Never Alone (13 page)

twenty-one

Megan arrived at the
office wanting to meet with her boss as soon as possible. The door to Walker's office was closed, but she was clearly there, given the level of noise emanating from within.

“Is she in there regarding this?” Megan showed Joanne, Walker's assistant, her copy of the morning headlines.

“Her phone hasn't stopped ringing.” Joanne was always two steps ahead and was rarely flustered by Walker's demanding personality. She had tight blond curls and hazel eyes and was blessed with full lips that 99 percent of the time had a smile exposing the slight gap in her front teeth. But not this morning.

“Who is she on with?”

“The mayor, and he's pissed.”

“It's not like
we
leaked it. Jesus.” Megan handed the paper to Joanne. “Do me a favor. Mrs. McAllister is coming in this morning. You see any of these hanging around, get rid of them.”

Joanne nodded. “You got it.”

“Thanks.” Megan nodded in the direction of the conference room. “I'll be in there. Are Palumbo and Rasmussen in yet?”

Joanne shrugged.

“Find them, now.” Megan felt bad about the tone she used. “Thanks, Joanne.”

Megan spent the next half hour processing Shannon's personal items, as few as there were. The lab wanted to continue running tests on the clothing Shannon wore during the attack. Only the jewelry remained: Shannon's watch and the Claddagh ring.

Walker rapped on the door and leaned her head into the conference room. “You have some time?”

“Of course. Obviously you've seen the paper.”

“Jesus Christ, how did that get out?” Walker asked.

“Not from this end, I can tell you that much.” Megan wasn't being defensive, just honest, and Walker knew that.

“No, no, that's not what I meant. I
know
that. I should have prepared for a leak with a situation like this. I've been on the phone
with the mayor, chief of police, and Mr. McAllister's lawyer. It's a
mess.”

“Well, for what it's worth, you look great. You didn't have to go to all that trouble for a meeting with little old me.”

Walker wore a red suit with a cream-colored silk blouse and a gold necklace with matching gold earrings. It was an outfit that looked more like something a woman doing high tea on Madison Avenue would wear, rather than a woman in her fifties who carried a firearm.

“I didn't. My daughter asked me to speak in front of her women's studies class today. So I'll be sneaking out of here around lunchtime.”

“Which daughter, Sophia or Serena?”

“Sophia.”

“A women's studies class? How old is she now?”

“Sixteen.”

Megan released a playful groan. “Sixteen? I remember when she just got her braces. I'm feeling very old right now.”

“Please, you and me both. She's already talking about which
colleges she wants to apply to.” Walker was stressed and cut the
chitchat. “Is Nappa in?” She joined Megan at the table.

“No, he's checking on a lead. That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to get you up to speed on a few things.”

Megan pushed
The Catholic Times
across the table for Walker to inspect. “Read the highlighted section.”

Walker had to put her glasses on to read the small print. “What the hell …?” She flipped to the front of the newspaper, just as Megan had when she first read it. “What's the date on this?”

“One week prior,” Megan answered.

Walker smacked the paper down on the tabletop. “Nappa is checking on this right now?”

“Yes.”

“It says, ‘You've been returned.' What do you think that means?”

“I'm not sure.”

“How in hell did you come to find this?” Walker asked.

“I was visiting my mom at the nursing home. The man who delivers the newspapers and magazines gave it to me to read. I ended up throwing it in my purse. I didn't even realize I had it. Nappa found it when we were waiting out the rainstorm at the sex-gone-bad crime scene.”

There was a light knock at the door, and Joanne peeked
through the small opening she allowed for herself. In a slight whisper she said, “Excuse me, Mrs. McAllister is here. I have her waiting in your office.”

“Mr. and Mrs. McAllister?” Walker inquired.

“No, just Mrs. McAllister. She came alone.”

In circumstances like this, usually the parents of the victim are seldom apart.

“We'll be right there,” Walker answered.

“Everything is done. I did it myself.” Megan took the paperwork out of the envelope. “We need her signature on a few of the forms, that's about all.”

“Good. Let's get this over with.”

“McGinn,” Palumbo interrupted as she and Walker walked over to meet Mrs. McAllister. “You're going to want to hear this.”

Megan turned to see Eve Scott's roommate seated at Palumbo's desk with two men wearing suits. One of the men had a briefcase on his lap, while the other stood behind the young man; neither looked pleased to be there.

“Who is that?” Walker asked.

“The roommate of the girl who was murdered last night,” Megan answered.

“With his father, and his father's attorney,” Palumbo added.

“Christ, don't tell me …” Megan rubbed her head and looked toward Walker's office. She could see Mrs. McAllister seated across from Walker's desk.

