All Fall Down (11 page)

Melanie pursed her lips “I know. In my dad's case, he'd been to the doctor a couple days before and everything had looked great.”

“Weird coincidence.”

“Very weird.” She frowned. “How common do you think this cause of death is?”

Bobby leaned back in his seat and scratched his head. “Not very would be my guess.”

“I've got a funny feeling about this.”

“So what else is new? You look for the big case behind every nuisance call we get.”

“Kiss off.”

He laughed, then sobered. “Why don't you make a couple calls when we get back? Maybe this type of thing isn't as rare as you think?”

“You're right.” She smiled. “Levelheaded Bobby, always keeping me grounded.”

“Somebody's got to. Besides—” his lips lifted in a devilish grin “—a guy's gotta be good at something besides getting his wife knocked up.”

A
fter arriving back at headquarters and filling their chief in on their evening's work, Melanie made the calls. It took some doing, but she finally connected with the head of the Heart Center at Mecklenburg County General. After speaking with him, she dialed the medical examiner's office. Fifteen minutes later, she hung up the phone and turned to Bobby. “Odd. I find this whole thing very odd.”

“What did they say?” he asked.

“They both confirmed my suspicion that heart attacks brought on by elevated levels of digitalis are rare.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But both felt that two such occurrences in the same state, four years apart weren't impossible.”

“In other words, don't send out the cavalry.”

“Exactly.”

“But you're not satisfied?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to. You've got that look on your face. The one that tells me you're not willing to accept that this guy and your dad died by the same freakish twist of fate. The one that tells me you're going to chew at this thing until either something tastier comes
along or you drop from exhaustion. It's your M.O., partner.”

“It is not.”

He arched his eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief, then grabbed for the phone as it rang. “Whistlestop PD. Taggerty.” He paused, listening, then grinned. “Hey, Veronica. She's right here, stirring up trouble, as usual. Hold on.”

He pushed the hold button, then motioned to Melanie. She nodded and reached for the phone. In the weeks since their first meeting, she and Veronica had become fast friends. Not only had they made their sparring session followed by coffee a weekly ritual, they managed to speak by phone every few days and had even gotten together for a lunch with Mia.

Melanie had never had a friend she'd gotten so close to so fast.

Of course, it seemed that Veronica had that effect on a lot of people—they just liked her, right off. Mia had, Bobby, Casey. It seemed the only person in Melanie's life Veronica had yet to meet was Ashley, and they were remedying that this weekend.

Melanie brought the receiver to her ear. “Hey, girlfriend. What's up?”

“Seems that's what I should be asking you. What's this about stirring up trouble?”

Melanie laughed. “Don't mind Bobby—” she glanced at him and grinned “—he wouldn't recognize a crime if it took a chunk out of his backside.”

Bobby flipped her off good-naturedly, then returned to the previous night's phone log. Melanie refocused on her friend. “Did you read the paper this morning?”

“No time. What's up?”

“Jim McMillian's dead.”

“I know. Sam was talking about it yesterday.” Sam Hale was the attorney who had presented the state's case against McMillian. “A friend of his at the CMPD called him the minute he heard. So, what does that have to do with you being a troublemaker?”

Melanie explained about seeing the article, the coincidence of her father having died in the same way as Jim McMillian and about the calls she had made to the Heart Center at Mecklenburg General and the medical examiner's office.

Veronica was silent a moment—Melanie could almost hear her thinking, evaluating what Melanie had just told her. “It does sound kind of bizarre. What are you going to do?”

“What can I do? Keep my eyes and ears open, maybe nose around a bit, though I don't know how much.”

Veronica made a sound of agreement, then changed the subject. “Sorry I haven't called until now, this trial's been a bear. Kid's dad hired an army of high-priced lawyers. They've had us scrambling.”

“How's it going?”

“Jury's deliberating now. But I think we've got the little weasel. It was the second girl coming forward that did it.” Melanie heard Veronica's smile. “This time the cocky little jock has gotten himself into something his daddy's money can't buy him out of.”

“Good for you.”

“No,” Veronica corrected quietly. “Good for all the girls he's hurt. And for the ones he won't be able to hurt in the future. Hold on.” Melanie heard someone speaking to the other woman, then her muffled
response. “Look, I don't have a lot of time, but I wanted to find out how your meeting with the lawyer went.”

“Don't ask.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse. I spent the entire weekend alternating between total despair and being royally pissed.”

After Melanie filled her in, Veronica muttered an oath. “Son of a bitch gives us lawyers a bad name.”

“You've got that right.” Melanie tried to muster anger or righteous indignation, but felt nothing but weariness. “I'm not sure what I'm going to do now. I can't afford a lawyer the caliber of Stan's.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Pardon?”

“I know a dynamite female attorney in Columbia. She's top-notch. Specializes in family law, and she's definitely one of the good guys. Let me give her a call, see what her schedule's like. If at all possible, she'll fit you in as a favor to me.”

“That'd be a miracle, though I don't know how I'd pay her. I'm a cop, remember?”

“You worry about keeping custody of your son, I'll take care of the rest.”

