Don't Be Afraid (21 page)

“You’re reassigned to desk duty, detective.” The lieutenant’s voice was coolly matter-of-fact. “Please hand over your weapon.”

 

 

An hour and a half passed before a lawyer showed up. During the wait, which felt three times as long, Amy tried not to worry about Emma as she got to know every inch of the sparsely furnished room. It was just like on television, complete with bare industrial table and chairs, caged clock loudly ticking high on the wall, and an opaque window that Amy knew had to be two-way glass.

The door banged open. “Your lawyer’s here,” Peaches LaRue announced with a little smirk on her face. She moved aside and instead of Chris, there was a skinny young man with wiry hair and small eyeglasses.

“I’m Nathan Feldman,” he said. He shook her hand earnestly. His was damp. “Chris Moran asked me to come.” He looked like he’d just graduated from law school.

“First, I need you to tell me what you’ve been charged with,” he said, looking very earnest as he pulled a legal pad out of his briefcase.

“Didn’t you talk to Chris?” Of course he hadn’t come himself. It was the middle of the workday. He was probably involved in an important case. He couldn’t take time off just because his wife had been arrested. She understood that, so why was there a lump in her throat?

Feldman had a sympathetic look on his long face. “I’m sure you can bring me up to speed quickly and we can decide on a good approach. The first thing to know is that you shouldn’t answer any of the detectives’ questions without checking with me first.”

She tried to explain the facts to him, but it sounded nuts even to her. She just happened to stumble upon not one, but two murders. She just happened to own the same computer printer from which the killer was printing pictures.

Amy could see the growing skepticism in Nathan Feldman’s face. She wasn’t sure she believed herself anymore.

She hadn’t seen Detective Juarez since they got to the station and any hope that she’d had of his interceding was long gone by the time Detective Black entered the room.

“We’re taping this,” Black said, fiddling with a small microphone that was affixed to the desk. “Please state your complete name for the record.”

“Amy Elizabeth Moran.”

“And her attorney—” Black looked at the other man.

The young lawyer cleared his throat loudly before offering a tremulous, “Nathan Feldman.”

It wasn’t going to go well, Amy thought, and for a moment she jumped ahead in her mind to the courtroom where the prosecutor would hold up the photos and claim that it was obvious that she was the photographer and make a jury believe it. Then she’d be sent to prison and what would happen to Emma?

She shook her head, chasing the images away. This wasn’t a movie and she wasn’t
The Fugitive
. There was no one-armed man to chase.

“How long have you worked at Braxton Realty?” Black began.

Amy glanced at Feldman, who nodded. “Six months.”

“Is that where you met Sheila Sylvester?”

“No.”

Black paused, waiting for her to elaborate, but Amy didn’t.

“Where did you meet?” he said at last, his eyes narrowing. Feldman gave her the nod, so Amy elaborated.

“The Single Parent Support Group, which meets at St. Andrew’s Church.”

There were more and more questions: about their relationship, about her relationship with Meredith, about her marriage. It went on and on and Amy couldn’t follow the pattern, if there was one, which was probably the point. She was exhausted by the time Black lifted the folder resting on the table under his right elbow and opened it.

Inside were photos of naked women, but not Sheila and not Meredith. Suddenly Amy knew why she’d been brought here.

“Did you take this picture, Ms. Moran?”

“You know I did.”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“Yes.”

Black addressed the microphone: “The photo in question is of a naked woman lying on a bed near an open window.” He turned back to Amy, holding the photo out so both Feldman and Amy could see it. “Who’s the woman in this photo?”

Feldman cleared his throat, but when Amy looked at him he looked startled and she realized he’d been reacting to the naked model and not signaling her.

“Who’s the woman in the photo?”

“A model named Lisa Kenen. Where did you get this?”

Black reached over and shut off the recorder. “We searched your house, Ms. Moran. All legal,” he added hastily, forestalling Feldman. “We got a warrant.”

“You searched my house? While my daughter was there?”

Amy stood up, desperate at that thought of how Emma had reacted.

“Sit down, Ms. Moran!” Black ordered. “Nothing was damaged.”

“Where’s my daughter? Is she okay?”

Feldman put a hand on Amy’s arm. “She’s alright. I spoke to the babysitter.”

Amy sank slowly back into her chair. Black turned back on the microphone and pulled out one of the photos of Sheila and laid it next to the picture she’d taken.

“This photo is remarkably similar, isn’t it?”

“If you mean that this is also a black-and-white photo of a naked white woman, than yes, I guess it’s similar,” Amy said.

“Where was the first photo taken?”

“At a loft in Brooklyn.”

“Not in Steerforth?”

“No, that’s why I said Brooklyn.”

Black grimaced. “Isn’t it true, Ms. Moran, that you’re an experienced photographer and that you’re quite well known for your pictures of naked ladies?”

He made it sound like brothel work. “Yes, I’m experienced, but as to quite well known—”

“You’ve had more than one private show based entirely on photos like these, correct?”

“No.”

