Mommy, May I? (19 page)

Detective Collier was back within an hour, and this time he wasn’t leaving until Helena came with him. “I have a warrant for your arrest,” he snarled, just before cuffing her.

“What?” James yelped in amazement. “This is preposterous! Is it necessary to cuff my client, Detective?”

“Yes, Mr. Wingate, this is necessary. We have reason to believe that your client was involved in the murder of Leeza Kiley.”

“Helena, don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it,” James said.

James had been reassuring her of that since Collier and his crew had left. But none of his phone calls worked, at least not yet. She refused to let any of these creeps see her break down. She’d lived through too much shit for that. As the detective read Helena her rights, she felt like she’d been jabbed in the stomach.

“Mom!” Frankie cried. “What are they doing?”

“It’s okay. Stay here. Dad will be by soon. I promise, sweetheart, it’ll be fine.” She tried to sound calm for Frankie’s benefit.

“Mom? Can I go with you? Please?”

“You’re better off here. Stay in the house, Frankie, and don’t talk to anyone!”

Helena couldn’t look at Frankie anymore. She knew her daughter was crying, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She hoped Patrick would arrive soon, as he’d promised.

With James leading the entourage, the front door was flung open. Immediately, flashbulbs popped in her face, as a tidal wave of accusations slammed into her. The reporters pressed against her like a swarm of jellyfish, their tentacles out and ready. Under siege, she bowed her head and let James speak for her. Drenched with sweat, she struggled to swallow the bile pushing up from her stomach.

“Helena, did you kill Leeza Kiley?”

Helena recognized Claire Travers’s voice amongst the voices of reporters shouting questions at her.

“How did you do it, Helena?”

“Are you and Patrick Kiley lovers again?”

“What about the cord they found her strangled with? Is it true it matches the drapery cord in your home?”

Helena couldn’t believe they already had that information. They were all ravenous vultures, jostling each other for the tiniest piece of her flesh.

She heard James say, “Ms. Shea did not murder Leeza Kiley or hire anyone else to do so. We will prove that she had nothing to do with this crime, and that the LAPD is in violation of Ms. Shea’s civil rights. Please, that is all I have to say. You’re trespassing on private property, and we ask you to cease and desist, or every one of you—and believe me, I’ll find out who you are—will have lawsuits filed against you for trespassing.”

One of the cops shouted, “Okay, people, show’s over, back off. Get off this property.”

James opened the cruiser’s back door and told her that he’d be following in his car. “I’ll get this handled in no time.”

She watched him flip on his cell phone again, already working on getting her out of this horrible mess.

The ride to the station was silent except for the jargon coming over the police radio and the drone of the chopper flying above them. Helena hoped that Frankie was all right and that the vultures had left her alone. Thank God the child had such moxie and common sense. There was no way she’d talk to any of them. She knew that Frankie would wait for her father to get there. As she left, she saw that several policemen remained, continuing to search her home.

Helena also knew that the media would be waiting on the front steps of the police station. James met her there and continued to defend her as she was guided through the crowd and escorted inside. There, at least, she found some respite from the shrieking reporters.

James held up his hand. “Not a word, hear me, nothing. They’re going to take you down to booking. By the time you get back, I’ll see what I can do. Okay? Trust me.”

“Booking? They’re actually booking me for this? For murder? Aren’t they taking this a bit far, James?”

“I agree. That Collier’s a real ass. By the time I’m through with him and this department, they’ll wish they’d never bothered you. They’re concocting some kind of conspiracy theory that’s a load of crap, and they probably think you’ll crack and expose the actual murderer.”

She nodded. She wanted to check with Patrick, make certain he’d gotten to Frankie, but for the moment, she was being brutally shuffled through the system as if she’d actually committed this hideous crime.

Anxious and with a pounding headache, she nearly fell down when a large female officer pushed her through a door. “What, are you drunk, too?” said the burly woman. “You are known for that, aren’t you?”

Startled by the officer’s callousness, Helena grew weary. The pounding in her head turned to a numbing, dull ache. The events of the morning were catching up with her. Tired—very, very tired, was what she wanted to answer, but she reminded herself not to say a word. These people were her enemies. Keeping mum may have made her look guilty, but she followed her attorney’s orders, not wanting to jeopardize herself any further.

After showering her down and thoroughly frisking her, even probing the most private areas of her body, the woman gave her prison grubs to put on. Then she was taken to the booking area where she was sure the mug shot they took would be shown on that evening’s newscasts.

More humiliated than she’d ever been before, even on her worst bender, she still refused to cry. After the “photo session,” the officer escorted her into a closed-off room, where James sat waiting for her.

Seated across from her, he looked grave. “Listen, I’ve pulled some strings. I can get an arraignment on the docket for tomorrow morning.”

Helena’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying I have to spend the night here?” His silence answered her question. “My God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Tomorrow morning, you’ll be out of here. I refuse to allow you to spend more than one night in this place. I tried everything, I really did. But because they’re charging you with Murder One, we’re talking huge dollars for your bail—and one helluva scandal. That shithead detective is still trying to somehow tie you into the fire over at your center. He’s got nothing, though. They can’t detain you after tomorrow. I’ve looked into this. Leeza Kiley was two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than you, confirming my initial suspicion that this is a witch-hunt. Anyone in his right mind will know that you couldn’t have committed this murder. Collier is bloodthirsty. The cops are looking for a patsy—and I’m sorry, kid, but you’re it,” he said in his southern drawl.

“So what happens now?” She bowed her head.

“I’m going before the judge in twenty minutes.” He looked at his watch. “Can we count on Patrick to put up the cash to get you out of here?”

