A Guilty Mind (6 page)

 

Chapter Eleven

“I
'M N
OT GOING
to stay,” she said. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. “So don't ask me.” Sarah sat on the ground, knees pulled up to her chest and head turned away from him. She plucked at the grass, avoiding his gaze.

Sipping on the warm beer, he stared out at the river. A small boat motored past. He watched the ripples atop the water grow wider until they reached the shore, disappearing.

“I only came because I knew you needed to hear something, but . . .” She paused, her ponytail dipping and bobbing with her words. “I haven't decided anything yet.”

“Sarah,” he started, “you know I—­”

“Stop.” She glared at him, her brown eyes dark under the shade of the tree. “Just let me finish.” Silenced, George sat back, mouth shut. “I'm having a hard time figuring this out, and pressure from you is not going to help.” Her slender arms loosened and she stretched her legs. Her tawny skin glistened in the bright sunlight of the afternoon. “This isn't about you, you know. It's about my life and the baby's, our future.”

Desperately wanting to interrupt and declare it their future—­not just hers—­he bit his tongue. He didn't want to anger her or scare her away.

“I don't know if I want to get married because of the baby and I don't know if I want to marry you.” Swallowing hard, he glimpsed the tears on her long lashes. “It's not that I don't love you. I do. But I just can't see what kind of future we'd have. I'm a waitress and you're . . .” Lines appeared across her forehead. “You're from a family that doesn't want someone like me as your wife.” She blinked away the unspilled tears. “I'm not stupid, George, and I know you would never have proposed to me if I wasn't pregnant. That's no way to start a life, a family.” She curled her legs under her again.

He reached out and touched the rounded curve of her shoulder. She stiffened but remained silent. Gathering courage when she didn't brush his hand away, he squeezed. “Can I talk now?”

Wiping at her face, she didn't look at him. “Sure. I guess.”

Knowing everything mattered in that moment, he chose honesty, something he believed she deserved, especially since he'd already deceived her about Mary Helen early in their relationship. Mouth dry, he told her she was right about the proposal. He wouldn't have been thinking about marriage, but now he was grateful, even happy. “Sarah, this baby has forced me to look at what I want to do with my life. When we first started, I just wanted to have fun. I had a girlfriend and I needed a break from her. You were that break.” Sarah shook his hand from her shoulder, but he kept talking. “And then I started to like you, really like you. I probably would have just kept things as they were, but everything changed. You found out about Mary Helen and then, well, this. The old me, the one who just wanted to have fun, would have run away.”

“You did run away,” she said. “You hurt me, George.” Hearing her words felt like having the wind knocked out of him, leaving him momentarily speechless. “But that doesn't matter now,” she said, her voice firm, “and I don't want to talk about it.”

Hesitating, he took her at her word and bit back the apologies. “When I started thinking about not being with you, not talking with you and holding your hand, not watching you brush your hair, not seeing you . . . I realized I loved you.” She snorted. His heart pounded, but he plowed on. “When I came out here by myself, without anyone, I was surprised how calm I felt, how sure of what I wanted. You don't know what that's like. No one tells you what you're supposed to be, which school to go to, who you should date. You always say what you think. You do what you think is right. That's the kind of life I want to live, too—­with you.”

Wide-­eyed, she leaned away from him. “And you think being married to me will magically change your life?”

“Yes. No.” George hung his head. “That's not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant that I like the person I am when I'm with you. I like me better when I'm with you than when I'm with anyone else. I think—­no, I'm sure—­you bring out the best in me.” Her mouth opened, the pink lips parting. “It sounds crazy, but what I think I'm trying to say is that you being pregnant has only made me realize that I'd want to marry you even if there was no baby.”

Her pretty mouth shut and her dark eyes searched his. Holding her gaze, he wanted to cover her in kisses and hold her tight, but he forced himself to wait. He gripped the beer bottle in his hand as though it were a life raft and he was adrift at sea.

The minutes dragged on until she spoke again. “What would our life be like, George?”

Hope flooded his mind and his voice shook. “Wh-­what do you mean?”

She turned away from the river, her voice faraway. “How would it start? What would our wedding be like? What would your parents say? Where would we live?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I haven't thought about that yet.”

“Well, I have.” Sarah rose and brushed the dirt from her shorts. “I'm going home now. I've got some more thinking to do.”

“Can I call?” he asked, afraid to push, afraid not to.

“No, I don't think so.”

He felt the energy seep from him. His arms slipped to his sides and his eyes stung. Had she already made up her mind then?

