. The light shone on the wall of the building, stopping at the door. George's heart raced and he wiped his damp palms on his shorts. Who could possibly be out there? Why were they sneaking around? The figure moved forward again. George gasped. The stranger slipped inside the boathouse and out of sight, the creaky door slamming behind them.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Four

E
XHAUSTED F
ROM THE
drive to Richmond and back, Cancini sipped cold coffee and stared at the pile of manila file folders spread across his desk. Handwritten notes and messages filled a wire box next to the phone. With one hand, he shoved the files to the side and flopped back in his chair. “Damn.”

“Something wrong?” Smitty said from behind him.

“No. Yes.” Cancini crushed his empty Styrofoam cup. “This goddamn case is a hornet's nest. I go in one direction and then I don't know what I've got.” He gestured at the papers and folders strewn across the gray metal desktop. “We don't have enough to get an indictment, not with what we have so far, and frankly, I don't know what we've got.” The evidence, circumstantial as it was, pointed at Vandenberg, but it wasn't enough for Cancini. He didn't feel it the way he thought he should. A lot of the other guys called it going with their gut, and that was as accurate as anything else, but with Cancini it was more than that. He didn't have a degree or letters after his name, but he had ­people smarts, a radar he counted on to clue him in to when he was hearing the truth and when he was being told a lie. It wasn't foolproof, but it was usually good enough. “Damn.”

Smitty pulled up a chair, flipped it around, and sat. “Anything specific?”

Cancini's face screwed up, the creases in his forehead deepening. “Yeah. For one thing, it's not just Vandenberg who's been keeping secrets or who might have had a motive for wanting the good doctor dead. He's the most likely suspect, but still . . .”

“Meaning the widow.”

“She's one.”

“I'm not sure I'll be able to help clear things up then. My buddy got some more background on the lady, so I followed up with a ­couple of calls.”

“And?”

Smitty held up a picture of the Michaels and pointed at the widow. “It seems that Mrs. Michael was once a patient of her husband's.”

“What?” Cancini sat forward. Nora Michael had been in therapy with the man who ended up her husband? “Are you sure?”

“Yep.” Smitty nodded. “That's what I've been told. Kinda blows the mind, doesn't it?”

Cancini let out a low whistle. “Talk about your doctor-­patient relationships.” His bony fingers drummed the old government-­issue desk. From the corner of his eye, the detective saw the captain come out of his office, glance in their direction, and disappear again. He turned back to his partner. “Was that before or after the wedding?”

“The way I was told, she started seeing him when she was pretty young, before they were a ­couple.” He held up a second picture. Nora Michael wore a white suit and hat. Her husband gazed down at her, smiling broadly. “Wedding picture. The marriage took place later, after she was no longer a patient.”

“Who told you?”

“One of Dr. Michael's old buddies back in Boston. They were in med school together, along with Nora Michael's brother. That's how they all met. It was the brother who asked Dr. Michael to start treating his sister. How crazy is that?”

Cancini struggled to picture the beautiful widow lying on a couch in an office, spilling her guts about her problems. He couldn't see it. The woman he'd met, so controlled and private, didn't seem like the type. Then again, still waters ran deep, and in his line of work, he'd learned anything was possible. No one was above suspicion. “I don't suppose we have any idea why she was seeing the late Dr. Michael, do we?”

“Nope,” Smitty said. “I don't think his friend knew. I don't think he would have told me as much as he did, though, if he didn't wonder about Mrs. Michael. Both of the men closest to her are gone now. I think he was a little worried.” He slid the pictures back into a file. “That's all I got. You know how tight-­lipped psychiatrists can be.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, I do.” Cancini recalled his own limited experience with a therapist, a marriage counselor he'd hired to save his marriage. The detective had discovered early on the therapist would not share the contents of his wife's sessions, thereby leaving him exactly where he was before the counseling—­in the dark. Maybe with other ­couples it worked better, but his ex delighted in letting him know she was talking about him, and he couldn't do anything about it. He fired the therapist after only a ­couple of appointments. Shaking off the bitter memories, he asked, “Do we know if she's still under a therapist's care?”