“Yep. He wants to give a full confession,” Palumbo said.

The three looked at one another. All sharing the same wishful thought: Wouldn't it be great if every case could be solved this way?

“Where's Rasmussen?” Megan asked.

“He should be here any minute.”

“Good. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be.” Megan clutched the envelope of Shannon's personal items and nodded in the direction of Walker's office. “Start when Rasmussen gets in, and then I want to meet with both of you, got it?”

“Got it,” Palumbo answered.

“Can there be any more surprises today?” Megan whispered to Walker.

“Be careful what you wish for, Detective.”

Shannon's mother sat across from Walker's desk. Her hands held the end of the seat cushion. It seemed to be the only thing steadying her. Her hair was pushed back behind her ears, emphasizing her pale, gaunt face. When Megan and Walker entered the office, Mrs. McAllister turned, offering a small smile. She was a painfully polite woman even in the depths of her grief. “Detective McGinn, Lieutenant Walker, good morning. It's nice to see you again.” Of course, it was anything but. Mrs. McAllister stood, holding her hand out to greet them. Her grasp was weak—more a gentle squeeze than a handshake.

“Please, have a seat. Did my assistant offer you any coffee or a glass of water?” Walker asked.

“Oh, yes, she did. I'm fine, thank you.” She sat back down as she clutched her purse. She eyed the envelope Megan held but didn't inquire. “Detective, here's Shannon's laptop, as you requested.” She handed Megan a black computer bag.

“Thank you for remembering that. I'll return it to you as soon as I can.” Megan set the case on Walker's desk.

“Unfortunately, my husband wasn't able to make it in today. He wasn't feeling up to it. My sister is meeting me at Shannon's apartment. It's still okay for me to go there, isn't it?”

Megan nodded. “Yes, we have everything we need. It's not a problem.”

Walker approached the indelicate morning news, “Mrs. Mc­Allister, regarding the information in this morning's newspaper, I'd like to—”

Mrs. McAllister shook her head, politely skirting the painful topic. “Shannon has a beautiful dress at the apartment. It's lilac, with tiny white flowers on it.” Through an uncomfortable smile, she continued, “She said it brought out her eyes, and hid her child-bearing hips. Shannon was always so hard on herself.” Mrs. Mc­Allister stared off into space, recounting the last time she saw Shannon wearing it. “She bought it for my husband's corporate spring outing. It's a beautiful dress.”

Both Megan and Walker offered a solemn nod, silently ac
knowledging that the topic of the leaked information was off the table for Mrs. McAllister.

“The funeral home should be working with the coroner's office for you. If there's a problem, we can make a few phone calls,” Walker offered.

“Thank you. We're having the main service at St. Thomas
More here in the city, and then a more intimate gathering near our home in Connecticut. Most of her friends are down here, so we felt it made sense.”

“St. Thomas More is near where I live. It's a beautiful church,” Megan said.

Walker glanced as if she were thinking,
First she's reading
The Catholic Times
and now she's familiar with a church. The surprises are neverending.

“Shannon loved that church. It's where she would go for service and for Ash Wednesday. We went to St. Thomas More a few months ago when Katelyn, Shannon's best friend, was married there.” She paused a moment, cracked a smile, and threw out a nervous laugh. “It astonishes me. Never in a million years did I think a few months ago that I'd be arranging my baby girl's funeral at the same church.”

Walker pulled a box of tissues out of her desk drawer and offered it Mrs. McAllister.

“Oh no, thank you.” She had a travel pack of tissues in the side compartment of her purse; she took them out and held them up
for viewing. “I come equipped. Hey, never leave home without them, especially when your daughter's been murdered.” Tears
dropped down her now flushed face. “I have no idea what just made me say something like that. I'm so sorry. It's so unlike me.”

Megan tried to give a comforting smile and said, “It's your coping mechanism. There's nothing to be embarrassed or feel badly
about. Everyone deals with it differently. There's no wrong or right
way.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Mrs. McAllister cleared her throat and continued, “Well, I guess you have Shannon's things?”

“Mrs. McAllister, I first want to say how profoundly sorry we are that someone spoke to the press regarding your daughter's case. It's certainly not something this office condones,” Walker said.

“I just don't understand people. My daughter will now be remembered as one of The Tailor's victims. Doesn't that matter to anyone?”

“Yes. It matters to us.” Megan squeezed Mrs. McAllister's hand. “It matters to us.”

She responded with a silent nod.

Megan handed her the envelope as well as a few forms. “We'll need you to look at all the items and then sign off on them.”

Shannon's mother stared at the unopened envelope, unable to respond to Megan's request.