“George, whatever happens, whatever I decide, I do love you. Not the man you think you're expected to be, but the man I saw, the man I knew these last few months.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, her soft lips momentarily brushing his skin. “I'll call you soon. I promise.”

Just as he had then, he reached up, his fingers feeling for the memory of her kiss. As always, the past fell away and the dream faded, and he felt only the lines that had deepened across his forehead. His nightcap, empty now, sat balanced in his lap. Who was the man she knew? Where was he now? When had he lost himself? Was it right after the accident? Right after she was gone? Or was it after years of marriage to a woman he didn't love?

He let out a long breath, wishing for Dr. Michael. At least with the therapist, he'd been honest—­most of the time, anyway. But now, with Dr. Michael apparently murdered, his wife had brought in a lawyer to protect George from himself. Was Mary Helen right? Did he need a lawyer? He rubbed his temples. The hammering in his skull refused to go away, pounding and pounding. He leaned back and rolled the cool glass across his head. Without Dr. Michael, he was back where he started, on his own. He could find a new therapist, but in his heart, he knew the problems wouldn't go away until he grew a backbone. The past, the dreams that haunted him day in and day out, were his and Mary Helen's and Sarah's. No amount of therapy could erase what had already been done. Yet the future, that was another matter. If he followed the advice of Dr. Michael, the future was not lost.

He blinked in the darkness. Who would want to kill Dr. Michael? He groaned, frustrated. He couldn't even remember the events of the previous night. Had he blacked out again? Dr. Michael had repeatedly expressed concern about the drinking, the blackouts, all of it. But George hadn't wanted to hear it. Cursing the headache, he went over the day again; trying to remember. First the business lunch, then the appointment with Dr. Michael and the outburst during the session. Later, he'd drowned his sorrows in a bottle of scotch. That was it. After driving away from the club, swerving across the parking lot, he couldn't remember. Not driving home to his apartment. Not tossing his clothes across the floor. Not falling naked into the sheets. No matter how hard he tried, his memory remained a blank slate. There in the darkness, he again heard the accusation in his wife's words—­
What
have you done?

 

Chapter Twelve

H
E COU
LD HAVE
conducted the interviews over the phone, but Cancini preferred to ask questions in person. Studying each individual's face and their mannerisms, he could better gauge their reactions. He'd spoken to about half of Dr. Michael's final appointments, driving all over the city and suburbs to look into each patient's eyes at the precise moment he informed them their therapist was dead. A few burst into tears while others had to sit down, the shock causing their legs to give out. Two, however, did not seem to care—­expression slack, shoulders shrugging as though he were telling them nothing more significant than the latest weather report.

“Well, I wasn't getting all that much out of therapy anyway,” said one young woman without looking up from the menu in her hands. “I just thought it was a cool thing to do.” Cancini had caught Lauren Temple on her break at the restaurant where she served as a hostess. When a waitress approached to take the young woman's order, she unfolded her napkin and spread it across her lap. “What happened to him, anyway?”

“That's what we're trying to find out,” Cancini said. Tables around them filled and the noise level in the restaurant swelled. He squirmed in his seat. Too many ­people and too much commotion. His stomach growled at the good smells emanating from the kitchen, but he left his menu untouched. “We're asking everyone who had an appointment with the doctor yesterday where they were last evening.”

“Oh.” She didn't hide the tiny smile playing across her lips. “Dr. Michael was murdered then?”

Goose bumps rose on his forearms. Who was this girl? “I didn't say that, Miss Temple. We're still investigating the cause of—­”

“I know what you said, Detective, and I know what you didn't say. I can figure it out for myself. Therapist turns up dead and police start asking his patients where they were on such and such a night.” The waitress brought a glass of iced tea and set it in front of the girl. “Do you think I'm dumb? Come on.”

Cancini didn't know what he thought of the young woman seated across from him, but he didn't think she was dumb. She was brighter than most and self-­assured. The death of her therapist seemed inconsequential to her and she did not hide her apathy. Her delight at the idea of murder got under his skin. “You don't seem terribly surprised.”

She squeezed the lemon into the glass, her tone casual. “Not much surprises me.”

“That's pretty cynical,” he said.

“Whatever.” A plate of pasta with garlic bread arrived. She dug in, twisting the pasta around her fork. “Sorry. I've gotta eat so I can get back to work.”

“You never answered my question, Miss Temple. Where were you last night, say after six or so?”

“Ah, now we're getting down to it.” She wiped the sauce from her lips. “I was at my boyfriend's place. We ordered Chinese, watched a movie, stayed in for the night . . .” She winked. “You know.”

Cancini wrote it down in his notebook, ignoring her insinuation. “The boyfriend's name?”

