Mistaken Identity (5 page)

Eight

The vibrations of the phone in her pocket pulled Lucinda’s thoughts away from Pamela Godfrey. Grabbing hold of the cell, she groaned when she saw the caller ID – Rambo Burns. She disconnected the call. She wished he’d leave her alone. He’d been calling her number and the office incessantly for the past ten days. She had no desire to talk with him – no desire for another round of reconstructive surgery.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
She ran her fingers over her lips, from the soft, full side to the thin, hard side.
He was supposed to eliminate scarring, not add to it
.

She felt the buzz of her cell again. Her first thought was to ignore it but she decided it was too soon for Burns to call her again and slipped a hand into her pocket. This time the ID read “Spencer office”. Considering the timing, she felt certain that Spencer was calling for Burns. But she had doubts.
What if it’s about Charley? What if something happened to Charley?

She answered the call, “Pierce.”

“Lucinda, it’s Evan Spencer.”

“Yes. Is Charley okay?”

“Charley? Oh, yes, of course. I’m not calling about Charley. I’m calling for Rambo …”

“I’m hanging up now, Evan.”

“Please, Lucinda. Rambo just wants to talk to you.”

“Evan, I care about Charley. I’m always happy to talk to you about her – your daughter is very important to me. But I’m not going to talk to you about Dr. Burns. And I have nothing to say to him at all.”

“Lucinda, please. He’s not going to force you into anything. He just wants to talk.”

“
Does Dr.
Burns take this much interest in all of his patients?”

“You know Rambo and I are good friends. He has taken a special interest in you because of our relationship.”

Our relationship? Dammit, Evan!
“You mean because of my relationship with Charley?”

“Well, that, too,” Evan conceded.

Lucinda bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue.
Why does he assume I care about him because I care about Charley? Why does he read so much into my interest in his daughter? Why doesn’t he just grieve the loss of his wife and stop grabbing for me as if I was born to be his crutch?
“Doctor Spencer …”

“Aw c’mon, Lucinda. When you start calling me Doctor Spencer …”

“Okay, Evan. But don’t mention Dr. Burns unless I bring him up first.”

“Okay. But he just wants to talk.”

“Goodbye, Doctor Spencer,” she said and hit the disconnect button before he could utter another word.

Lucinda had just enough time to refocus her mind on Pamela Godfrey before the door flew open and the woman strode into the room, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand. She stopped directly in front of Lucinda, slammed the mug down and placed her hands on hips with elbows jutting from her sides. She was an intimidating figure in an expensive suit and sporting an air of haughty indifference.

Lucinda rose to her full height and mirrored Pamela’s stance – the four-inch advantage in height made it clear that Lucinda had the upper hand in this battle of wills. Pamela recognized and confirmed it. “Perhaps we should both have a seat.”

They both stood for a moment longer, neither one willing to make the first move. Slowly, as if their movements were choreographed in unison, their knees bent and they lowered themselves to chairs on opposite sides of the conference table without losing eye contact for a second. “I’ve told the officers all I know. I’m sure you’ll find that in a report somewhere,” Pamela said.

Sliding a compact digital recorder out of her oversized shoulder bag and on to the surface between them, Lucinda said, “I’d like to hear it in your own words and preserve it on audio, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually, I do. It is a waste of my time to keep repeating the same story again and again.”

Lucinda placed her hands on the table and laced her fingers together. She cleared her throat. “There are two people dead, Ms. Godfrey. I would think, on balance, their deaths are more important than polishing the image of another corporate jackass.”

“Lieutenant, I resent that depiction of my clients.”

“Fine,” Lucinda said through clenched teeth. “You are entitled to your feelings. And I am entitled to hear a recounting of the events of your morning. Please start with when you arrived at the parking garage.”

“This is really tiresome,” Pamela complained.

Lucinda smiled, causing Pamela to flinch. She felt a spark of triumph, realizing that Pamela had worked hard not to show any reaction to the detective’s face but she couldn’t help that involuntary twitch at the off-kilter grin.

After a minute of silence, Pamela began. “I arrived at the garage shortly before ten a.m.”

Lucinda interrupted. “Did you have a preset appointment?”

“In a manner of speaking. I received a call from a client as soon as I entered the office this morning. He was panicking about the public relations plan for his company and wanted to discuss possible repercussions. I told him I’d be there right away.”

“You had a lengthy discussion, then?”

“Not exactly. I had a lengthy wait. And then I was dismissed.” Pamela’s clenched jaw throbbed.

“Really? Does that happen often with your clients?”

“No. Absolutely not. In fact, because of his rudeness, his company might not be a client of my firm much longer.”

“Do you think your sexual entanglement with your client might have caused his rude behavior?”

Pamela slapped her hands down on the table and pushed to her feet. “How dare you!”

“Who lives at
6423 James Landing Drive
, Ms. Godfrey?”

“How should I know?”

“Thought you might have bedded the homeowner at some point.”

“This is outrageous!”

“No, Ms. Godfrey,” Lucinda said as she rose to her feet. “What is outrageous is your pretense that you don’t know who lives there and you don’t know what happened there. One of your clients is dead, Ms. Godfrey. I would expect that you would show some sign of concern about that fact – on a financial level, if nothing else.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Ms. Godfrey. We went to the address you gave us and found one of your clients dead.”

“Dead?” Pamela said, sliding down into the chair. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she stared at the top of the table. Raising her head, she asked, “Who?”

Lucinda arched an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that you don’t know?”

