Never Alone (22 page)

“It's nothing you or dad wouldn't do, and you know it,” Megan said with a level of certainty that could not be argued with, even by her father's best friend.

Mike sat forward. “I'm not going to waste my breath arguing the truth with you. You hear me, and you hear me good. You keep eyes open, front, back, sideways. You stay armed every second until this is seen through. Got it?”

“Dad, Megan, dinner!” Patrick yelled from the dining room.

Megan nodded. “I promise.” She squeezed his hand. “I love ya, Uncle Mike.”

He welled up and pulled a handkerchief out from his back pocket. “Just stay alive. Get in there, I'll be in in a minute.”

_____

A few hours later, the dining room looked as though a holiday feast had been enjoyed instead of a casual family dinner. The adults sat around the table drinking coffee and finishing off dessert, while the kids were experiencing food comas watching the end of the movie in the living room.

“So, Megs.” Kyle threw a dinner roll across the table. “Saw you on the news this week.”

“Oh, yeah.” She returned the sentiment by throwing the roll back.

“I have to say, that partner of yours, Nappa, is
so hot
,” Veronica chimed in.

“Definite eye candy,” Moira added. The Murphy husbands
moaned at their wives' observations of Megan's partner.

“I'll let him know you feel that way,” she joked.

“We all think you should date him,” Maureen said.

“Here we go!” Megan laughed.

“Okay, if that doesn't work for you, I tell you what,” Moira suggested. “My girlfriend joined this Internet dating service. It's really been a great experience, and it's geared toward Irish New Yorkers.”

“That's it, I'm outta here!” Megan started to get up from the table. “It's been lovely, just great seeing everyone, but unfortunately Manhattan calls.”

The goodbyes took longer than the meal. Uncle Mike walked Megan out to the porch and gave her a gentler hug than normal. “Watch your back, kiddo. No pun intended.”

“I will. Hey, you've been awfully quiet this evening. Are you okay?”

“I'm good.”

“Are you
sure?”

“Yep, and call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

“You're on my speed dial.” Megan gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy the cap. It looks good on you.”

Uncle Mike smiled. “I know.”

thirty-nine

Insomnia had become Megan's
only bedtime partner since the McAllister case entered her life. She lay in bed hours after leav
ing the Murphys' house watching television, flicking from one
channel to the next. Programming at that hour consisted of one infomercial after another. Megan watched as space-age technology shrank clothes down into zippered plastic bags. Then came the must-have, a set of kitchen knives that could slice anything in half, from a tomato to a Chevrolet. Of course, there had to be one self-help guru pushing his “Think positive thoughts, heal your inner child, eat a lot of salmon, and oh, by the way, none of this can be accomplished without buying my Guide To A Better Life Kit for three easy installments of $29.95 as long as you order right now” pitch.

She checked the clock next to her bed. Forty-five minutes until the gym opened. Working out was the last thing on her mind, but she thought a light swim followed by a sauna might loosen the muscles in her back. Megan sat cross-legged and placed her laptop on a pillow in front of her. It had been a few days since the last time she checked her personal email. She logged in and was bombarded with countless spam mail that she quickly deleted: offers for Vi
agra, personalized astrological charts, low mortgage loans, to
name a few. Her personal inbox had far less mail. There were two emails from her brother. One had an attachment and she clicked on that first, assuming there would be pictures of her niece and nephew. The email said, “Megs, is this a carbon copy of your Kiddie Kampus photo, or what?” Kiddie Kampus was the preschool Megan and Brendan had attended. She got up to find the photo to compare the two. The 5x7 picture was near the front of one of the many photo albums she'd yet to complete. In the photo, Megan wore a black and red-checkered wool dress with a white, puffy-sleeve shirt underneath. She leaned on her elbows with one pudgy hand cupped under her equally plump chin, while the other rested in front of her. She held her picture up next to the one of her niece on the screen and smiled at the remarkable similarities. Both had long eyelashes and shared the same dimpled smile.

Megan tapped the photo as her memory returned to the day it was taken. She doubted her brother had as difficult of a time getting his daughter to wear a dress as Rose had with Megan that chaotic morning.

Megan was never a girlie-girl. Her wardrobe consisted of jeans, sneakers, and a baseball glove—a tomboy through and through. She had a doll she'd never played with, never played dress-up, and especially never wore dresses … until photo day for her preschool class.

At first, Rose chased her daughter around the dining room table, waving the dress and pleading for her cooperation. Like a gladiator stomping out the threat of an approaching opponent, Megan was quick, but when Rose was able to grab hold of her ponytail, it became a different match. Megan pulled the drop-to-the-ground move and lay on her back, using her feet to kick her mother away.

“Megan, you
are
wearing this dress. Your father and I picked this out especially for you. It's an important picture!” Rose pleaded.

