A Guilty Mind (8 page)

 

Chapter Fifteen

“S
O, YOU THINK
it's a coincidence or what?” The captain sat back in his chair, fingers pressed together into an empty house.

“Can't say yet.” Cancini said. He didn't believe in coincidences and he didn't like speculating on another officer's case—­the hit-­and-­run of Nora Michael's brother—­especially one for which there were so few facts. “I talked to the guy who caught the case last year but he came up with bubkes. No motive, no suspect, and no real proof that the hit-­and-­run was premeditated at all. All the witnesses on record stated the car was already speeding and took off after the victim was hit. I'm not surprised it was ruled an accidental homicide.” Cancini hated having to go into this, but after one call from Nora Michael, the captain was nosing around both investigations and prodding the detective for answers. “The statement the lady working the magazine stand gave the police is pretty much like all the other witnesses. She said she remembers talking to Nora Michael but not saying anything about the car hitting her brother on purpose. The ladies disagree about what was said.” Cancini slumped down in the chair. “To tell you the truth, there isn't a whole lot to go on.”

“Doesn't sound like it,” Captain Martin said. A toothpick dangled from his lips, bobbing up and down when his mouth moved. Cancini recognized it as an obnoxious habit the man had picked up trying to emulate his favorite TV character, a big-­time detective with all the answers. A fresh supply of toothpicks sat on the desk in a small glass jar. “Do you think there's any connection?”

“Honestly? Not based on what we know so far.”

“But it is sort of odd, don't you think?”

“Odd? I guess, but I'm a lot more worried about my case, my victim.” Cancini shifted in his chair. Neither man was comfortable in the other's presence, the detective's ex-­wife always between them. He didn't blame the captain. The marriage was over and it was a free country. Still, dating and marrying another detective's wife was like breaking a code. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Michael gave me the same spiel she probably gave you, and our guys have gone over that note she brought in, but there was nothing to find. It was clean for prints and there's no way to trace its origin.” Gesturing, palms upturned, he said, “I don't think I can help the lady when it comes to the death of her brother, at least not right now. And frankly, other than that note, which tells us nothing, we don't have any reason to believe the deaths are connected except both victims shared the same profession. Now, if we were able to go into patients' histories . . .” He let the implication lie there, but the captain sat stone-­faced, silent. Tipping his head to one side, Cancini concluded, “Besides, I would think she'd be a lot more worried about finding the person who killed her husband right now. That's what I call odd.”

Martin nodded once. “Maybe, but it is an interesting conspiracy theory. What if it did turn out to be the same killer?”

Cancini swallowed a groan, tired of the subject and tired of Nora Michael. The detective didn't like to be second-­guessed or micromanaged. More than two decades on the force, experience under seven different captains, and nothing had changed. There was always pressure.

“Have we got anything, any leads at all?” the captain asked after a moment passed.

“It's too early to say. We're looking into a ­couple of things.”

“Such as?”

The detective folded his arms across his chest. “Not much to tell yet.”

“Try me.”

Cancini opened his mouth and closed it again. Usually Martin gave him time and space to put together a case—­especially lately—­in light of their awkward relationship. He disliked laying out a case when there was no real evidence, only conjecture and guesswork, but Nora Michael and her theories had pushed forward the timetable. “Working on some details about the knife, checking out some of the alibis for the patients he saw that day, and . . .” The detective paused. “There are some discrepancies in the description of the relationship between the husband and wife.” The toothpick in the captain's mouth stopped moving. “They may have been having some problems.”

Martin tossed the toothpick into the trash and plucked a new one from the jar. “I thought Mrs. Michael had an alibi?”

“She does, but we're trying to get a better picture of what was going on at home. Right now, we're working on phone records and bank records, that sort of thing, check out whether she made any questionable calls or withdrawals recently.”

“Well, whatever you do, do it fast,” the captain said. He stood, ending the meeting. “I have a feeling Nora Michael's gonna be a royal pain in my ass.” Cancini said nothing, hand on the door. Martin cleared his throat. “I heard your father's been sick. How's he doing?”

He stiffened. “He's getting by.”

“I wouldn't ask, but Lola is worried about him.”