Pamela bowed her head. “No. Yes. I – I – I mean …”

Lucinda sat back down, slouched in the seat, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair and bringing a hand to her face. She curled three fingers and her thumb around her chin. Her index finger lay flat across her check as she observed the woman struggle for words.

Pamela raised her eyes again. “Who, Lieutenant?”

Lucinda held her gaze for a full minute before she said, “Parker Sterling.”

“What?”

“Dodgebird, remember?”

“Of course I remember. But Parker? Someone killed Parker?”

“And his wife.”

“His wife, too? Who – who killed them?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to ask you.”

“Me? I don’t know. I have no idea of anyone who’d want Parker – or his wife – anyone who’d want them – them – dead.”

“Really? Were you having an affair with Parker Sterling?”

“That is an outrageous allegation!” Pamela said, rising to her feet again. “Absolutely outrageous!”

“Oh, sorry. Were you having an affair with Jeanine Parker?”

“That’s it. That’s it. I have had enough. I was not having an affair with
Sterling
or his wife. Any more questions, you can talk to my attorney. I’m done.” Pamela threw out her arm, gesturing to the door.

Lucinda looked at Pamela’s coffee cup on the table. She really wanted it. She wanted Pamela’s DNA. She couldn’t use it in court if she swiped it, even if she did have a match with something in the
Sterling
home. But still, she wanted it. She wanted the advantage that information would provide. She intentionally left her recorder on the table as she left the room.

When they reached the reception area, Pamela said, “Good day, Lieutenant,” turned and walked back into her office, shutting the door behind her with a decisive click.

Lucinda walked to the office exit and stopped. “Oh, my,” she said and walked back to the reception desk. She leaned over the counter and whispered to Jennifer, who was in the middle of a phone call, “Sorry, I left something back in the conference room. I’ll just be a sec.”

The receptionist held up a finger, signaling her to wait a moment, but Lucinda turned away as if she hadn’t seen it and hurried down the hall. She pulled a pen from her bag and slid it into the handle of the mug. She slipped the mug into a paper evidence bag with care, making sure not to spill any of the quarter inch of coffee in the bottom. She placed it in her shoulder satchel, securing it in a corner, praying it wouldn’t overturn as she made her way out of the building.

As she picked up her recorder, Jennifer stepped into the doorway. She cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Lucinda wiggled the recorder in her hand. “Got it,” she said, maneuvering past the young woman and heading for the door. She tensed, expecting someone to call out and stop her. She did not relax until she was out of the building and in her car.
Now all I have to do is con Audrey into processing this sample.

Nine

Pamela Godfrey felt betrayed by her own philosophy of life and men: When it costs you little, give it freely and then demand payment that far exceeds the value of the gift. She developed it first with her father. She awarded him a few smiles, the outward display of good behavior and a willingness to pretend total dependence. As a result, he never said no to anything.

It was no small feat. Her father, a prominent attorney, was known for his shrewd negotiation skills, his powerful courtroom presence and his ruthless ambition to win. Many feared him. All respected him – except for his own daughter who viewed him as nothing more than a ready source of cash and expensive gifts.

The same tricks, with the added tool of sex given or withheld, gave her dominance over the young men she met in college. She also discovered older men – the professors, the successful alumni, and local businessmen had far more to offer than students. She used them, got what she wanted and tossed them aside. If they tried to hang on after she discarded them, hissed threats of scandal made each one back away. In the process, she became adept at the arts of seduction and subtle manipulation.

After graduation, she applied these skills to building her business. It took no effort to obtain start-up money and a prime section of the law business floor from her father. He even referred clients without her asking. She bound them to her with contracts sealed in bed. Yet not one of them ever seemed to suspect he was not the only one. Was she that clever? Or was the power of denial even stronger than any loyalty she could conjure?

Along the way, they showered her with gifts of expensive jewelry, exotic trips and company stock. Her net worth grew at an extraordinary rate. Whenever she wanted a little extra cash, she pulled a bauble not to her taste from the safe and sold it to a jeweler friend who gave her more than good business sense dictated in gratitude for a semi-annual tumble.

The ease with which she used them all left her with no respect for any man. She held most women in contempt, too. They struggled and strived for influence and money, neglecting to use this birthright advantage to exert control over the men with power who stood in their way.

But, now, Pamela’s confidence suffered serious injury. She harbored a secret that made her vulnerable – a secret that tied her to the murders at James Landing. The hot blast of that gritty reality rocked her sense of impregnability.

The police lieutenant seemed immune to intimidation or manipulation. Her vulnerability was her damaged face and her prosthetic eye but Pamela had not yet figured out to use that to her advantage. Pointed comments about her flaws might throw her momentarily off balance but it was not enough. She had to keep that woman from sussing out her secret, but how?

She entered her condo that evening cursing her weakness, abusing herself for falling in love. Images of that beloved body taunted her – filling her with longing and dread. She went straight to the cabinet where she hid her cherished photographs, letters and other mementoes and carried them to her home office.

After emptying her shredder bin into the trash, she fed through every scrap of paper. She lined a bathroom sink with a triple thickness of aluminum foil and burned the shreds a handful at a time. She smashed, twisted or mutilated anything that wouldn’t burn and tossed it on the ashes. She folded up the foil and slid it into a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. Pulling a piece of tissue paper from a shelf, she artfully crumpled it and arranged it atop the wadded bundle.

She walked back to her car, the bag swinging on her fingertips. Then she drove off to find a dumpster miles away – one that was at a great enough distance that, if found, could never be connected to her and her love.