“I think so. That’ll sure get people talking, his bailing me out.”

“People are talking anyway. You’ll have gone national by the time
Entertainment Tonight
and
Access Hollywood
is over this evening.”

“Terrific. I’m a real Robert Downey Jr.” Helena looked down at the cuffs rubbing her wrists raw. “I need some protection, James. I’ll need to get out of the media’s scrutiny. We’ve got to get my daughter away from this, too. Maybe I could go to the ranch with Frankie if Patrick wouldn’t mind. What do you think? Will they let me out of the county? No one can get onto the ranch, and I’ll at least have some privacy.”

“I’ll see what I can work out with the DA.”

“I need to call Frankie and see if she’s all right. Can I do that? Also, would you call over to The Sober Living House and ask for Lindsay? Tell her who you are and find out how Rachel is doing and the baby. Please?” She cracked a weak smile.

“You get one phone call, so call your kid. And yes, I’ll speak with your friend and find out about Rachel.” He leaned across the table and kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll be out of here in the morning. I promise. I’ve got to go talk to the DA and the judge.” He winked at her and told the officer to allow her to place her call.

Frankie answered her cell phone. “Mom?!”

“It’s me, honey.”

“Are you really in jail? I didn’t believe it when they took you away. I thought they’d just ask you some more questions. But a reporter said they’d booked you for murdering Leeza. Is she really dead, Mom?”

“Yes, Frankie, and I’m sorry. I know she wasn’t the kindest to you, but I’m sure, knowing you, that you must’ve loved her in some way.” Frankie didn’t answer. “They did book me, but it’s all a mistake. I’ll be out soon. I need to talk with your dad. Has he gotten there yet?”

“Yeah, he took Ella out to go to the bathroom while I finish getting my things together. He told me that he heard you’ll be there overnight.”

Helena sighed. “Yes it looks that way. Where are the two of you staying tonight?”

“With some friends of dad’s. They said that Ella could come along, too.”

“Oh good, thank him for me.” Helena was relieved to know that Patrick had a handle on everything and that her puppy would also be in good hands.

“I’m scared for you.”

“Don’t be, honey. I’ll be fine. I have to hang up now, Frankie, but we’ll get through this somehow. I promise you, we’re going to be ok.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Me, too,” Helena whispered back.

The female officer took her to the row of cells. Other women prisoners hurled out crude, rude remarks at her as she followed down the passageway. “Ooh, look at the glamour girl! Kiss, kiss, kiss for me, pretty baby.”

“Hey beauty queen, got a place nice and warm for you to taste.” Laughter resounded down the long corridor of cells.

“Ooh yeah, we’ve got all sorts of treats for a pretty thing like you. Bet you smell like a rose.”

She shuddered at the comments, thinking that she’d hit rock bottom once before, but as the cell door slammed shut echoing down the corridor of the prison, this felt far worse.

The catcalls continued. Helena closed her eyes and leaned against the cell’s stonewall. A sudden thought crossed her mind, and her eyes opened wide. With all the hoopla, she hadn’t remembered last night’s phone call from the man she’d thought had been hired by Leeza to frighten her and make her life miserable. Now she had doubts whether Leeza had been involved with the events that had occurred over the last week—serious doubts.

Was she being set up by someone else? She didn’t think there was anyone out there who could possibly have hated her as much as Leeza. If she had an enemy she was unaware of, could this same person be behind all the frightening developments of the last week, including the fire and Leeza’s murder for which she was being framed? If so, then it was more than likely someone Helena knew, someone who had access to her home. The thought sent an icy chill down her spine as she racked her brain wondering who could
possibly
want to destroy her like this. The only person she could think of was already dead, and Helena was charged with her murder.

The smells of stale body odor, urine, and vomit had obliterated Helena’s appetite by the time dinner arrived: mashed potatoes, with a piece of dehydrated meat, and a few thin green strings that must have been green beans. Even though she hadn’t eaten all day, she decided to pass.

“Hey, bitch, ain’t you eating your grub? ‘Cause I will.”

The woman in the cell next to hers must’ve seen Helena set her plate aside. Helena slid the plate through the front of the cell over to the other woman.

“I like a willing servant,” the woman laughed. “I wonder what else you’d like to do for me—fine little piece like you.” She said it loud enough for the rest to hear. Whether the woman meant it or not, Helena knew the women reveled in her discomfort.

She sighed and curled up on the small metal cot, the mattress no thicker than cardboard, and the blanket like a layer of tissue paper. She was cold, hungry and humiliated. If ever she could’ve used a drink, it was now. No, that wasn’t true. Helena reminded herself that drinking would just make things worse, never better. Her
worst
day sober—and this might just be it—was better than her
best
day in the hell of active addiction.

She ran over again in her mind how she had wound up here. The police had to realize that their evidence was flimsy at best. But what if they did convict her? What if a jury somehow believed that she was guilty? What if Collier found some way to tie Helena into the fire, and what if Rachel didn’t live? Oh, God, if Rachel didn’t live . . . It was too difficult to think about. All she wanted to do was be there for both Frankie and Rachel. Instead, she was here in this miserable cell, while some psycho got off on threatening her and now possibly setting her up. If he was a murderer, what did he have in store for her next? Maybe he’d already planted more evidence to further implicate Helena in Leeza’s murder or the fire. She wished she hadn’t gone storming over to Leeza’s house the other day. Claire Travers was probably pounding out more vicious lies that could figure into a trial, if it came down to that. Who knew what Leeza had told the gossip columnist.

Shivering from the cold and fearing she might never get out of this place, sleep finally overtook her exhausted mind and body.