“Mrs. McAllister? Are you okay?” Walker asked.

She stammered, “Do I have to look at them right now? Couldn't I just sign the forms?”

Megan looked at Walker for guidance. Typically, she would have no problem bending the rules—she did it most of the time anyway—but in front of her superior, she had to hold out.

Walker nodded. “That's fine. You can just sign the forms.”

Mrs. McAllister scribbled her name where Megan indicated. “And you'll let me know of any developments with her case?”

“Absolutely,” Walker answered.

“And, Detective, I've been trying to put a more comprehensive list together of Shannon's friends, previous jobs, things like that. I'll get that to you as soon as I can.”

“Thank you. That will be a big help,” Megan said.

Mrs. McAllister rose from her chair again, thanking both Megan and Walker for all their hard work.

Walker looked unsure of her next move. She seemed to need to offer something to Shannon's mother. “Mrs. McAllister?”

“Please, call me MaryEllen.”

“MaryEllen, it won't always be like this. It won't always be this hard for you.”

Shannon's mother stopped and gave a smile of appreciation for Walker's attempts to console her. “Yes. Yes, it will.” She walked out of the office, shutting the door behind her.

“That was a stupid thing for me to say. Damn it. She's picking up her slain daughter's personal effects and I'm telling her it won't always be this hard. What was I thinking?”

Megan folded her arms and stared at the floor. “It wasn't a stupid thing to say. It was the truth. This will be the hardest time that woman will ever see. There's no arguing that, but time does something to the pain. It changes it somehow. You cope and find a place to put it so you can keep going. At least that's what I've heard, and damn, it better be true.”

Walker realized Megan was speaking more of her dealing with the loss of her father than Mrs. McAllister losing Shannon. “Trust me, it's true. Hardest day of my life was losing my mother, but over the years I've moved past the trauma and I'm left with good memories and the sadness that she's no longer around for me to share things with. You'll see.”

“Yep. I have to get back to the conference room. There's a lot more work to do.”

Walker took twelve message slips out from her inbox and pretended to be reviewing them when she said, “McGinn?”

Megan turned around. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for being here this morning for this. You're good with them, you know?”

“Good with who?”

“The victims' families.”

Megan smiled. “Thanks.”

twenty-two

Megan secluded herself in
the conference room. It wasn't even noon, but she felt like the day had already kicked her in the ass. Mounting piles of papers and files covered the table reminding her of her college years. Back then her desk was piled high with textbooks, term papers, and the usual accoutrements: a pack of NoDoz, a six-pack of Mountain Dew, and the ultranutritious Snickers bar. These days, her inner drive replaced the NoDoz, coffee with creamer and three Splendas replaced the Mountain Dew, and chewing the end of a ballpoint pen while she read through files made up her morning nutrition. Term papers and textbooks were now replaced by ME reports, photos of a dead woman, and countless unanswered questions she was no closer to answering than she'd been four hours earlier.

Megan once again felt the same sense of intrusion opening Shannon's laptop as she had while taking the second walk through her apartment, examining her personal items in the dresser and closet. The desktop picture was of a lake at sunset. A small place in
Megan's heart held out hope that perhaps this—a picture Shannon viewed regularly—was the image greeting her when she succumbed to her killer's power. It probably wasn't, but it was something nice to wish for. She hit two clicks and was confronted with pa
ssword protection.

“Of course. What did you have, naked pictures of your married lover? Of yourself or the two of you together?” Megan was fatigued. Her energy was low, her temper short, and her patience even shorter when there was a knock at the door.

“What?” Megan's tone was as sharp as the pain searing through her temples, which she began to massage.

Detective Rasmussen entered, unfazed by Megan's less-than-enthusiastic response. “That cheerful facade you're putting on is working wonders.” He placed on the desk a large green folder thick with papers.

Megan acknowledged her brusque tone. “Sorry about that. I just met with the vic's mother. Fuck all. What's this?”

“Phone records from her work.” Rasmussen removed his jacket, rolled back his sleeves, and began to go through the file, dividing the stack between the two of them.

Megan's jaw dropped. “That's not the last twenty-four hours of her life, is it?”

“If we were talking about my ex-wife, yes—but in this case, it's the victim's records from the last month. It was a bitch, but we finally got them. What do you want to look at first?”

“Let's start with her last twenty-four hours and work back. Maybe one of the bat-shit-crazy
clients
she dealt with had some type of crush or was pissed off at her for something.”

“It sounds like someone is due for a sensitivity training,” Rasmussen said dryly.

Megan grinned at receiving the kind of humor she was accustomed to doling out, but chose not to respond.