The detective paused. “What part of what I said is incorrect?”

“I haven’t had more than one show—I’ve had one solo show and it wasn’t strictly nudes.”

“Why didn’t you tell police about these photos when you were originally questioned?”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

“How could it not seem relevant when you claimed to have found a similar series of photos?”

“Because I didn’t take them.”

Black slammed a fist on the table. Feldman jumped. “Ms. Moran, this is not a game—”

“I didn’t think it was, detective,” Amy said, anger making her voice shake. She steadied it and went on. “If I had any doubts, the last few hours that I’ve spent sitting here have certainly dispelled them.”

Black held up the photos of Sheila. “Did you take these photos of Sheila Sylvester?”

“No.”

Slam with one set of photos, up with the ones of Meredith. “Did you take these?”

“No.”

“So how do you explain that all of these photos were printed off the same type of printer?” Black jabbed a stubby finger at her photos and the ones sent by whoever had killed Sheila and Meredith.

“I can’t explain it.”

“On the morning of Tuesday, September 6, did you drive to 120 Lambert Lane?”

“Yes.”

And so it went on. Question upon question that she’d answered already and now had to answer again. Minutiae about the morning, minutiae about the house, even minutiae about finding Sheila. How exactly had she been positioned? Was her head pointing toward the wall or away? Were her legs spread? How wide? Amy assumed all of this was designed to entrap her and so did Feldman, who interrupted frequently.

“How do you explain that there was no sign of forced entry, yet Sheila Sylvester was killed inside that house.”

“I can’t explain it.”

“You and Sheila were the only ones with the code to the lockbox, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the lockbox was intact.”

“Yes.”

“So how did the killer get in?”

Feldman held up a hand to interrupt, but Amy answered anyway: “That is the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

 

 

Juarez was grateful that he didn’t see Black for the rest of the day. Given the mood he was in when he left the lieutenant’s office, if he’d run into that asshole he might have clocked him.

He left behind the unmarked car and pulled out on the Harley he’d taken to work, heading out of town along the strip of highway that was the demarcation line between rich and poor in Steerforth. He needed a place to be alone, a place where nobody knew he was a cop, a place where he could forget that himself because he wasn’t sure that he wanted to be—hell, had the talent to be—a cop anymore.

He pulled out on the straightaway, going full throttle, smart enough to wear a helmet, but stupid enough to wish he could feel that wind through his hair. His mother had given him shit when he bought a motorcycle, his father a grudging admiration. Like he resented the fact that his son could have something he couldn’t and all the freedom that motorcycles represented.

A red neon sign with a flickering
T
advertised Tony’s bar, the fanciest thing about the gray concrete cubicle sitting alone in a gravel parking lot. The huge skid mark he dug in the lot gave him satisfaction. There were only a few other cars and that gave him more. He didn’t need company to drink.

“Sam Adams draft,” he said and took a stool at a dark corner of the bar to dissuade anyone from joining him.

There were peanut shells on the floor and a bowl on the counter and he dug into them, downing the first beer in two large swallows because he needed to.

There was a pot-bellied man with lots of tattoos at the next table with an anorexic blond girl who attracted Mark’s attention with her high-pitched giggle. She looked barely legal, but she was wriggling around on him like some sort of lap dancer and then she leaned forward and licked beer off the man’s mustache.

What would his mother think if he brought home someone like that? Imagining her horror made him laugh. He waved the bottle at the bartender and the guy slid down another one.

There was some bad country twang playing on the jukebox, apparently picked by the toothless old geezer sitting near the machine. He had an expression of disdain that might have been caused by his need for dentures.

A third man was apparently asleep over his whiskey or he was just crying. Mark tried to feel pity for him, but he couldn’t summon any. The only pity he had left was for his own sorry life.

He finished beer number three without realizing it and by the start of beer five he was feeling the buzz, that pleasant sensation that would lead to the oblivion he so desperately needed.

“Hey.” The voice was soft, seductive. The woman had appeared at his elbow without his noticing. She was older, definitely legal. A too-tight sweater accentuated her breasts, which were squeezed together to form a V of cleavage.

“Does that hurt?” Mark asked, giggling a little after he said it.

“This, sweetie? No. You wanna touch?” She took a seat next to him. Leaned closer offering him access. He shook his head, laughing.

She laughed, too, a throaty chuckle, and her brown eyes were sparkling at him. If he looked at them through the glass he could almost imagine they were someone else’s.

“C’mon, sweetie,” she said, tugging him up from the seat. “You come with me now. You’ve had enough.”

He had to count the empties. How come there were nine of them? Had she added hers? He must have said that out loud because she laughed at that as well.

The room swayed gently, a rocking motion that reminded him of his parents’ porch swing. On summer nights as a boy he’d come home from running around with the neighborhood kids and find his parents sitting together, holding hands on the swing, rocking back and forth, laughing and talking quietly together.

Was that kind of love something he’d ever have? He must have said that aloud, too, because the woman reassured him, her hand a warm pressure on his arm, her voice a tickly, whiskey-scented whisper. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll get love.”