“But, Veronica—”

“No buts,” her friend said crisply. “Trust me. I'm going to hang up and call her now.”

A lump of gratitude formed in Melanie's throat. “Thank you, Veronica. This is…too much. I don't know how to repay you.”

“Repay me?” She laughed. “Don't be a dork, I like helping the people I care about. Call it my mission in life.”

M
elanie sat bolt upright in bed, instantly alert. She glanced at the bedside clock—3:40 a.m. She frowned and cocked her head, listening for what might have awakened her. The house was so quiet she could hear the bubbler in the fish tank in Casey's room.

Still not satisfied, she retrieved her gun from the top drawer of the tall bureau beside the bed and did a search of the house. She peeked in on Casey first—he hadn't moved since she tucked him in hours before—then went from room to room, checking all the doors and windows. She found nothing amiss.

So, what had awakened her?

And now that she was wide awake, heart pounding, every nerve in her body playing reveille, what was she supposed to do?

Since sleep wasn't an option, a pot of coffee and a leisurely look at the newspaper seemed her best bet. With that in mind, Melanie returned her gun to the bureau drawer, then went to the front door and peeked out the sidelight, looking for the newspaper. Seeing that it had been delivered, she darted out to get it, then went to the kitchen to start the coffee.

While she waited for it to brew, she slid onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and snapped open the
paper. She scanned the day's major headlines, hopping from one news story to another, mind wandering. Suddenly she stopped, yesterday's big story popping into her head.

Jim McMillian, accused batterer, suddenly dead.

Thomas Weiss, the batterer she had been unable to charge, suddenly dead.

Melanie drew her eyebrows together as bits and snatches of conversations flooded her mind. What had Bobby called the two deaths?
Freakish twists of fate.
When she'd told Veronica that Thomas Weiss was dead, what had the woman said?
Fate was a strange thing.

Melanie straightened and brought a hand to her mouth. That was what had awakened her, what had been plucking at the back of her brain, begging acknowledgment. Not the coincidence of Jim McMillian's and her father's deaths, ones separated by years, but the coincidence of the recent deaths of three alleged batterers.

Three? Melanie rubbed the bridge of her nose. Now why had she thought three?

Then she knew. She remembered. The hooker she had interviewed at CMPD headquarters. What had she said? That the man who'd hurt her was dead, that fate and Mother Nature had taken care of him for her.

Fate. And Mother Nature. Again.

Melanie got to her feet and crossed to the coffeepot, mind whirling. She got a mug from the cabinet, filled it but didn't drink. What was she thinking? That the three deaths were related? An older, wealthy entrepreneur, an up-and-coming restaurateur and a coke-head?

How could they be? What could link three such different men?

They were all alleged batterers.

And now they were all dead.

“Mommy?”

Startled, Melanie swung toward the kitchen doorway. Casey stood there, rubbing his eyes with one hand and clutching his stuffed bunny to his chest with the other.

She slid off the stool and crossed to him. “What are you doing up, sweetie? It's still dark out.”

“I had a bad dream. Someone took you away, an' I couldn't find you.”

His voice quivered, and she scooped him up. He wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed his face into her shoulder.

“That's not going to happen,” she murmured, her tone fierce. But even as the words passed her lips, she thought of Stan and the custody suit. She tightened her arms around the boy. “Come on, baby, let's go back to bed. Momma will snuggle with you.”

 

Melanie didn't have another moment to contemplate her theory that the deaths of Jim McMillian and Thomas Weiss were related, not then or even hours later, after she had arrived at headquarters. There she faced a dozen irritating, inconsequential chores, including the two pages of “leads” gleaned overnight from the Andersen hot line.

Not one of them had amounted to anything but wastes of her time.

Melanie supposed she should be thankful there
hadn't been more tips to follow up this morning. When Cleve Andersen had first offered the hundred-thousand-dollar reward, the phones had rung off the hook. Now, after three weeks, the calls had slowed to a sporadic stream. But she wasn't thankful—she was frustrated. Chomping at the bit to prove her theory viable.

Finally, her desk cleared, she put in a call to the medical examiner. “Hi, Frank. Melanie May, Whistlestop PD. We spoke yesterday about Jim McMillian's death.”

“Sure, Officer May. What can I do for you?”

“I have just one question, could Jim McMillian have been murdered?”

He was quiet a long moment. “I classified McMillian's manner of death natural causes. Do you know something I don't, Officer May?”

“Not at all,” she said quickly. The last thing she needed was for him to call the CMPD and inform them that she was snooping around one of their cases. “I phrased that badly. Could someone commit a murder in this way?”

“It's possible, but I see no evidence of that here. Digitalis comes from the foxglove plant. If Mr. McMillian had been poisoned, I would have found foxglove residue in the man's stomach, which I did not.”

“But if the victim was already taking prescription digitalis, couldn't he be overdosed with the drug? The elevated digitalis in the blood brings on the heart attack and leaves nothing for the medical examiner to
uncover, the victim having been poisoned by the very drug he took to stabilize his condition?”

The man cleared his throat sharply. “Do you have any reason to suspect Mr. McMillian was poisoned? Except, of course, that his death mirrored the rather rare circumstances of your father's? Had McMillian been threatened? Had his wife recently taken out a large life insurance policy? Did he have enemies who would go to such lengths to be rid of him?”