Rasmussen unpacked the brown paper bag. He took out a bottle of water, a bag of potato chips, and a large sandwich wrapped in white paper. He passed half the sandwich over to Megan on a napkin. “Eat this.”

“What is it?”

“Eat it.” Rasmussen wasn't one for long-winded commentary.

“I'm not hungry.” She started to push the sandwich back over to him.

“Eat it.” Rasmussen's Nordic background showed through with a tall frame and fair features and an occasionally icy demeanor. Some people were put off by his no-bullshit style. Megan respected it, even admired his bluntness at times.

Megan passed the copy of the memorial in
The Catholic Times
over to him. “Read this.” She took a bite of the sandwich and moaned, “There's no mayonnaise on this? Jeez, how can you eat turkey without any mayo? God.”

Rasmussen took a bite of his sandwich and tossed a small packet of mayonnaise across the table at Megan while he read the highlighted area. He squinted down at the paper as if he didn't trust the information his eyes fed him. His expression wasn't the
oh shit
reaction Walker gave Megan earlier, but a look of disgust.

“Nappa is checking on it now. He should be back soon.” Megan plunged back into her doctored turkey sandwich, taking an oversized bite out of the middle. A dollop of mayonnaise and residual bread crumbs flanked the sides of her mouth as she chewed.

Rasmussen shook his head and tossed a pile of napkins over to
her.

Megan garbled a thank you for the napkins, but made no attempt to use them.

“If you keep eating like that, I'll arrest you for assault,” Rasmussen said.

“Assault on a turkey sandwich?”

“Assault on dining etiquette.”

A piece of lettuce fell out of the corner of Megan's mouth as she responded, “I have perfect Catholic-schoolgirl manners. I just didn't realize how hungry I was. By the way, what's up with the Eve Scott case? I saw Palumbo earlier when the roommate came in. He said the guy was going to confess.”

“He is one sick twist. When I was his age, I couldn't even think of anything so demented: handcuffs, sadomasochistic, tie-'em-up, tie-'em-down bullshit. Can't anyone just have normal sex anymore?”

A spasm of coughs ensued after Rasmussen's comment. Megan tried to swallow her stunned reaction along with the piece of sandwich stuck in her windpipe.

“You okay?”

She coughed a few more times. Her eyes began to water as she tried to clear her throat. “Yeah, I'm fine.” She pointed down at the paper, avoiding direct eye contact with Rasmussen.

Please, Christ, change the subject
.

“If this is what you think it is, well, I don't have to tell you—not good, McGinn,” he said.

“So, Eve Scott's roommate, he's getting charged?”

“Yep. It was a sex-act-gone-bad scenario.”

Megan helped herself to the bag of potato chips. “That's what I thought.” The casual conversation to anyone else's ears would have sounded hard and detached, especially over a turkey sandwich and baked Lay's potato chips.

“Where's Palumbo?”

“He's processing Mr. Sexton. He'll be in a little while.”

“Who?”

“The weirdo-sex guy from Eve Scott's case,” Rasmussen an
swered.

“You've got to be kidding me. His last name is
Sex
ton?” They both grinned at the irony of it. “Oh man. That's fucked up. Funny, but fucked up,” Megan said.

“You must admit it's weird that two vics in one week both attended the same college,” Rasmussen commented.

“Nothing seems weird to me anymore on this job.” Megan picked up the empty brown paper bag. “Didn't you get a pickle?”

“Yes.”

“May I have it?” Megan asked.

“No.” He chomped the end off the kosher dill.

“You talk too much, Rasmussen.”

“Uh-huh.”

Megan devoured the remainder of her lunch. The fatigue and headache she'd experienced earlier started to wane. She felt more focused and energized. She crumpled the leftover napkins and empty lunch bag into a ball and, mimicking a basketball player attempting a three-point shot, tossed the refuse across the room, hitting the trash can in the corner. She parodied the roar of sports fans and motioned a fake high five in Rasmussen's direction.

Rasmussen stared blankly at Megan and then continued re
viewing the phone records. Another hour passed before Nappa re
turned.

Megan knew by his frazzled look that the news wasn't good. She put their earlier conversation aside for now. “Don't tell me, Nappa, good news?”

“Top-notch system they have over there at
The Catholic Times.
They're a real aggressive organization. I got his name, phone number, address, case solved.” Nappa pulled up a chair, throwing his jacket over the back. Nappa rarely displayed any level of frustration regarding the progression of a case. This was one of his first.

Megan and Rasmussen glanced at each other, neither daring to interrupt his minor rant.

“Basically, anyone can walk in, fill out a form such as this.” He held up a
transparent Pendaflex file containing a yellow form. “And they don't require anything more than payment. Cash, check, or credit card is acceptable.”