The girl put her fork down, the metal clinking against the china plate. “For real?”

“Yes, for real. I want to know his name, address, phone, when you got there, how long you were there. Okay?” He ripped a piece of paper from his notebook and pushed it across the table.

“Whatever,” she said again, tearing apart the crust of her garlic bread. “Jake Melbourne. Right around six. Spent the whole night.” She wrote an address and phone number on the paper and handed it back.

“He'll verify that?”

She frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn't he?”

“No reason, Miss Temple.” The detective slid from the chair and stood over the girl. “Thank you for your time.”

The interviews were brief, no more than basic information, questions limited by that annoying code of medical ethics—­the patient's right to privacy. Knowing he needed to be careful, Cancini held back, frustrated by the law. Any of the doctor's patients could be a viable suspect, but according to the judge who allowed the detectives to use the appointment book, he could only ask where they were at the time of the victim's death. It wasn't enough. He needed more.

“By the book,” he said, and slammed the door to his ten-­year-­old Chevrolet. “Goddamn rules.” The captain had issued the same warning to the entire department so many times, he could recite the speech word for word. Too many cases had been overturned and too many trials stopped midway. Too many guilty men had been set free to steal again, rape again, and murder again. Cancini himself had been burned by a technicality when a search was ruled illegal and all the subsequent evidence was thrown out before a jury could even hear a word. The smug look on the murderer's face had brought the detective to his feet. His desire to leap over the railing and smack the smirk from the lowlife's lips almost got the better of him. Now, everything he and the rest of the squad did had to be beyond reproach. By the book. It made his ulcers burn.

Patients' rights, subpoenas, legal mumbo-­jumbo; it all made his head spin until he wondered if he was too old for the job, a relic trying to hang on in a world going way too fast. Still, he couldn't quit, couldn't retire. He didn't know how to do anything else, and it was too late for him to learn. Besides, even if he was a dinosaur in a modern society, the department needed him. They counted on his bloodhound instinct and depended on his unnatural persistence. At least that's what he told himself. So, here he was again, with another brutal murder case, no clear-­cut motive, and his hands tied right from the outset. Surely the nature of the crime, the cold-­blooded manner in which Dr. Michael was slain, should tell him something. Definitely not a case of highly charged emotions but still, there was an element of hatred. He felt it. Nothing was taken and no one was sexually assaulted. It was no accident. He believed what he'd told Kate. The killer was smart and cold as ice.

Honing in on a suspect, however, was another matter. He already had questions about the doctor's marriage, but considering what the guy did for a living, he couldn't rule out anything. So, in interrogating each patient, he listened to his gut, all the while keeping it “by the book.” Still, if the department lawyers and the district attorney were to give the go-­ahead, loosening the noose and getting him subpoenas for patient files, he would be back, nose to the ground. He grunted. For now, he had to be satisfied with names, faces, and a list of alibis.

Hungry and thirsty, Cancini sauntered into his favorite watering hole, a place that could only be described kindly as a dive. Long and narrow, the bar was just wide enough for a few wobbly tables, a battered jukebox playing oldies from the sixties, and a heavily scarred wooden bar. Solitary figures sat on rickety stools, nursing draft beer and Jack Daniel's. The air smelled of onions and old Christmas tree–shaped fresheners.

Smitty sat at the end of the bar with his back to the door and a cell phone to his ear. Sliding onto the stool next to his partner, Cancini reached for the picked-­over nuts in the wooden bowl.

“Can you verify the dates for me?” the younger detective asked as he wrote in his notepad. “Can you tell me how the tickets were paid for?” Cancini munched on a stale cashew, listening. “Yeah, I got it. Any trips since then? . . . Okay. Thanks.” Smitty set the phone on the bar and picked up his beer. “I might have something.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember how Mrs. Watson indicated the Michaels weren't getting along right before her brother was run down? Well, I had a little talk with the housekeeper this afternoon. Seems that about a year ago, Mrs. Michael made several trips back to Boston, one time gone for two weeks straight. Miss Angelo, that's the housekeeper, didn't want to say much, but she admitted she heard the Michaels fighting about it.”

Cancini brushed the salt from his fingers and licked his lips. “Business trips?”

“Nope.” Smitty handed over a report. “Talked to HR at her office. The lady took a leave of absence for that time. That was the airline on the phone. I've got the dates for all six trips. All paid for in cash. The last trip was about a week before the brother's accident.”

“Did the fighting stop when the trips did?”

“Yeah, at least she thought so.”

