Ghost Wanted (25 page)

His Honor Teddy Cooley was even bigger than Sam, probably six four, a big face with a hooked nose and full lips. He was slick bald, ruddy, made a good-sized office appear small as he paced up and down next to a conference table. He was still in his warm-up from his run. His Adidas shoes looked expensive.

Sam stood at parade rest, equally imposing in his own way, broad face resolute, brown eyes steady, jaw firm, even though his aloha shirt was crumpled—there might have been a couple of taco stains down the front—and his cotton knee-high shorts revealed sun-reddened knees. He had the solid, tough look of an old fullback, still in shape and ready to rumble. Sam continued in his deep voice, “. . . won't know how far back the blackmailing scheme goes until we get the flash drive. Think of it like a 'gator swimming in muddy water: All you see for starters is the ripple he leaves behind as his tail moves back and forth. We kind of came in on the back of what had been happening. It started with Susannah Fairlee's murder.”

The judge stopped, stared at Sam. “Susannah drowned. It was an accident.”

Sam held up a broad, callused hand. “That's what we were supposed to think. Let me tell you what we know. Some of it we can prove, a lot of it we can't. Susannah Fairlee was friends with JoLee Jamison, a student who had worked in Sheridan's office. Susannah visited her as a Stephen Minister. That meant she was there to listen and be kind. After the girl died, Susannah got a letter.”

Teddy Cooley's back was to his desk. I hovered over the desk. His secretary obviously knew how to keep a happy boss. In the center of the bare desktop lay a fresh legal pad with a pen beside it. Keeping a careful eye on the judge, I picked up the pen, wrote swiftly:
Tell him Susannah went to dean's office after she read the lett
er.

Sam broke off. His face stiffened as he watched the airborne pen point at the legal pad before it returned to the desk. He took two quick steps, reached past the judge to pick up the legal pad. “Think of it like this.” He ripped the sheet off, his eyes scanning the script, then folded the sheet like a letter. “Susannah receives a letter.” He waggled the folded sheet.

The judge looked a bit puzzled, possibly wondering why Sam felt it necessary to illustrate the form of a letter.

Sam saw his expression, talked faster. “The letter,” Sam tapped the folded sheet for emphasis, “said a blackmailing ring was being run out of the office of the dean of students. Fairlee went straight to that office after she received the letter.”

Sam tossed the legal pad back on the desk, apparently absentmindedly stuffed the folded sheet into the pocket of his baggy cotton shorts. “Susannah Fairlee confronted Sheridan. That night Sheridan went to the Fairlee house, took Susannah by surprise, knocked her out, pushed her face into the pond. That's not the murder we can prove, but I'm telling you about it because everything that happened flowed from the blackmail ring and Susannah's visit to the dean's office.”

Cooley's frown was intense.

Sam met the judge's stare directly. “Here's the guts of the case, Teddy: Last week the
Bugle
ran a story about Michelle Hoyt, a senior scheduled to begin research Friday on materials donated to the library by the Fairlee family. Those materials included Fairlee's diaries. After the story ran, a series of odd incidents occurred at the library, roses mysteriously appearing, a gargoyle knocked from a niche. Meanwhile, Michelle Hoyt was decoyed to an empty house and held captive. Thursday night her entry code was used to enter the library. A rare book was stolen. A tip implicated Hoyt. The book was found in her apartment and Hoyt was nowhere to be found. That's the sequence:
Bugle
story, roses, vandalism, student taken captive, robbery, student's code used. The result: The student did not appear at the library Friday morning to open the box in room 211 that contained Susannah Fairlee's diaries. Friday night the library was entered by a woman dressed in black. She went to room 211, was confronted by Ben Douglas, shot him. Fairlee's diary for this year is missing. Sheridan couldn't take a chance Hoyt would find passages written after Susannah visited JoLee Jamison, passages describing JoLee's hatred of Sheridan. Sheridan was willing to do whatever she needed to do to take out that diary. There was no way she could have explained her presence in the library late at night to steal Susannah's current diary, so Ben Douglas was shot. We need search warrants to hunt for the outfit Sheridan wore the night she shot Douglas, the flash drive that proves blackmail, and the murder weapon.”