Megan held the plastic sheet up toward the light to see what could be read. The yellow piece of paper had the name of the newspaper at the top, a space for the written memorial to be printed, and the amount due at the bottom.
Shannon M. You have been returned
was clearly written out. The payment section was just as legible, but the line for signature had what looked like three
M
s in succession. “Wow, our first clue. His name is Mmm.” She handed the evidence over to Rasmussen. “I didn't expect the guy to write out his name and phone number, did you? He's a sick bastard, but not stupid,” she said.

“Neither did I, but I thought there might be more. I'll send it in for prints anyway.” He sounded temporarily defeated. Nappa leafed through one of the piles of papers. “What's up on this end?”

Detective Palumbo entered the conference room on the tail end of Nappa's question and they brought Nappa up to speed on the Eve Scott case.

“There was no connection between the roommate and Mc­
Allister, right?” Megan asked. Palumbo and Rasmussen both said no. “Well, it would've been nice if he'd confessed earlier before the papers ran with the assumption that the deaths were connected.” Megan stared up at the picture of Shannon's sutured vagina, dis
gusted by the headline in the paper but also inspired in a peculiar
way.

Nappa could tell the wheels in her mind were turning. “What are you thinking?”

She smacked her palm down on the table, “The Tailor, that's what the papers have deemed our unsub.” She pointed at the photo pinned to the board. “What if this is some kind of clothing stitch? Or needlepoint or, I don't know what the fuck, I never took home economics. Palumbo, Rasmussen, I want you to take this pic and go to as many dry cleaners and tailors on the Upper East Side as you can find. Ask them if they recognize this exact sti
tch. Dr. Max hasn't come up with anything on it yet, maybe we will?”

Wide open-mouthed gaps emerged from all three men.

Palumbo pointed at the picture. “McGinn,
this
picture? Don't you think it might be a bit unsettling for someone not on the job to see this? Christ, I nearly lost my breakfast when I saw it.”

In Megan's frenzy, she'd not thought of that. “Good point. Go downstairs and have one of the sketch artists draw the stitch and
take that with you. It will be less shocking for the people you speak
with.”

Palumbo and Rasmussen glanced at one another with brows raised as they exited the room. Rasmussen said, “Hope whoever sketches this hasn't had lunch yet.”

Nappa sat down in silence, staring at Megan.

“You think I'm reaching,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not necessarily. Reaching is a part of our job. What's been going on here?” Nappa pointed at the piles of paper on the conference room table.

“Rasmussen and I were going through the phone records,
cross-checking it with her datebook, trying to put together a timeline of her last weeks, days, hours. She basically worked, went to school, volunteered for what seems like every charitable organization in Manhattan, and talked with her girlfriends a lot. I think we need to go back to her work again and try to talk to more people who saw her the last few days. There are a few names in her datebook—actually let me rephrase that, not names,
initials
—on certain dates that so far no phone numbers connect with. We know LB is McAllister's mentor, Lauren Bell. I've put a call in to her and she's expecting us later this afternoon. Now, it's hard to even read McAllister's handwriting, but we know PG is Paige Gowan and, as Katelyn Moore said, she isn't due back in the city for a few days, but I've left word for her to contact me ASAP. Now, SIN, BD, BE, MW … equals NFC.”

“NFC?”

“No Fucking Clue.”

“What's that?” Nappa motioned to the computer case Mrs. McAllister brought in.

“The vic's laptop. She'd forgotten it at her parents' house the last time she went home. I'm going to have my friend check it out.”

“Your mystery friend,” Nappa confirmed.

“I checked with the tech guys, and they've only just started on the desktop. I'm just taking a shortcut, that's all. Cashing in on a favor, so to speak,” Megan said.

“What kind of favor?” Nappa asked.

“My usual—oral sex for cash, what else?” she answered.

“Oh, what a relief. I thought it might be a moral or ethical conflict. But since it's just head for cash, that's fine,” he deadpanned.

A single knock at the door was followed by Joanne leaning into the conference room. “Megan, this just came in for you.” Joanne handed Megan a small, square package wrapped in brown paper.

“From who?”

“There's no return address.” Joanne raised her eyebrows.
“Downstairs sent it up, sorry, that's all I know.”

“Throw it here.” Joanne gently tossed it across the conference room table. Megan held it up to her ear and shook it, whispering to Nappa, “Your apology for earlier?”

Nappa's look of concern overrode her humor. He shook his head in protest. “That's not from me.”

A travel-size sewing kit fell out of the bottom of the box. “What in the hell?” A note was taped to it.