“No idea.”

Cancini scratched at the evening stubble on his chin. Vandenberg was still their best suspect. He had motive, opportunity, and a history of violence and blackouts. On top of that, he'd already lied to them once. But still . . . Cancini couldn't let the widow go without knowing more. “Since Mrs. Michael is no longer a patient of her husband's, I don't think it would hurt for us to ask her about it. We'll take the direct approach.”

“Sure, and right after that we can ask, ‘When did you decide to stop seeing your doctor and start, you know,' ” Smitty said with a wink, “ ‘seeing your doctor?' ”

Cancini laughed. “Why not? What have we got to lose?”

“Who's got something to lose?” Martin eyed the men, a toothpick stuck in his teeth.

“No one, Captain.” Cancini's smile faded. “We're just talking.”

“Good.” Martin bounced on the balls of his feet. “We've got something brewing, anyway.” He held up a bulky envelope. “It's a tape from an all-­night convenience mart. Sent anonymously. The date is the same as the night Dr. Michael was stabbed. Eleven-­thirty
P.M
. Anyone wanna take a guess who the star is?”

Cancini and Smitty exchanged glances. Neither said a word.

“George Vandenberg. I just got done watching it. It puts him at the store closer to midnight, not home by ten-­thirty like he told us.”

“He didn't have an alibi anyway,” Cancini said. “He told us he was alone.”

“True. But this tape shows him coming into the store, buying cigarettes.”

“So?” Smitty asked. “How does this help us put him at the crime scene?”

Martin frowned at the young detective and spit the toothpick into his hand. “For one thing, because he wasn't home. And for another, because he didn't seem falling-­down drunk like it said in your report. Also, if you look closely, there's something splattered on his shirtsleeve. I don't know if the lab can enhance the tape enough to see, but it could be blood.”

“We didn't find any bloody shirts at his apartment, but he could have disposed of those clothes,” Cancini said. He picked up the Vandenberg file off his desk. “Has the tape been authenticated?”

“Not yet,” Martin said. “I was getting ready to take it down to the lab, but I thought you guys might want to see it first.”

Cancini's hazel eyes strayed to the envelope holding the tape. “We do.”

“Good. After seeing this, I think you'll find George Vandenberg is looking better and better for the Michael murder. Let's get this thing wrapped up.”

Cancini's lips clamped shut. He preferred to reserve his judgment until after he saw the tape for himself. “You said the tape came in anonymously? No return address?”

“That's right. Before you ask, I had someone phone the store to find out who the clerk was that night. I've got the name, and someone's bringing him downtown, along with the manager.”

“I'd like to talk to them,” Cancini said. Martin led them back to his office. Cancini nodded at Smitty, eyebrows raised. It was the opposite of the old saying that when one door closes, another one opens. There were so many doors opening, he didn't know which one to go through. Where was the truth? Mrs. Michael was hardly the grieving widow he'd expected. What was she hiding? And why was Mrs. Vandenberg, George's wife, so intent on protecting the secret of Sarah's death? How much did it matter to her? Then there was Vandenberg himself. If the tape did turn out to be legitimate, there could be little doubt that he'd lied to them again. No matter how one looked at the facts, that did not bode well for the Southern gentleman from Richmond.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Five

G
EORGE
SLIPPED ON
a pair of shoes and threw on a T-­shirt. He raced down the stairs to the door, then hesitated. The front door was in plain view of the boathouse. Heart pounding, he rushed through the kitchen to the rear door. Outside, the evening sky was dark, the stars and moon hidden behind dense clouds. He crept from the back of the house step by step, hands pressed onto the siding. He blinked, straining to see. Across the lawn, he could just make out the shape of the old boathouse. A flicker of light told him the trespasser was still inside.