Somehow they were in a bedroom. He couldn’t remember getting here and where was here?

“Is this your place?” he asked and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

She said it was. “Why don’t you get comfortable and take that shirt off.” There was a lamp on the bedside table covered with a red silk scarf and it made the room look like rose. The bed was a wide sea, it wobbled when he lay down on it, guided by her hand.

The comforter was a deep blue and he thought of the Jersey shore and hot summers in the sand and the feel of a hand reaching for his in the darkness of a city night, the streetlamp leaving wisps of light across the bed, and then he felt the warmth of blood pouring from a young boy’s chest.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” the voice crooned and he was holding the woman or she was holding him and tears were welling in his eyes, distorting the room. Her hands were on his body, stroking, soothing, feathering across his skin and he needed the touch, could imagine it was someone else’s and when her hand traveled from his chest, down and down again, he closed his eyes.

“Okay,” she murmured again, once she’d guided him into her and then they were rocking together, holding onto each other and he willed her to be someone else and wondered once who she was willing him to be. Then he gave himself over to it and nothing mattered, not the job, not the death, not his failures as a man. Nothing mattered but that need for release.

 

 

Emma kept asking for her mother. “She’ll be home soon.” Chloe Newman repeated the same thing she’d said all afternoon. It was evening now, after six already, and she hadn’t heard from anybody since talking to the lawyer who’d called to check in with her.

She was trying to study, but it was kind of hard with Emma looking up from the TV every five minutes to ask when her mother was coming home.

What if she didn’t make it home tonight? Chloe got up from the comfy armchair and pretended to stretch, hoping Emma wouldn’t notice that she was really checking for headlights from the living room window. The street was dark.

There was still a pile of toys sitting outside their bin in a corner. The police had emptied it, searching for what she didn’t know, but neglected to refill it. There was junk all over the place, neat stacks of it, but they’d emptied every cupboard, all the bookcases, and all the drawers. Amy’s office and darkroom were in disarray, all file drawers opened, photos everywhere. Everything in the house had been gone through and though most of it had been put back, it was wildly disorganized.

Understandably, this had upset Emma. When she saw the mess the first two fingers of her right hand crept into her mouth and stayed there. She wouldn’t play, sitting on the sofa and clutching her stuffed unicorn with her free hand, eyes staring blankly at the TV. Chloe took her outside to get her away from it, but Emma had been very quiet.

She’d made up for it since then. For the last half-hour she’d been reciting a mantra that began with, “When’s Mommy coming?” and cycled through “I want Mommy!” and “I miss Mommy,” before starting back at the beginning. Chloe had taken two Advil and her head was still pounding. She had a major exam tomorrow in her political science class and she’d resorted to sticking in a DVD for Emma so she could try and study, but Emma didn’t have any interest in Pooh and the Hufflelump, she wanted her mother and she wanted her now.

“Would you like mac and cheese for dinner?” Chloe offered, hoping there were boxes in the cupboard as she offered the bribe. It was Emma’s favorite meal and one that her mother saved for special occasions because it wasn’t particularly nutritious. This occasion was special enough, Chloe decided.

“’Kay,” Emma said. “Is Mommy coming home for dinner?”

“Probably,” Chloe said. “But she might be late. We’ll save her some.”

“Can I help make it?” Emma got up from the carpet where she’d been lounging and came to Chloe with a hopeful expression. Chloe hid her groan. That was the sure way to make any job take twice as long, but she smiled and nodded.

“Sure. Go wash your hands.”

Emma scurried off to the bathroom and Chloe listened to her breathing. It was wheezier than usual, but she seemed okay. She’d have her do a nebulizer after dinner. The phone rang, startling her.

Chloe picked up the cordless handset and carried it with her to the stove. “Hello?”

No one spoke, but she could sense someone on the line.

“Hello? Hello? Who’s calling?”

Silence, but now she could definitely hear breathing. A heavy sound. Then the phone quietly disconnected.

That was creepy. Chloe put the phone down and grabbed the milk from the fridge, but her eyes strayed to the darkness outside the kitchen door. She could barely see the outline of the swing set in the yard, but she could hear the creaking of the empty swings.

“What are you doing?” A guttural whisper behind her.

Chloe spun around, but it was only Emma, her voice deeper because her breathing was constricted.

“Oh, you scared me!” Chloe laughed. “Nothing’s wrong, I was just closing the curtains. Let’s make mac and cheese!”

“Yeah!”

Chloe glanced out the window one more time, then pulled the curtain across, closing out the dark. She helped Emma measure the milk and let her pour it into a saucepan while she checked the water for the noodles. The phone rang again as she was draining the pasta.

“I’ll get it.” Emma jumped down from her stool.

“No, Emma!” Chloe shouted to stop her. “Let me!”

In her haste, she splashed boiling water over her hand and cried out.

“You’re hurt!” Emma cried, rushing to help.

“Stay back, Emma, it’s boiling water!” Chloe pushed the pot farther back in the sink.