Freak (34 page)

“You heard that Maddox is out,” Jerry said, not bothering
with formalities. He took a seat across from Briscoe and the door closed behind him. “What can you tell me?”

She shook her head. “Why would I know anything about it? She transferred out of Rosedale a month ago. She’s someone else’s fuckup.”

Jerry inched his chair a little closer. “Do I look stupid to you?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Briscoe said. Steely blue eyes challenged Jerry from across the table. Of course, she was a prison guard. She spent all day around inmates who no doubt gave her plenty of shit, and Jerry was probably small-time to her. She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. “I don’t have to talk to you. You guys asked me to come in, so I did, but I can leave anytime. I know my rights.”

“I know you were involved with Abby Maddox.”

Briscoe blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Jerry sighed. “I really, really don’t have time for this, Sergeant. We found Mark Cavanaugh’s cell phone.”

“Mark?” Briscoe’s confusion was genuine. “What are you talking about? Why would I care about that?”

“Because he’s dead. Maddox killed him.”

The color drained from the CO’s face and she leaned back in her chair, her pin-straight posture suddenly going slack.

“And so of course we checked his phone,” Jerry said. “He’s received a lot of calls and texts from Abby Maddox. Luckily for us, the guy didn’t delete anything.”

Briscoe, despite her pallor, did not seem surprised. “And this has what to do with me?”

“Well, it made us realize that Maddox has had a phone the entire time she was at Rosedale.”

“I didn’t—”

Jerry lifted a hand. “I didn’t say it was you who gave it to her. Nobody’s saying that.” According to Superintendent
Alicia Elkes, any corrections officer found providing inmates with contraband was subject to immediate dismissal. No, Jerry didn’t plan to get Briscoe fired for the phone—Mark Cavanaugh had likely given it to Abby. He planned to get Briscoe fired for something else. “But it led us to call Rosedale. And have Maddox’s old cell searched. And guess what we found?”

Briscoe said nothing, but her eyes were wide.

“We found her smartphone. Her cellmate—Celia, is it?—denied that it was hers, of course. Insisted it belonged to Maddox.” Jerry leaned forward. “Of course the phone was wiped clean. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because we have the phone number for it. And if I were to get paid a dollar for every time her number showed up in
your
cell phone records, how rich do you think I would be, Sergeant?”

Again, Briscoe said nothing, but her face turned even paler, and her hands started to shake.

“I’m guessing pretty rich.” Jerry pulled out his phone. “Should I work on getting a subpoena for those records?”

Briscoe’s eyes spilled over with tears. “I’m going to lose my job.”

Jerry slammed his hand down on the table, and Briscoe jumped. “My dear, that is the very
least
of your concerns.” He allowed this to soak in for a moment. Pulling a crumpled tissue out of his pocket, he handed it to the corrections officer, whose eyes and nose were running. “So tell me. What do you know about Maddox’s escape from Creekside?”

“Nothing, I swear.” Briscoe blew her nose with trembling hands. Jerry handed her another tissue. “I didn’t know about any of that.”

“But you knew she escaped earlier today.”

“Of course. Anybody working in the Department of Corrections would have heard about it.”

“So you’re telling me,” Jerry said, cracking his knuckles,
“that you were involved with Maddox the entire time she was at Rosedale, and yet she never said a word about her plans to escape from the next prison? I find that hard to believe, Sergeant.”

“We weren’t involved the entire time, not even close. It was only a few months. She started pulling away when I wouldn’t give her what she wanted. Abby, she . . .” Briscoe shook her head as if she were trying to make sense of it herself. “You don’t know her. She’s very manipulative.”

“Actually, I do know,” Jerry said. “But enlighten me anyway.”

“We were involved for about four months.” Briscoe’s tears started flowing again. “Four very intense months. About three months into it, she asked me to get her a phone. I refused. I made a lot of other things happen for her, made sure she had lots of privileges, but the phone . . . I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. Way too risky. Eventually she found another way to get one, but once she had it . . . yeah, we did communicate a lot that way. It was just too easy.”

This time it was Jerry’s turn to wait.