“No! I don't wanna wear that stupid dress!” Megan flailed a last kick up at her mother when she was given the ultimate threat.

“You put your foot in my face one more time, young lady, and I'm calling your father.”

Gladiators were never threatened with something like that.

Rose's exacting tone didn't leave any room for debate. “He'll be very upset with you if I call him with something like this. And I
will
call him.”

Megan may have been young, but she wasn't stupid. Her father didn't put up with any bullshit from her at five, fifteen, or twenty-five. The threat of him being called at work was enough for her to concede but not, however, without a little bargaining on her behalf. Megan stayed on the floor staring up at her mother as she released a huff and said, “I'll wear the dumb dress but no shoes, no tights.”

Rose glared down at her daughter mumbling to herself. She knew that was the best she was going to get out of Megan that morning. She got up from the floor, pulling Megan up with her.

One hour later they were at the preschool, standing in line with Megan's other classmates. Megan kept her promise and wore the dress and the white puffy shirt. She even let Rose brush the knots and tangles out of her hair. Rose stayed true to her end of the bargain as well. In place of tights and black shoes, she allowed Megan to wear a pair of jeans and purple sneakers under the checkered dress.

“People are going to think I'm color blind, letting you out of the house like this,” was Rose's only comment.

Megan smiled proudly in the photo, more because of her partial victory than anything else.

“McGinn, you can really be a pain in the ass sometimes,” she said to herself. She smiled, but it was more of a reprimand than witticism.

Megan started to pack her gym bag, wanting a cigarette now more than a workout, but she stayed the course. The lighting in the
women's locker room, however, was less than kind. Alone, she
turned toward the mirror to see the bruising on her back before donning her suit. She examined the marks on her face, momentarily relieved that her father wasn't alive to have seen her like this.

Megan patiently sat poolside, waiting for a lane to open. She wasn't concerned with how long of a wait it would be; she was just relieved not to be the lone swimmer this time. The Blue Hairs, a group of women Megan nicknamed a long time ago, were in the open section enjoying their morning senior water-aerobics class. Megan didn't give them the nickname because of their age; they wore water caps that had blue, feathery rubber hairs sticking out of them. The women talked more than they moved, but they always seemed to enjoy themselves. The lifeguard noticed Megan right away.

“Any word on your necklace?” he asked.

“Nope,” Megan responded. Lengthy conversation was not part of her agenda.

“Well, with any luck it'll show up,” he offered.

“Yep,” she said.

The swimmer in the end lane finished. There was one woman in queue ahead of Megan, who turned around. “You can take that lane if you want. I'm waiting for the middle one.”

Megan wasn't particular on which lane she swam in, so she took the woman up on her offer. Having other gym members around made her ease into her workout more comfortably than the last time she had swam.

She was so relaxed having other swimmers in the pool that she totally lost track of the number of laps she'd swum. Her shortness of breath indicated she'd accomplished more laps than her previous visit, but it wasn't until she flipped over and pushed off the wall that it came to a screeching halt. For the first time in her swim, she glanced to her side and was shocked to see no other swimmers beside her in the water. She stopped at the pool's edge and grabbed the side. She whipped off her goggles and cap, looking around the room anxiously. All the members of the seniors' water-aerobics class stared over at her.

“You all right, honey?” one of the Blue Hairs hollered over to
her.

Trying to catch her breath, she answered in between huffs,
“Yeah.” Other than the women gossiping in the corner, there were a man and a woman standing at the water fountain.

“I'm fine,” Megan answered.

“Enjoy, you have the pool all to yourself,” the lady said.

“Great.” Megan was less than thrilled with the notion.

“C'mon, girls, let's go take a steam. To hell with heart medication and doctor's orders.”

When you're in your seventies and eighties, rebelling against doctor's orders must be as close to an uprising as you can get. It did put an idea in Megan's head, though. “Ladies, would one of you mind turning the sauna on for me?”

“Sure thing, honey.”

In the locker room, Megan stripped out of her bathing suit, hanging it on one of the shower hooks. She wrapped a towel around her naked body. As soon as she opened the door to the sauna, she knew the ladies had done right by her. It was hot and relaxing. She could hear faint conversation next door from the steam. She was embarrassed to admit to herself that their presence was appreciated; though she was alone in the sauna, there were people nearby, and that fact comforted her. She discarded the towel, placing it on the top tier of the wooden bench. She moved gingerly onto her back, hoisting her feet up to the wall. Her creamy legs were sprinkled with pale freckles from her ankles to her inner thighs. Her body began to glisten with sweat as the jets sprayed down from above. She closed her eyes, breathing deep into her lungs. She pushed her hair back, but a few strands couldn't help but cling to her shoulders. The water hitting the rocks made a sizzling sound. She was on the verge of relaxing when the sound of Uncle Mike's demand leapt to the front of her mind.