Cancini's chin dropped to his chest. Inexplicably, his father and his ex had liked each other. They talked about television shows they followed or music they enjoyed or the Sudoku puzzles they worked on. When the marriage had ended, his father hadn't said a word, but Cancini had seen the look that said he'd let her get away. He'd wanted to wipe away that look, tell his father about her infidelities and the rest, but he couldn't do it.
What the hell
, he'd thought,
it's just one more thing I haven't done right.

“She'd like to visit him, if that's okay with you.”

Cancini nodded. The company would probably do the old man some good. “Fine.”

“Good.” The captain spit out another toothpick. “Keep me in the loop on the Michael case, Cancini. I mean it.”

“Fine,” he said again, grumbling under his breath. He pushed thoughts of Martin, Lola, and his dad from his mind to focus on the case at hand. He didn't have time to waste in the captain's office. Sitting at his desk with a fresh cup of coffee, he sifted through his notes. The medical examiner's report had whittled the time of death down to between nine
P.M
. and midnight. Most of Dr. Michael's patients had alibis for that time period. Three did not. He circled their names in his notes.

Above those names, he wrote Nora Michael. Alibi or not, he had questions about the widow. Perhaps it wasn't right to judge her based solely on her emotionless reaction to her husband's murder, but he did anyway. Her distant manner rubbed him the wrong way. Scratching at the salt-­and-­pepper stubble on his chin, Cancini thought he knew her type. He'd been married to it. Although Lola lacked Nora Michael's sophistication, both could turn a man's head. Still, that didn't make them the same. It was the eyes, the deflated expression, the look that told him they didn't care one whit whether the sun came up tomorrow or the next day or the next. There was something similar in the women, some element of emotion or intimacy that seemed to be missing. Was he right about the new widow? Was she like Lola?

Cancini, a man first and foremost, had been excited by his former wife's attention, so flattered he'd failed to wonder why a platinum beauty would notice him, a birdlike nobody whose only distinction was his success in the department. He should have known. After the initial enchantment wore off, he found she lacked feeling, content to share space, giving nothing in return but the benefit of her presence. When she strayed—­more than once—­he'd left. Marriage over. She was Martin's problem now.

Shuffling through the files on his desk, he pulled out the thick manila folder on the hit-­and-­run death of Mrs. Michael's brother. There were no interviews with patients, but the file did include a list of those scheduled for appointments that week. He recognized a few, guessing those were the patients who'd transferred to Dr. Michael after the accident. Each of the names had a valid alibi save one, George Vandenberg. He put a star next to that name, already circled in his notes.

Farther down the page, he printed the only clues he had to the description of the murderer. Five-­ten to six feet tall and right-­handed. That could be man or woman, especially if the woman wore heels. It wasn't much to go on. In truth, it was barely anything at all.

“Hey, Cancini!” Smitty strode into the squad room, eyes twinkling. “I think we might have caught a break.”

“Oh? What makes today so special?” the detective asked.

Smitty stopped. “You okay?”

Cancini waved a hand. “Sorry. Just got out of Martin's office. Wants to know where we are.”

“Well, maybe this will help. I was able to get the phone records for Mrs. Michael's room up in Chicago. There were four calls the night the doc was murdered.” Smitty sat down, his voice excited. “At five—­Chicago time—­she called a cell phone number we haven't been able to trace yet. Then at eight, which is nine o'clock D.C. time, she got a call from Dr. Michael's office. She was on the line for approximately fifteen minutes. That coincides with the call that was made from the phone in Dr. Michael's private office.”

“That fits in with the time of death Kate gave us,” Cancini said. “He would still have been alive then.”

“Right. She made a third call, right after the call from her husband, to the same cell phone she'd dialed earlier.”

“And the fourth?”

“Also to the same cell phone number. Midnight our time.”

“Odd she used the hotel phone and not her cell phone.”

Smitty shrugged. “Maybe it was dead or she can expense calls made from the hotel. Either way, we got lucky.”

Cancini rubbed his forehead. “How likely is it that the cell phone number belongs to the husband?”

“Not likely at all. I checked with his secretary, figuring she'd have the guy's numbers for emergencies and such. She didn't recognize the number at all. Plus, the timing's too weird. Why call her husband on his cell right after she'd just talked to him on his office line?”