“I didn’t realize she was involved with Officer Cavanaugh the entire time we were together.” Briscoe rubbed her face, looking dejected. “When I found out, I was furious. But she swore she loved
me
. She said with me it was real. She said she was just using Mark for the phone.”

“You’re the one who got Officer Cavanaugh fired.”

“Yes, but not because of the phone. He is—was—a drunk. I couldn’t trust him to do his job.”

“Did Cavanaugh know about your own involvement with Maddox?”

“I don’t know. She said she didn’t tell him, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway if he’d known, he wouldn’t have ratted me out for that. Because it would have gotten her in trouble, too.”

It was dizzying, the amount of people Maddox had been
able to manipulate from a prison cell. Mark Cavanaugh, Jeremiah Blake, Elaine Briscoe, Sheila Tao . . .

“Have you been in contact with Maddox since she was transferred out?” Jerry asked.

“No.” The hurt look on Briscoe’s face told Jerry she was telling the truth. “Once she got to Creekside, she was supposed to find a way to get in touch with me. She hasn’t.”

“Be glad she hasn’t,” Jerry said. “Cavanaugh’s throat was slit. That could have been you.”

Briscoe lost it. Putting her face in her hands, she sobbed.

Women crying always made Jerry feel like shit. He stood up and headed for the door.

“Hey,” Briscoe said weakly, her voice cracking through her tears. “When you find her . . .”

“Yeah?”

The corrections officer lifted her head. “Tell her Elaine says hi.”

*     *     *

Bob Borden was a much tougher interview. The defense attorney’s office was only five minutes from the precinct and it took no time at all to bring him in. Jerry hadn’t even finished his coffee.

“If you’re not going to charge me—” Borden began, but Jerry cut him off.

“I don’t have to charge you with anything to hold you for twenty-four hours.”

“Fine. But I don’t have to say anything, either.”

“Mr. Borden.” Jerry paced the room. He couldn’t sit still for this one. “Your client, Abby Maddox, has escaped from prison. I know you were in contact with her regularly. It would be the easiest thing in the world to charge you as an accessory in her escape.”

“Because I’m her lawyer?” Borden gave a short laugh that
sounded like a bark. “You can’t prove what I knew. Which, for the record, was nothing.”

“Because she had an illegal cell phone.”

Borden blinked, but regained his composure quickly. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“So if we subpoena your phone records—home, office, and cell—Maddox’s number won’t show up?”

“I knew nothing about her having a cell phone. And even if those records show she called me from a cell phone, you can’t prove
I
knew it was a cell phone.”

Fucking lawyers. Jerry gritted his teeth. They never seemed to care about true guilt or innocence—it was all about what they could
prove
. “I can prove it if you exchanged text messages with her,” Jerry said. “You can’t send texts from a prison pay phone.”

Borden’s face reddened.

“Look,” Jerry said. “I don’t give a shit about the cell phone, okay? What I need to know is who else she was in contact with on the outside.”

“I can’t tell you anything. Confidentiality.”

“Okay then. I’ll get that subpoena going. Exchanging texts with your client while she’s behind bars won’t put you in jail, but I’m sure it won’t make for good publicity. And what will your wife say? Divorces are so expensive. Nice chatting with you.”

He was at the door with his hand on the knob when Borden said, “Wait.”

Jerry turned. “I don’t have time for games and legalese, Mr. Borden.”

“Turn off the camera,” the man said, looking up at the small camera mounted to the ceiling.

Jerry hesitated, then looked up at the camera and nodded. A second later, the flashing red light turned off.

“This is off the record, or I get disbarred.” Borden gripped the table with both hands. His knuckles were white. “And if I do, then I sue you for harassment. You, personally, along with the police department. You understand? I should absolutely not be telling you this, and if you say I did, I will deny it and I will sue your ass. It completely violates the rules of confidentiality.”

“I understand.”

“Abby didn’t have many friends that I knew of.” Borden spoke slowly, as if he were weighing his options. Which he probably was. “A lot of fans, maybe, but not many friends.”

“She didn’t mention anybody who might help her? Because she couldn’t have done this by herself.”

“There was only one person she ever talked about with me, and it was only once,” Borden said. “Someone named Danny. Danny Mercy.”

Jerry’s throat went dry and he stopped pacing. “What about Danny Mercy?”