“We still don't know what she was doing in Boston?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. Get me a copy of those dates and see if we can find out where she stayed. Even if they had marriage problems a year ago, it doesn't prove anything now.”

“No,” Smitty said, “but the secretary did say something was bothering Dr. Michael this week—­same as before.”

“Agreed. It might not hurt to ask the widow a few questions.”

An icy mug landed on the bar. “Can I get a cheeseburger?” Cancini asked, getting a quick nod in return. “Loaded and don't overcook it this time, Monty.”

The bartender walked away, raising his right hand and middle finger. “It'll be burned, just like you like it,” Monty said over his shoulder.

Smitty laughed out loud. “Is this your regular place?”

“Yeah.” He gave his partner a sideways glance. “And I wanna keep it that way. Understand?” Not a large-­group kind of guy, he rarely socialized with any of the other detectives in the department. It wasn't that he didn't get along with the guys well enough—­he did—­but he preferred to keep his private life private. And truthfully, he didn't mind his loner reputation, finding it kept most of the nosier bunch as well as the kiss-­ups away. At this stage in his life, he didn't have the energy or the patience. Fleetingly, it occurred to him perhaps he and Mrs. Michael had something in common. Cancini polished off his mug in less than a minute and wiped the foam from his lips.

“It's your place.” Smitty was quiet a moment, then said, “Not a great place to meet women though.”

Cancini snorted. “Who says I'm looking?”

“No one,” Smitty said. “But it wouldn't hurt you to go on a date or something . . . sometime.”

The detective liked the younger man, found him an easy partner who possessed good instincts, but he didn't like the turn this conversation was taking. Everyone knew about his divorce and where his ex-­wife now spent her nights, but Cancini knew it wasn't her he missed. Was he lonely? Maybe. But that was his business. He grunted. “What for?”

“No reason.” Smitty swallowed the rest of his beer. He stared at the mirrored bar in front of him, then picked up his notebook. “Listen, there is one other thing. It's about the knife.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“I don't know how much help it is, but it's sold at one of those chain stores that carries kitchen stuff.”

“Which one?”

“Williams-­Sonoma. Heard of it?”

Monty returned with a burger, silverware, and napkins. Melted cheese dripped down the bun and ketchup pooled on the plate. A mound of fries completed the meal. Cancini's mouth watered and he chomped down on the burger right away. Grease dripped from his lips to his chin. He wiped it away with a wad of cocktail napkins. A second round of drinks arrived with the food. Devouring most of the burger and two large handfuls of fries, the detective washed the burger down with a second icy beer. “I've seen it. Expensive, right?”

“Uh-­huh. You can get that knife—­that specific brand and type used to murder Dr. Michael—­at the store, through the catalog, or order it off the Web site. It's usually part of a set, but you can special order it by itself as a replacement courtesy. The blade itself measures eight inches with a solid wooden handle.”

“Three different ways to buy the knife, huh? That could make it hard.”

“Not to mention that with some customers paying in cash, you would never get a complete list. It's a needle in a haystack.”

Cancini whistled under his breath. “That isn't much help.” He drummed his fingers on the bar, his short nails skipping over the deep nicks and scars in the wood. “Still, you can't buy it at your local Kmart, so that might tell us a little something about the killer.”

“There is another thing that might help. This particular knife was only introduced in the last two years, so at least the information, if we have to get it, is fairly recent.”

Cancini pushed his plate away. “This case is starting to get on my nerves. Everything is like a taste of pie, never the whole piece, not even as much as a whole bite. It's not getting us anywhere. We got nothin'.”

Smitty said nothing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

With his fingers, Cancini wiped at the condensation on the mug. Every hour that passed, the killer would be harder to track. They needed something solid. Conjecture and speculation was getting them nowhere. He touched his head to his temples, tired of the pain. Monty brought a glass of water and wiped away his mess. Cancini stared down into his glass. Why did he keep doing it? He figured a doctor like Michael would have a theory or two, but he had a guess of his own. He needed the job, needed the cases. They filled the long hours and helped him forget. It was true he hadn't been on a date since his wife had left, but he didn't need to be fixed up, didn't want to be fixed up. He was better alone.

He chugged the rest of his beer, shaking off the melancholy. Dr. Michael and his murder required his focus. He looked over at Smitty. “Some cops say there's no such thing as the perfect crime, but that's not the way I see it. I say there's no such thing as the perfect killer. They're only human like you and me. Even if the crime scene yields nothing and you can't find a lick of evidence anywhere, the killer will still mess up somehow, sometime. It might even happen years later.” His eyes burned. “The crime itself might be perfect, but the killer isn't. Nobody is.”