“True,” the detective said. “Is it a local number?”

“Yep. Trying to match a name to the number, but you know how that can be.”

“Yeah, I do.” He looked at Smitty. “Anything else?”

“My guy up in Chicago talked to some of the ­people who had dinner with Mrs. Michael that night. There was some deal in the hotel from six until about eight or so but she left a little early.” Cancini paced while his partner talked. “A ­couple of the ­people at Mrs. Michael's table said she seemed disturbed. One lady said she thought Mrs. Michael seemed upset about something, kind of sad. That would have been not long after the first call.”

“I think I see where you're headed. You're thinking the reason Nora Michael acted strangely at dinner was because she knew her husband was going to be murdered that night. You're thinking she knew because she'd arranged it herself.” Cancini stopped pacing.

“You don't sound like you believe it.”

He half smiled, voice weary. “Oh, I could be persuaded, believe me. I just think it's a big jump in assumptions. Maybe we should sit on that theory until we know more about the cell number.”

“But wouldn't it make perfect sense she would call the killer beforehand to give him a heads-­up that Dr. Michael was still in the office? Then she calls again at midnight to confirm the job is done. She's out of town. She knows he works late on those nights. It makes sense.”

“It could, but we don't want to get ahead of ourselves.”

“Why don't we just ask her about it?”

Cancini shoved his hands in his pockets. “Because it would be better to have the information on the cell phone number first. We don't know the substance of those calls. Besides, there are other explanations. It could've been a coworker or a friend.”

“Or a boyfriend.”

“Or a boyfriend. Either way, if we wait, we can do a check on the person before she gets a chance to warn them we're on to her.” He paused. “If we're on to anything.”

The young man brushed the blond hair from his forehead. He nodded, his face glum. “Okay. I get your point.”

“Smitty, this is good work,” Cancini said. “If the calls turn out to be suspicious, it's more ammunition to subpoena bank records and the rest of her personal information. Let's do it right, make any evidence we get stick.”

“Sure. It feels like something though.”

“I know.” Cancini recalled the smooth, tear-­free face of the widow the morning she learned of her husband's death. Shock or something else? “Don't worry. Nora Michael is at the top of the list and if there's something to find, we'll find it.”

 

Chapter Sixteen

I
NSIDE THE
GUESTHOUSE,
George stood in front of the mirror and peered at his reflection. The years had been kinder to him than he deserved. He'd put on a few pounds like most men his age. His face had grown redder and fleshier, blurring the chiseled bone structure into a softer version of his boyhood visage. He still had a full head of hair, and most of his wife's friends found him attractive—­when he was sober. None of it mattered though. He still felt old, used, and incompetent on the inside.

He slipped on a shirt and left the small house, impulse guiding him to the old boathouse. Sagging and weather-­worn, it stood in contrast to the solid new boathouse and dock Mary Helen had ordered built. He reached out and touched the splintered wood. His wife was right. It was an eyesore now.

The door creaked open on stiff and rusty hinges. A damp, musty odor hit him in the face, and he covered his nose with his hand. He breathed through his mouth until he got used to the smell. Cobwebs filled the corners, hanging down at eye level, and he brushed them away. Except for a broken canoe and some old paddles pushed up against the far wall, the boathouse sat empty. The opening for his father's boat had been boarded up years ago, plunging the space into near darkness. He left the door open for light and fresh air.

George inhaled the stale air, closed his eyes, and remembered. He'd been cleaning the boat, rinsing saltwater and wiping the interior, when Sarah had surprised him. He'd leaped out and wrapped his arms around her thickening waist. To his great joy, she didn't resist. He pulled her in tighter until her body melted into his, her head falling onto his shoulder. He kissed her hair, the top of her forehead, and her cheeks, afraid to let go. They stood close, arms intertwined. After several minutes, she pushed him away, pressing against his chest with her hands.

“Give me a minute, George.” She averted her face, but not before he saw the tears. Her eyes told him what he needed to know.

“Why?” he managed to ask.

Shaking her dark head, she didn't answer at first. When she did speak, the words were barely a whisper. “Because it's for the best, George. God, this is so hard.” She took a breath. “I know you're serious about us being together, but I know it would never work. I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, and no matter what you want, you can't change how other ­people would be. Your parents, your family, your friends. They wouldn't forgive you or me—­especially me.”