Cooley looked toward the window, his face stern. When he turned back to Sam, his jaw was tight. “Sheridan knocked Susannah out, drowned her?”

Sam met his gaze directly. “That's what happened.”

Cooley rubbed his chin with the knuckles of one hand. “Susannah—I spent one summer trying to get her attention. I was sixteen. She was a couple of years older. God, she was exciting. I almost broke my neck in a swan dive at the pool. She wasn't even watching. Years later, Corinne and I played a lot of bridge with Susannah and Jonathan.” He slowly expelled a deep breath. “You can have your warrants, Sam.”

I
gently tugged open the silver blue drapes. Early-morning sunlight spilled into the suite at Rose Bower. Lorraine was curled on her chaise longue. She looked very appealing, her face kind even in sleep. She wore a blue nightgown. A lime-and-teal-striped afghan was drawn up to her waist. I knew she had remained present in the suite to reassure Michelle.

I glanced at the four-poster. Michelle slept with a pillow snuggled against her face. I felt a bit frazzled after my active night. I appeared so that Michelle would not be startled should she awaken. And, yes, lovely clothes would be a boost for me. I chose a peach boat-neck sweater, white twill trousers, and peach ankle boots. I glanced into the full-length mirror in the wardrobe and nodded in approval. The colors were almost as energizing as black coffee brewed with chicory. I was quite pleased to find one hand held a mug of steaming coffee. I took a refreshing swallow, strolled to the chaise longue, and gently touched Lorraine on her shoulder.

She woke at once. “Bailey Ruth.” She looked across the room at the four-poster bed, spoke softly. “I'm glad Michelle is getting some rest. I'm afraid she had a very troubled sleep. Do you have good news?” She sat up, patted the end of the chaise longue. “My, that coffee smells wonderful.”

I settled beside her. Possibly I could imagine coffee for Lorraine. I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them. No luck. Perhaps she could give it a try. “Sometimes our thoughts can work wonders. I was hungry for very strong coffee and the mug just came.”

She looked at the table. A cup and saucer in Limoges china appeared. She lifted the cup, beamed. “Twinings. Good strong black tea. One night after the ambulances were unloaded and we'd tended to the wounded, Paul and I rested for a moment behind the surgery tent. He was going to go back, but I put my hand on his arm and asked him to stay long enough to have some tea, to make him stronger to drive through the night. We took our mugs and sat on some empty wooden crates. He was afraid my apron would get snagged. I told him snags didn't matter. I knew the hem was stained with blood.” Slowly she replaced the cup into its saucer, stared across the room, her dark blue eyes haunted. “Blood on my apron . . . The night they brought Paul in, I was there, and I knelt beside him and his face was gray. Blood matted one shoulder. I struggled to get his tunic loose and I found my letter.” Tears brimmed, spilled down pale cheeks. “The envelope had been opened. He had received my letter, read it—and went out to die. I killed him.” She lifted her hands, pressed them against her face. “They made me leave him. My fault . . .”

I knew better. Wiggins had never doubted that, after the war, when he and Charles were back and safe, he would win her heart. “Lorraine, you—”

Abruptly she pushed up from the chaise longue, whirled away from me. She walked across the room, touched the harp. When she turned back to me, her face was smooth and her eyes defied me to speak.

“Lorraine, Paul—”

“Tell me what you've done. Is there hope now for Michelle?” Her gaze was resolute. She was determinedly in the present. She didn't want to go back to pain and loss and heartbreak.

If she would listen, I could reassure her that Wiggins hadn't deliberately put himself in danger after reading her letter. He had seen his duty and done it and the shell struck. But she was convinced she had caused him to die. Nothing I said would alter that bleak certainty. Now I knew why she had chosen to remain on earth.