“Abby wanted the funds she was paid from
The Pulse
moved from her bank account to Danny’s account, and she asked me to handle the paperwork. Naturally, I was concerned, and I asked her what the nature of their relationship was. She made it clear that they were . . . involved. Romantically.” The attorney’s face was pained, and Jerry realized then that the man was jealous. “She said she trusted Danny with all her heart. So I did as she asked. I can only assume that this Danny is her boyfriend.”

Jerry let out a puff of air, feeling the onset of another headache.

Not boyfriend. Goddammit.

Girlfriend
.

HE DIDN’T HAVE
Danny’s home number, because as far as he knew, she didn’t have a landline. All he had was Danny’s cell phone number, and she wasn’t picking up.

Jerry had called Torrance from the precinct and the plan was to meet the detective at Danny’s loft. As he drove, his mind raced. He knew what Borden had told him, but could Danny really be involved in all this? She was a nice kid, a smart kid . . . but then again, what did Jerry really know about his assistant? He had done a quick criminal background check when he’d hired her last year, and nothing had flagged—she’d never been arrested. Her parents had died when she was young and she’d grown up with her grandfather. The man had passed away two years before, leaving her a sizable inheritance, which paid for school. She was in a rock band. She was good with computers.

Beyond that, he knew nothing about her. Because he never thought it would matter.

His phone rang, and he jumped. It was Torrance. “What’s up?”

“The techies finally found out where the FreeAbbyMaddox site was registered,” Torrance said. “It was set up here, in Seattle. The exact address is on Collard Road.”

“Which is where we’re headed, because Danny lives on
Collard Road.” Jerry’s voice was so dry he could barely speak. “You’re telling me she’s been the creator of that sick fan site all along? Why?”

“I don’t know, pal.” Torrance’s voice was heavy. “I can only think she did it to call out the crazies, so she could recruit someone like Jeremiah Blake to do her dirty work.”

Jerry tried to process his former partner’s words, but it was really too horrible to contemplate.

“I just ran a detailed background check,” Torrance continued, “and a large sum of money was deposited into her account about a week ago from Bob Borden. Fifty thousand. Her bank account has since been cleaned out, sent to an offshore account. Did you know your girl had over three hundred thousand dollars?”

Jerry said nothing, narrowly missing a student on a bicycle who’d pulled out into the street without looking. He honked. The kid gave him the finger. “I don’t know why anything should surprise me anymore.”

“Guess this has all been planned for a while,” Torrance said. “Sorry, pal. I liked her. I always thought she was a great kid.”

Jerry had thought so, too. He stepped on the gas.

“I’m ten minutes away from her place,” Torrance said, as if reading his mind. “I’m sure we’ll find something there that tells us where Marianne and Sheila might be. It’ll be okay. We’ll find them in time.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mike.” Jerry’s voice was strangled but his throat was so tight, he couldn’t speak any louder. “As a cop, you know better.”

“I was speaking as a friend,” the detective said gently, and his sympathy was almost unbearable.

SHEILA OPENED HER
eyes and focused on the shape that seemed to be floating right above her.

“You keep passing out,” the voice said with just a hint of accusation. “How can you enjoy it if you keep passing out?” A giggle followed.

The pain, which came and went in waves, suddenly came back with a vengeance, and Sheila moaned. Her entire torso was on fire. No, that wasn’t even quite right—it was like somebody had cut her open and poured gasoline into the wounds and
then
lit her on fire. She moaned again, then started crying.

Abby’s gaze was fixed on her, watching her with a curiosity that was frightening. There was none of the detachment in her eyes that Sheila had read about in textbooks. Most serial killers had to distance themselves from their victims and objectify the person in order to do what they did, but Abby knew exactly who Sheila was. She didn’t seem crazy at all.

And
that
was what was so damned scary.

Sheila gathered up her courage and attempted to lift her head to look down at herself. The sight of her bloody, carved abdomen filled her with horror, and she screamed.

“Oh relax,” Abby said dismissively when Sheila ran out of breath, her scream ending in a whimper. It was the most absurd
thing she could have said under the circumstances. “It’s just blood. I haven’t even gone that deep yet.”