He grabbed her hands. “It wouldn't be that bad, Sarah. I mean, I know my dad would be mad for a while, but he would get over it.”

She tried to smile, eyes wet again. “You should hear yourself, George. You can't convince me of something you don't believe yourself. He'd cut you off and you know it.” He opened his mouth and closed it again. “If, and this is a big if, they were to accept the marriage, I would always be the outsider. I don't fit in with your kind, with your friends, your life.”

“But you're talking about things I don't care about anymore. I want to be with you. We can make it work.” He reached out to pull her back into his arms.

“You say that now,” she said, voice shaking, “but it would change. I promise you. It would be easier for me. I've always done without, and I can't miss what I've never experienced, but you—­it would matter someday. Maybe not in a year, maybe not in five, but eventually . . .” Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the salty sweat beading up on her forehead and nose. Inside the boathouse, the heat was oppressive, the air still and stagnant.

“I'll get a job,” he said. “Graduation is right around the corner.” She lifted her head, watching him. “I don't understand you, Sarah. You know how much I hate my father. The pressure he puts on me, the expectations. Why are you so worried about what he thinks or what my family thinks? I'm not.”

Her words were flat, definite. “He loves you.”

“For whatever that's worth.”

“He wants what's best for you.”

“Is that what this is all about? What's best for me?” George's voice rose and the veins in his neck grew thick. She remained silent. “You're siding with my father now about what's best for me? What about the baby? What's best for our baby? What gives you the right to decide?”

Her face flushed. “Don't get nasty, George.” She moved to leave and he grabbed her arm, his fingers pinching the supple skin. “Let me go.”

He loosened his grip but held on. “Please, Sarah. You're not even giving us a chance.”

She shook her arm free. “There's no point, George. I'm a waitress in a bar, no family you'd want to know, no education. We have no chance.”

“You can change that, Sarah. You can be whatever you want. I'll help you.”

“No! It's too late for us.”

He kept talking, offered to get two jobs and support her while she went to school. “It'll be hard for a while but we can do it and—­”

“No!” Spit flew from her mouth. “That's not how it's going to be. You are going to go back to your world and everything will go back to normal. It will be like we never even met.”

His mouth hung open. “That's crazy, Sarah. I can't change how I feel. I'm not going to forget you because you tell me to. It doesn't work that way. I love you.”

She pursed her lips, all trace of tears gone. “No, George, you only think you do. You love the idea of me, the girl who is different, who represents everything you're not supposed to be doing. You want to be with me for all the reasons your father wouldn't want you to.”

His mouth clamped shut. Was she right? Was she nothing more than a symbol of rebellion against his father? He pushed the thought from his mind. “No.”

Again, she tried to leave, but he jumped in her path. She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught it, squeezed, and pulled her into him. She jerked her body, but couldn't escape his grasp. “Stop, you're hurting me,”

“You can't leave, Sarah. I need you to listen to me.” Sweat poured down his back. He put both arms around her to keep her close. She kicked and punched and he let her. “I listened to you, Sarah. It's your turn to listen to me.”

Her body grew limp. “I won't. I can't.”

Their bodies slipped to the floor, his arms still holding her tight. He rubbed her back, his hand making circles. “I don't believe you can do this, Sarah. I don't.” She bowed her head, and her long dark hair hid her face. He leaned close, voice soft and urgent. “I know I've been a jerk, and maybe everything you've said is true. Maybe my parents would hate you. Maybe they would cut me off. Maybe we'd be completely on our own. I don't care. I know you think I would someday, but you're wrong. Just because I grew up with more than you doesn't mean that's the only life I can live. Even with all I've had, I've never been as happy as I am with you.” He stroked her silky hair, his fingers combing its length. “It sounds corny, even crazy, but I need you. I need us to be together.” Pausing, he waited, but still she said nothing. “You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. I can't lose you, Sarah. I won't. That's the truth.”

She lifted her head and pushed her hair behind her ears. Rocking back on her heels, she staggered to her feet, looking down at him. Shoulders squared, her dark eyes were flat, expressionless. “No, George. The truth is you already have.”