“Tell me.” Her tone was imperious. She sat on the stool beside the harp, waited.

I knew better than to speak again about Wiggins and, at the moment, we needed to do our best for Michelle. Perhaps another time I could find the right words, tell her he loved her still. I described my night.

She sat for a long moment, sunk in thought, then looked at me directly, as I knew she'd often looked at life, facing hard truths. “Will search warrants be enough?”

Lorraine understood the challenge. Even if warrants uncovered clothing Eleanor wore and a second careful search in room 211 found matching threads, the evidence was circumstantial. The threads did not place Eleanor Sheridan in the room the moment Ben Douglas was shot. The discovery of the flash drive might prove blackmail, but would any of the victims or the students used to entrap them be willing to testify? Ballistics could prove the gun was used to shoot Ben Douglas, but I knew it had to be bare of fingerprints. Eleanor would have made sure it was shiny clean before she placed the gun in Michelle's trunk.

A good defense lawyer might scissor away any links to Sheridan. Where was proof that the thread from her blouse was snagged that fateful Friday night? It wasn't up to Sheridan to explain the thread. The video likely couldn't be introduced into evidence because its origin was unknown. Even if it were accepted, again, the video was no proof that Sheridan was in room 211 when Ben Douglas was shot. Others besides Sheridan had access to her office. What proof was there that she had hidden the gun behind the books?

I'd worked hard this night. I'd done my best. Sam Cobb was gambling his job security on my efforts. He trusted me. Michelle Hoyt's freedom hung in the balance. I faced Lorraine. “The evidence they find may not”—it was hard to get the words out—“be enough. She's hard. Tough. If she rides it out, keeps her mouth shut . . . Oh, Lorraine, it may not be enough.”

Lorraine's gaze was searching. Finally, she nodded. “You'll think of something, I know you will.”

Across the room, the bedclothes rustled. Michelle bolted upright. “Joe—”

Lorraine was on her feet, hurrying to the bed. “It's all right, my dear. Everything's fine.”

Michelle swept back dark, tousled hair. She tried to smile. “I'd forgotten.” She buried her face in her hands. “I wish I hadn't remembered.”

I joined them. “Everything's under control, Michelle. The police are definitely working on the case.”

Her gaze was weary. “Are they still hunting for me?”

I waved a dismissive hand. “Don't worry—”

She gave a strangled laugh. “Worry? Who, me? Why should I worry? My name's mud, my reputation's ruined, and I may go to jail forever, but hey, not to worry.”

I touched her arm.

She stiffened, but didn't pull away. That was progress.

“I know what happened and why.” I told her about Susannah and JoLee and the woman who fashioned the trap for her.

Michelle looked at me with stricken eyes. “That poor girl. I would hate to die angry and bitter.”

Lorraine's face softened. She gave an approving nod. I knew she was quite pleased that she'd given roses to Michelle and Joe. Michelle's own life was in utter disarray because of Eleanor Sheridan, yet her thoughts were for JoLee Jamison, who died alone.

Michelle laced her fingers together. “When I walked into the house on Montague, that woman was there, waiting for me to go down the stairs. What if I hadn't gone down into the basement?” Her voice was thin. “I had a bad feeling. I almost turned around to leave. I thought, all that time when I was trapped, that nothing could be worse. But I was wrong. If I'd looked around, if I'd seen her, she would have shot me, wouldn't she?” Her gaze mirrored horror.

I was solemn. “I rather think she would.”

Michelle reached out, gripped my arm. “You think the police will get her, but I'm afraid she'll be too smart for them. If nothing goes right, if they arrest me, please tell Joe”—she paused, took a deep breath, blurted out the words—“tell him I think he's wonderful. Please.”

I tried to sound utterly confident—“You'll be telling him yourself”—but I had a stark memory of Eleanor Sheridan's smooth, expressionless, pitiless face.