Do not go anywhere unarmed.

It was enough to catapult her out of the sauna, forgetting her towel.

forty

Megan was halfway up
93
rd
Street to her apartment when her cell vibrated.
1 text message
was indicated. She pressed the
view message
button.

Sweet Caroline
appeared. Megan stared down at the text. Her face, reflected off the phone's glass screen, made her look nauseated and faint. She knew her eyes were open, but her surroundings were out of focus; everything seemed to be spinning around her like an amusement park ride out of control.

“Please, God … no …” She took a deep breath and dialed the phone number the text originated from. Megan knew a woman named Caroline should answer the phone, but wouldn't. It was too late for Caroline, whoever she was.

“
Hi, this is Caroline. Sorry I missed your call. Leave your name
and number and I'll get back to you
.” The sweet voice echoed
through Megan's head. She hung up before the signal sounded to
leave a message. She leaned against the railing of a brownstone to
steady herself.

Her phone vibrated again. Her cell phone might as well have weighed three hundred pounds with how much energy it took to raise it into view.

“McGinn.”

“I know.”

He remained silent.

“Her name is Caroline,” Megan said it as if she'd asked someone to pass the salt. “I
just
got a text.”

“There's something else.”

“What?”

“I need you to come over,
quietly
, and I mean
quietly
. Palumbo and Rasmussen know you're on your way. No bravado, otherwise it's all our asses.”

“Nappa,
what
is it?” she demanded.

“We're at Two-Thirty East Eighty-Seventh Street. Caroline
Dacey.”

“Okay.”

forty-one

Palumbo let Megan into
the building. “Nappa and Rasmussen are up there. Third floor.”

Megan nodded.

“You don't have long; I'm surprised the press isn't here yet.”

“Thanks,” Megan answered.

She was on the third step when Palumbo added, “Heads-up: this one is bad, if that's possible.”

Megan looked back at Palumbo's pained expression, something she'd rarely encountered while working with him. There was nothing comforting she could say to ease a look she knew all too well.

The apartment smelled like a diner: anything and everything fried. Nappa and Rasmussen were at the end of the hall in the living room. She glanced into the kitchen. No in-depth search needed there, it was the size of most people's closets. Two dishes, silverware, and napkins topped a small butcher block in the corner, never to be plated. Never meant to be, for that matter.

“McGinn, I put a call out to CSU, but I wanted you to see the scene, short on time,” Nappa urged.

Megan nodded. She stood over Caroline Dacey's dead body. “Oh my God.”

She immediately understood why Palumbo had worn such a distressed expression. In the middle of the room Caroline lay on
the floor in the position of Christ hanging from the cross. Her arms were spread out, bloodied hands nailed into the floor. Her
legs were slightly bent, with two more nails lodged into her feet. The side of her head had been cratered by the bloody baseball bat positioned upright in the corner. Her hair was combed as if to hide the damage from the blunt force she'd sustained. One of Caroline's eyes stared up toward the ceiling; the other was swollen shut. Blood, not yet dried, exited her ear, nose, and mouth.

“The unsub used a bat to finish her off. Strangling wasn't
enough?” Megan shook her head. “Who called this in?”

“Downstairs neighbor,” Rasmussen answered.

“She fought like hell,” Nappa said.

“And all it got her was a trip to Dr. Max Sutherland's slab for autopsy. She would have had a better chance at getting blood from a stone or having a month full of Sundays,” Megan responded.

She looked around the apartment. Angelic was the theme for the living room (now, not so much living). There were pictures of
angels and candleholders in the shape of cherubs, and angels'
wings carved into two sconces hung in the hallway. Then, death reigned over the celestial setting. Two teacups were smashed to the floor, a wet mark on the wall, a crack in a wall mirror, the coffee table turned on its side.

“You need to see the kitchen,” Nappa said.

Megan walked back to the small room and opened the oven. A
traditional Irish breakfast consisting of bacon, fried eggs, fried
mushrooms, and tomatoes filled a large cast-iron skillet.

“McGinn, turn around.” She did.

A pen-and-ink drawing of Archangel Michael hung on the
wall, signed by Caroline Dacey. Archangel Michael was depicted flying down from heaven in battle against Satan and his followers.
Who is like God?
was written in small letters at the bottom in Caroline's handwriting.

A handwoven Saint Bridget's cross was fastened to the corner.

“Her cell isn't here,” Nappa said.

“Well, I can tell you the last number dialed on it,” Megan bit her lip. “Mine.”

Palumbo entered the room. “McGinn, time for you to go. CSU, press … it's getting busy out there.”

“Okay.”

Then Megan did a first at a crime scene: she made the sign of the cross before leaving the room.