“No…I mean, I don't know. But the coincidence of—”

He cut her off. “You watch too many movies, Officer May. Death brings with it many inexplicable circumstances. The human body is not a machine, we can't always pinpoint exactly why it stops. So, unless you have some concrete reason why I should reopen Jim McMillian's file, I'll say goodbye.”

Melanie didn't, and a moment later she hung up the phone to find Bobby staring at her. “What?” she asked, hiking her chin up a notch. “I'm checking out a hunch.”

“Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea how dangerous what you're doing is? All it would take is one call from Frank Connell, M.E., and your butt would be in some very deep shit.”

“I know. Cover for me, okay?” She thumbed through her notes from the day before, found what she was looking for and stood. “If the chief asks, tell him I've gone hunting for a hooker.”

 

Melanie expected the address Sugar had given the police to be a dummy. Especially when she realized
the location of that address—a decent apartment building on one of the nicer sides of Charlotte, far from the corner where the prostitute had been picked up. In fact, not all that far from Ashley's condo.

Melanie rang the bell. A woman answered. For a split second, Melanie thought she had been right. The woman on the other side of the door, with her freshly scrubbed looks, certainly didn't resemble the hardened streetwalker she had interviewed the other night.

Her eyes, the recognition in them, gave her away. “Sugar?” Melanie said.

The woman glanced over her shoulder. Only then did Melanie become aware of the sounds of cartoons coming from the TV.

“Kathy,” she corrected. “Kathy Cook. What're you doing here?”

“I need to ask you a couple questions.”

“I told you, I don't know that guy.”

She started to shut the door, but Melanie stopped her. “The questions aren't about him. They're about the man you told me about, the one who beat you up.”

She looked surprised. “Samson? Why do you want to know about him?”

“What did you mean when you said fate and Mother Nature took care of him?”

She darted a glance over her shoulder. “Look, my kid's here. I don't need no cop making trouble—”

“I don't want to make trouble for you. Please, tell me how he died. It's important.”

“He ODed. Okay? Now, will you leave?”

“Overdosed,” Melanie repeated, disappointed. It fit
with this woman; pimps and other street people ODed all the time. Hardly the work of some master criminal.

“But before you climb all over my frame, I gotta work to support me and my kid, but I don't touch that shit. Not even to get me through.”

Melanie had heard that before, many times. Some of those times uttered by people so stoned they couldn't stand erect. This time she believed it. She saw a ferocity in the woman's eyes, a determination she hadn't seen under the fluorescent lights of the interrogation room.

“He was an addict?” Melanie asked. “Someone you knew from the street?”

She shook her head. “I was off the street then, working a real job. Pay was okay. They had a center for my boy, benefits. Met him there. He worked across the street. He was a professional guy.” She made a sound of derision. “When I met Samson Gold, I thought my luck had changed for good.”

“When did he start beating you up?”

“Not at first. He seemed…different from the other guys I knew. Different than the—” She lowered her voice. “The johns. He moved in with me. That's when he changed. Started snorting coke pretty heavy. Turned crazy. And mean.

“He lost his job, then I lost mine because of him calling all the time. Threatening the people I worked with.” Her expression tightened. “I went to the cops. They didn't do jack. One of 'em recognized me from the street and it was all over.” She made a sound of bitterness. “Us working girls deserve whatever we get, you know. We're just whores.”

From inside came childish giggles. Melanie thought of Casey and her heart hurt. “What happened then?”

“Fate intervened. Or my angel of mercy. He got ahold of some dynamite…you know, coke mixed with heroin. But strange shit. Not just any horse, pure stuff. A hotshot.”

The woman drew her eyebrows together. “I could never figure out how he got ahold of that shit. No dealer's gonna make that mistake, you know? Pure stuff's impossible to get on the street, worth way more than an ordinary 8-ball. And if my man had known what it was, no way would he have snorted it. He was fucked up, but he wasn't stupid.”

Melanie could barely contain her excitement. That made three. Three men dead from freakish circumstances.

“Mommy? Who's there?”

Kathy looked over her shoulder. “Just a friend, sweetheart. Go back to the cartoons, I'll be right there.” She turned to Melanie. “I've got to go.”

“I know. Thanks.” Melanie touched her arm lightly. “It's not true. You don't deserve that kind of treatment. If you ever need help again, come to me. I'll do whatever I can.”

She nodded, her eyes suddenly, suspiciously bright. Melanie suspected that Sugar…Kathy, hadn't known much kindness in her life.

“You don't have to worry about me,” she said. “I'm getting out. Got me a line on a day job, one with good child care. Would've been out sooner, but I live here 'cause I want my boy to go to a good school. I want him to know nice kids, from good families. I
don't want him to become like—” She bit the words back as if suddenly remembering she was speaking to the enemy. “I gotta go.”

“One more question, how long ago did he die?”

She thought a moment, as if counting back. “Four months ago. Yeah, that's right, 'cause it was right before Thanksgiving. And I can promise you this, I'm still givin' thanks.”