Watching, he held his position. Should he call the police? Before he could decide, the old door swung open, the sound of the creaky hinges carrying across the yard. The intruder froze and waved the flashlight across the property. George ducked behind the house. He counted to ten, took a breath, and moved back around the corner. No one was there. He scanned the property until he spotted the dark figure near the trees. George followed, then regretted it almost immediately. A twig snapped under his foot, the crack echoing across the lawn. He dropped to the ground. The light arced over his head. His chest pounded and he held his breath. One minute passed, then two. He lifted his head and peeked at the tree line. The trespasser was gone.

George sprang to his feet and ran. Reaching the trees, he picked his way through the brush. The night sounds—­crickets, frogs, and owls—­seemed louder and closer in the darkness. He struggled to track the bobbing light of the trespasser, losing it time and time again, unable to judge the distance between them. A moment later, he heard the engine of a car. He broke into a run and burst through the woods to a dirt road. The car and the intruder were gone. He bent over, gasping for breath, his hands on his knees. When he recovered, he made the trek back through the trees to his property.

George carried a lantern down to the old boathouse. He held it out in front of him, mind racing. What had the intruder found so interesting. He pushed open the door and waved the light across the room. Dusty footprints marked the floor, but nothing else seemed out of place. Why? This building hadn't been used in years and there was nothing of value inside. Why would anyone care?

He gave up and returned to the house. On edge, he poured a glass of milk and made a sandwich to pass the time. He couldn't understand it. The boathouse didn't mean anything to anyone but him now. No one had used it since the accident. Mary Helen hated it.

“It needs to come down, George,” she'd said. “Who knows what kind of bugs and animals are living in there by now?”

He'd argued until she gave up. He'd needed it to stand. He'd needed it to remember.

Sarah had loved cleaning the boat, squirting saltwater from the hull and spraying him in the process, a twinkle in her dark eyes. She'd belonged on the water. The first time he took her out for a sail, she couldn't stop smiling, her long hair blown back by the rushing wind. He taught her to fish, how to bait a hook, and how to water-­ski. She loved the power of the boat in her hands, although he made sure they avoided the northern end of the river where Mary Helen's family had a house. If Sarah suspected, she never said.

“Have you ever gone out in your birthday suit?” she asked him one day, a wicked grin on her face. She'd sidled up next to him, edging her way into the driver's seat.

Laughing, he gave her the wheel and wrapped an arm around her waist. “No, I can't say that I have.”

“Want to sometime?”

He ran his hands over the length of her body. “With you?”

“Sure. Think how much fun it would be.”

The image of her motoring up and down the river stark naked made him smile. The look on her face told him she wasn't kidding. “Maybe.”

She sensed his reluctance, taking a different tack. “I've never been skinny-­dipping at night. Have you?”

She leaned back into his chest, pressing against him. Desire flooded his loins. “Not yet I haven't. How about tonight?”

“Tonight it is.”

George embraced the beautiful memory, but it didn't last, just as things with Sarah hadn't lasted. The years had rolled by and, for the most part, were entirely forgettable. Still, not everything had been awful. He had two children he loved, and by any measure, a comfortable life. Was everything in jeopardy now?

He poured the milk down the sink and tossed the sandwich in the trash. The telephone on the wall came to life, and he jerked his head around at the sharp ring. Other than Mary Helen, no one knew he was there, and after the way they had left things, he was pretty sure she didn't want to talk to him anytime soon. He took two steps toward the phone, but before he could answer it, the ringing stopped. He rubbed his bare arms and looked around the small kitchen, reminded how isolated he was. If anything were to happen to him, how long would it take before anyone knew? The ringing started again. One ring, two rings, three rings. Again, he moved toward the phone in slow motion, expecting with each step for the caller to hang up. Four rings, five rings, six rings.

Breaking out in a cold sweat, his fingers trembling, he put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was unrecognizable, barely more than a hoarse whisper, but the words were coldly clear before the line went dead. “Murderer. Murderer.”