The door to Joe Cooper's office was closed. It was no impediment for me. Once inside, however, I hesitated. Some light slipped through the window, but it was too dim to see the desktop well. Moreover, no miracle of organization had occurred since I was last here. Papers and files and books rose in stacks and mounds. I found the goosenecked lamp, turned it on, aimed the beam quickly toward the floor behind the desk. Joe's open backpack, contents half in and half out, rested precariously atop one mound. Joe sprawled half in, half out of his sleeping bag, one arm crooked over his face. I settled in his chair and tried to filch a sheet of paper from the near stack. The papers wobbled, tilted. I grabbed as pages fluttered downward.

A sudden thump. Joe was on his feet and in a crouch. He stared, slowly straightened. “Maybe there's a formula in physics. Papers at rest times invisible force equals mess on the floor.”

I felt it was necessary to keep up appearances. So to speak. I went through the door, appeared, still in my fetching peach ensemble, and knocked.

The door opened. He looked out at me, poker-faced. “Why am I not surprised?”

“May I come in?” I smoothed back a tangle of hair and hoped I looked presentable.

He rubbed a bristly cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “What if I said no?”

“Chief Cobb got the video. He's getting search warrants this morning, one for Sheridan's home, one for the office.”

He gestured with a big thumb. “Come on in. Find a seat.” He looked faintly perplexed, finally moved a birdcage off a crate, shoved the crate toward me. “Did a feature on this guy who collects birdcages. He insisted on giving me one.”

I turned the crate on end, pulled it closer to his desk, sat down gingerly. “I've talked to Michelle.”

He leaned against the edge of his desk, looked at me soberly. “The APB was still out when I crashed about three.” He nodded toward the sleeping bag.

“After the warrants are served, I'm sure the APB will be canceled.”

“Maybe.” His voice was heavy. “It depends on what they find and whether they can tie crimes to a woman who has to have the guts of a gambler and the instincts of a mafia don.”

I understood why he was worried. I was worried, too. “I know. Sheridan will walk into her office sure that nobody can pin anything on her.”

He rubbed the stubble on one cheek. “The flash drive might lead to the blackmail victims and the kids she used as stooges. You can bet there's no trace of anything about Sheridan. No confirmation of payoffs. Her fingerprints will be on the flash drive but she can claim she had the stuff because she likes to keep an eye on people, maybe she'll claim she foiled some bad actors, made them toe the line. Hell, that's crazy, but she can say anything she wants to unless one of the victims sings. People who pay blackmail won't be eager to spill their guts. So the cops get the flash drive and nobody can prove anything. As for the black outfit, even if fiber ties the black turtleneck to that box in 211, there's no fake time recorded on the video. It's all circumstantial. I can see where a DA would be leery of filing a charge. You need something more.” He pushed up from his desk, folded his arms. “You need something that will shake her story.” His eyes narrowed. “Listen, there's a chance . . .” He leaned forward, talked fast.

I'd warned him against talking to students and employees in the dean's office. Maybe it was time.

He looked at his watch. “Almost eight o'clock. The warrants are served at nine?” He moved behind his desk, shuffled through several files, finally flipped one open. He scanned a sheet, running his fingers down a list of names. He yanked his cell phone from his pocket. “This is Joe Cooper, editor of the
Bugle
. Hey, sorry to call so early, but you may be able to save the day at the dean's office. . . .”

My palms would have been sweaty had I been present. The unoccupied bathroom held a faint scent of lilac. The mirror was still steamy from the shower. Breath bunched in my chest as I eased open the clothes hamper just far enough to see the hump of dark clothing lying inside. I put down the lid, hugely relieved. The black turtleneck and spandex pants were there.

Eleanor had begun to reach mythic proportions in my mind. She had so far been successful in everything she had attempted. There was no reason for her to know that the presence of the clothing in the hamper mattered.